Written in Blood (15 page)

The only time Mariner ever ate a cooked breakfast was on the rare occasions when he stayed in hotels, so he always overdid it, and afterwards, stuffed to bursting with bacon, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms, he was desperately in need of somewhere to walk it off. It was a sharp blustery day, perfect for blowing away the dulling effects of his hermetically sealed hotel room. Returning last night, he felt sure he’d noticed a park across the road, but when he got there it turned out to be Brompton Cemetery. Better still. Graveyards, in his opinion, were highly underrated for their recreational value and invariably empty. This one, a peaceful oasis amid the city clamour, especially on a weekday, was no exception. It had been established, so a sign in the entrance told him, in 1836 and designed by Benjamin Baud, whoever he might be, and was attractively laid out, around an impressive central chapel that seemed to give more than a nod to St Peter’s Basilica in Rome.

Wandering the tombs, Mariner scanned the headstones, noting the many varying ages at which those lying beneath had died, some over a hundred years ago. Did anyone ever visit these monuments? Were the descendants close by or had they moved to another part of the world, or had the lineage expired completely in the way that his would if he derailed Anna’s plans? Scrutiny of the legends became so absorbing that when he randomly glanced at his watch he got a shock. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be late for his lunchtime appointment.

The bistro, down a tiny back street, was marked out by a pavement blackboard displaying the day’s specials. So intent was Mariner on being punctual that he almost collided with a woman approaching from the opposite direction. Apologising, and taking in the rather dull brown coat and stiff demeanour, something made him ask, ‘Helena James?’

‘Mr Mariner?’

‘Yes, shall we?’ As Mariner ushered her into the bistro he had time to take in the detail. As dowdy as Maggie was colourful, Helena James wore no rings or other jewellery, her hair was cut savagely short, and the lighting in the café did little for her bare complexion. By the time they’d found a table, Mariner had, probably quite unfairly, consigned her to a single room flat with a cat. The sort of woman he’d once overheard Tony Knox describing as a SINBAD: single income, no boyfriend, absolutely desperate. Not that Mariner was making judgements or anything.

He was glad he’d thought to wear a suit today. It made him look more respectable and the whole enterprise seem more official, and he had an immediate impression that Helena James would be the kind of person who liked to do things by the book. As it was, there was nothing about her that appeared happy to meet with him and Mariner couldn’t help speculating on the nature of the favour she owed Maggie. Or perhaps it was simpler than that, and he’d spoiled her plans for lunchtime shopping. Having done his share of basic communication training and handled all kinds of customers professionally, what was clear to Mariner was that he would have to turn on the charm.

As soon as they were seated he took Helena’s cool and slightly clammy hand to shake it, closing it in his with his other hand and switching on a big smile. ‘I really appreciate your agreeing to see me, Helena. I know your time must be precious. What can I get you?’ Knox would be pissing himself laughing at this performance.

She allowed Mariner to order two lattés but to his relief declined food. Hard to remain charming and smooth when you’re chewing your way through a crusty baguette. Sensing that she wouldn’t respond to direct questioning, Mariner set off on the scenic route. ‘Maggie tells me you’re a caseworker at the JRC.’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘And you worked alongside Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’

A slight incline of the head.

Don’t overdo it, thought Mariner, wishing by now that he’d brought his blood-divining kit. ‘That must have been interesting. What was he like to work for?’

‘He was a lovely man, one of the few remaining people who had real integrity.’ The pain in her voice and moistening of her eyes was unexpected. Mariner had assumed buttoned-up emotions. But now he saw the problem; she was mourning her boss.

‘Yours must be a fascinating job,’ he said, guiding her to safer ground.

She collected herself. ‘It’s manic, if you must know, an impossible task. We get about fifteen new cases referred every week. It’s our job to summarise the main points and present them to the members of the commission. We have to look at whether the conviction was wrongful or the sentencing inappropriate.’ So she was passionate about her work, too.

‘Do all the cases come through solicitors?’

She nodded. ‘The usual route is through the CPS but around one and a half per cent are Home Office referrals.’ Very precise.

‘Prisoners who have directly approached the home office, or their MP,’ Mariner checked.

‘—or those who have gone to the press and made a big public noise, giving the Home Office no choice. There are a growing number of pressure groups who are getting very adept at pressing the right buttons.’ She didn’t approve.

Their coffees came and Mariner made a point of taking the bill. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else—’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Yours is quite a task then,’ he said, returning to their original conversation.

‘It’s hard enough without the constant interruptions from lobbyists.’

‘Lobbyists?’

‘The advocates who think we should take their cases above others. We work through appeals systematically, on a first-come-first-served basis, it’s the fairest way, but there are always people putting on the pressure on to consider their client’s case first. They seem to think that whoever shouts the loudest will be heard.’

‘Does anyone ever take enticements to prioritise?’ She wasn’t with him, or didn’t want to be. ‘Members of the Commission, I mean.’

‘No.’ She was affronted by the suggestion.

‘Can you be certain about that?’

‘Absolutely. The process is completely objective.’

Mariner found that hard to believe. In his experience any system that involved human beings had some level of subjectivity. But he wouldn’t upset her with a contradiction at this stage. Instead he asked. ‘How many cases actually go for review?’

‘About four per cent.’

‘That’s all?’

‘It’s still a substantial number. Of those, about two thirds are upheld, though recently there’s been a drop in the number of referrals and a rise in the number of rejected appeals.’

Mariner didn’t need to ask why. With the ever-improving forensic techniques, and in particular an increased reliance on DNA evidence, convictions were based on firmer ground. It was much harder to pick an argument with science and juries had confidence in it. If ever DNA evidence was discredited it would bring a whole house of cards tumbling down.

‘And how soon are the prisoners cleared of the charges?’

‘If they’re in jail it takes an average of fourteen months, it’s more if they’re at liberty, usually about nineteen months.’

‘Quite a wait, then.’ Mariner spoke out loud but the thought had clearly not occurred to her. ‘Did Maggie tell you I was interested in knowing more about Joseph O’Connor?’

‘Yes. May I ask why?’

‘I have a personal interest.’

‘I see. Were you a friend of Mr O’Connor?’

‘I know his wife.’

‘Couldn’t she tell you what you want to know?’

‘It’s a difficult time for her right now. And really I’d like the official take. It’s harder to remember detail when you’re emotionally involved. Was Joseph O’Connor’s case referred to you by his solicitor?’

‘It was one of the first we recommended for appeal in 1998. How much do you already know?’

‘That the grounds for appeal were that his confession had been made under duress.’

‘The transcripts of the police interviews and the medical reports made it clear. Mr O’Connor wasn’t the cleverest of men and the questioning, with some of the techniques that were used, tied him in knots.’

‘You make it sound very simple.’

‘It was, but—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand. You’re not with Special Branch, so how are you involved?’

This was hopeless. At this rate Mariner wouldn’t learn anything new. It was time to take a gamble. ‘Can I speak in absolute confidence?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Sir Geoffrey Ryland was my father.’

‘What??’

Bugger. She didn’t believe him. ‘I can’t prove it to you unfortunately. Not yet. In fact I only found out myself a week or so ago, but I promise you it’s true. That’s what my interest is.’

‘But Sir Geoffrey didn’t—’ She was studying Mariner’s face. The first time she’d properly looked at him. ‘My God, he was, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

It took Helena James several seconds to regain her composure, but when she did her whole demeanour had changed, and Mariner could have kicked himself for not coming out with the revelation right at the beginning.

‘It was after Joseph’s release that things got difficult,’ she said, at last, leaning in slightly.

‘How?’ he asked.

‘The Commission had been set up as a response to apparent widespread police corruption and the first few cases were viewed in some quarters as part of a witch-hunt. I think there was a feeling that despite the way in which his statement was obtained, Joseph O’Connor could still have been guilty.’

Flynn had said the same thing.

‘Is that why Sir Geoffrey offered O’Connor a job?’

‘Partly, yes, I think so. He didn’t say as much but I think he felt he had to demonstrate his belief in Joseph’s innocence. ’

‘It’s backfired now though, hasn’t it?’

She regarded him coldly. ‘That depends on whether you believe what you read in the papers, doesn’t it?’

‘And O’Connor was released solely on the grounds that his conviction had been unsafe?

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the course of his appeal, did O’Connor supply the police or CPS with any other helpful information, about Terry Brady or Marvin Jackson, for example?’

‘He didn’t need to. In that sense his case was straightforward. The appeal court was satisfied with his original statement that he’d known nothing about the drugs.’

‘I’m just trying to get a sense of who might want to kill Joseph O’Connor and why they would do it now.’

‘I understand that.’

They’d reached a dead end. ‘What about the cases you turn down, the ones that don’t meet the criteria?’ Mariner asked. ‘Is there ever any comeback?’

‘Naturally. I think we’ve all had death threats at one time or another. It goes with the territory.’

‘Any recently that stand out?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘And these applications for appeal, the information is in the public domain?’

‘Some of it is, through the Freedom of Information Act. All you’d need to do is put in an application.’ Lowering her voice she leaned in perceptibly nearer to Mariner. ‘It’s not only the criminals who apply the pressure,’ she confided. They were co-conspirators now. ‘There are other reasons for the reduction in cases being referred.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The government has to protect its own interests. Government ministers, particularly the Home Secretary, can sometimes put one in a difficult position.’

‘How?’

‘The Home office was concerned about the number of cases being referred for appeal. They were worried about public confidence in the judicial system. It’s as if they created the JRC without realising that the floodgates would open. For the last couple of years it’s been rumoured that the figures are being manipulated, and that there have been efforts to reduce the number of cases referred.’

‘But how could they do that?’

‘By imposing stricter criteria that don’t necessarily relate to guilt or innocence.’

Someone was bending the rules. ‘How did Sir Geoffrey feel about that?’ Mariner asked.

‘Sir Geoffrey was a fair man. How do you think he felt? He was unhappy about the fact that a government office could force us to be selective.’

‘Did he express his unhappiness?’

‘He tried. But he knew it would come out eventually anyway. He was writing the next volume of his memoirs.’

‘He’d started on that?’

‘He’d almost completed the first draft.’

‘Did he tell anyone else about this?’

‘He may have done, I don’t know. After he—After the shooting, security came and removed the hard drive from his computer. It’s standard procedure of course, but they turned up the very next day.’

‘They were quick off the mark then.’

‘The Commission is one of this government’s flagship initiatives. I don’t suppose they’d be eager to have its flaws exposed, especially as they could be seen as the ones sabotaging it.’

‘Helena, do you think Joseph O’Connor was the reason Sir Geoffrey Ryland was killed?’

She treated the question with contempt. ‘Sir Geoffrey would never have employed Joseph if he’d thought he was in any way involved in drugs.’

‘What if he hadn’t known?’

‘Sir Geoffrey wasn’t stupid. He’d have known.’ Just as Sharon O’Connor would have known. Picking up her cup, Helena James drank the remains of her coffee.

‘Would you like another?’ Mariner asked.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh God no, I must go. I’ve got stacks of work to do this afternoon.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You never actually knew Sir Geoffrey as your father then?’

‘That’s right,’ said Mariner. ‘And now I won’t get the chance.’

‘That must be strange.’

‘It’s hard for me to get a feel for the kind of man he was. I’m looking to connect with anything about him. It’s why Maggie agreed to arrange this meeting.’

Helena considered for a moment in much the way that Maggie had done. ‘Would it help to see where he worked, I mean his office and all that?’