The Scapegoat: One Murder. Two Victims. 27 Years Lost.. Don Hale

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СКАЧАТЬ field sloped downwards slightly and away from the gate. It was a sea of wet grass and mud. I gripped the steering wheel with all my might in a desperate attempt to keep control and somehow managed to turn the car round in a large horseshoe to face the gate again. The rear wheels spun wildly, but I kept up the revs, spun back up the field and hastily drove back out of the same gate.

      I didn’t bother to look either way as I pulled out and roared back down the road. I was soaked with sweat, and through my rear-view mirror I could see white smoke and steam pouring from one of the lorries. Jess barked in defiance and, as I turned to offer a comforting hand, I noticed the driver-side mirror now hanging by a thread – just as my life had been.

      All the way home I kept checking the rear-view mirror, any headlights causing my mind to whirl in a frenzy of paranoia and anxiety. The adrenaline continued to pour through my body.

      Someone was definitely trying to kill me. I knew they had tried before, and it seemed certain that they would try again.

      Yet I kept asking myself, if Stephen Downing had killed Wendy Sewell, why would anyone want to get rid of me?

CHAPTER 1

       ‘Stephen Who?’

      There was nothing auspicious about that particular Monday, 14 March 1994. Certainly nothing to suggest that it would put in motion events that would help to change so many lives, and make an indelible mark on both British and European law.

      In fact, the day started in domestic chaos, as I forgot to set the alarm following a late-night return from Amsterdam. My wife, Kath, had no choice but to dash off for work, while I did the school run, dropping off my youngest boy at Highfields School, and on the way back admired the spectacular panoramic view across Matlock and the Derbyshire Dales.

      After a few days of luxury in Amsterdam it felt good to be home, and I was relieved to be heading back to reality at the Matlock Mercury. I was termed a ‘foreigner’ by many of the locals when I first moved to Matlock from Manchester. I was an outsider. But it was home for me now, the latest stop in a career in journalism that had seen me work for the likes of the BBC, the Manchester Evening News, and most recently the Bury Messenger, before the opportunity to head up the Mercury came along.

      I parked up at the side of the office, and said hello to our stray tabby cat, who would often perch precariously on the upper window ledge, looking at us with a mischievous grin and probably thanking his lucky stars he didn’t have to work in our building, a former print works that had definitely seen better days.

As I entered via the back door, I could hear the old typewriters clattering away and see my reporters going about their business.

      ‘Good morning, everyone,’ I said cheerfully, hoping they hadn’t noticed that I was ten minutes late. ‘Anything special happened since I’ve been away?’

      Jackie Dunn, one of my young journalists, cheekily asked if my flight had been delayed, before she gave me a brief summary of events from the previous week.

      My sports editor Norman Taylor, a retired train driver, said Matlock Town had still not scored – but had won a corner, a comment that earned a glare from Sam Fay, my deputy editor. A war veteran in his late sixties, he worked on a part-time basis, covering match reports and local politics.

      I took my jacket off, settled down and began to plough my way through all the paperwork, while I asked Sam for a meeting to discuss stories for the next edition.

      The small sliding window in the frosted glass partition, which divided editorial from the advertising department, suddenly slid open with a loud bang.

      The receptionist announced, ‘Don, there’s a man wanting to make an appointment with you. He says it’s something about a murder.’

      She cupped her hand over the receiver. ‘Do you want to take the call?’ she asked. ‘It’s something to do with his son, Stephen.’

      I beckoned to her to put the call through.

      When I answered, the man chatted away at ten to the dozen. It was like trying to decipher a verbal machine gun. ‘Stephen who?’ I asked.

      ‘Stephen Downing,’ came the reply, sounding rather agitated, as if I should know all about him. The man explained that he was his father, Ray, and claimed his son was still in jail after 20-something years for a murder he didn’t commit.

He said the murder had occurred in the cemetery at Bakewell, a pretty, picture-postcard market town in the Peak District, about eight miles away. I let him continue for a while before I interrupted, saying, ‘It’s all right, Mr Downing …’

      ‘Call me Ray,’ he quickly replied.

      ‘Okay then, Ray. You don’t have to make an appointment to see me. I’m usually here from dawn till dusk.’ I found it very difficult to take in half of what he’d said to me over the phone. ‘Yes, Ray, 2.30 p.m. today is fine. And bring some paperwork with you if you wish. I’m not sure what I can do but I’ll have a look.’

      I looked round to see that some of my team were also listening. I told them, ‘It’s a Mr Downing, who says it’s something to do with an old murder involving his son. I think he said it was in 1973. He’s a local taxi driver, and both he and his wife want to see me today. This afternoon, in fact.’

      Sam pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He frowned at me, and half spluttered, ‘Don, I will have to go out for a short while but I’ll speak with you later. We must have a chat about this Stephen Downing.’ With that he disappeared in a trail of smoke.

      * * *

      At precisely 2.30 p.m. there was a knock on my office door. ‘A Mr and Mrs Downing to see you, Don. They have an appointment?’ said Susan, one of our advertising reps.

      ‘Yes, of course, show them in, please,’ I replied, and ushered the pair into my private office. Ray Downing was struggling to hold a large pile of documents, which he then dumped firmly on my desk. I had to move them aside slightly so I could see their faces.

Ray was a fairly small man with a bald head and a worried expression. I guessed he was probably in his late fifties or early sixties. His wife, whom he introduced as Juanita, was about the same age. She looked quite frail and had sharp, almost bird-like features. She was very nervous and extremely thin. Both wore their Sunday best.

      Ray outlined his reasons for contacting me. He claimed his son Stephen had been jailed in 1974 for the murder of a woman in the town cemetery the previous year. Ray kept saying he was innocent, and that everyone in Bakewell knew he was innocent. He kept stressing that word.

      ‘What’s more,’ said Ray, ‘I can probably tell you who was responsible. Nearly everyone in Bakewell seems to know who did it.’

      I was taken aback by his comments. Ray didn’t mention any name, but I was puzzled by his claim and wondered, If it was all so obvious, why was his lad still in jail?

      Ray alleged that Stephen had been framed for the murder as part of a conspiracy because the town needed someone else to blame. He claimed the police forced Stephen to wrongfully confess to an assault on a young, married woman, who later died from her injuries.

      Ray claimed the woman, Wendy Sewell, was promiscuous, and had taken several prominent СКАЧАТЬ