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

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СКАЧАТЬ It was the grave of Anthony Naylor, who died in 1872.

      Immediately behind the grave was a low drystone wall, and a few feet below was Catcliff Wood. I could see how someone could easily escape if they had attacked Wendy, disappearing into thick undergrowth.

      As we wandered further along, Ray pointed out another spot across some displaced gravestones, back towards the centre path. ‘Now here is where Wendy moved to,’ he explained.

      ‘Moved to?’ I asked, as we carefully negotiated our way around a number of ancient and broken graves.

      ‘Yes. After Stephen found her he went to get help, but when he returned she’d moved,’ he said. Ray then stopped next to the grave of Sarah Bradbury. ‘Wendy was found just here.’

I was surprised. ‘So how did she move, Ray?’ I asked, wondering how a seriously injured woman could drag herself 25 yards or so along the path, and across several gravestones.

      ‘Well, there’s the mystery,’ said Ray. ‘No one has been able to answer that one. It didn’t come up at trial either, and the police never queried it.’

      Ray then showed me Stephen’s former workplace inside the unconsecrated chapel. He explained that this was where the council workers stored their tools, and that it had been used by quite a few men at the time of the murder.

      We turned and headed back out towards the main gates, and I tried to put the case into some sort of perspective as I listened to Ray. He kept mentioning the names of several individuals who had supposedly been identified near the cemetery at that time. I realised I would need to read his papers for any of this to make sense.

      As we headed part way down the Butts, a very steep walkway heading back into town, Ray showed me the Kissing Gate, an old two-way iron contraption that led back into Catcliff Wood.

      It was the reverse route to that taken by the victim as she approached the cemetery during her lunch break. It was also the path taken by a number of key witnesses, who could perhaps have helped confirm Stephen’s alibi and his movements on the day.

      As I tried to consider all the probabilities and possibilities offered by Ray, I thought this so-called remote location appeared more like Piccadilly Circus immediately prior to and just after the attack, with people coming and going back to work after lunch. It seemed to be a simple routine, and yet, according to Ray, everyone reported different timings and information within their statements.

We returned to the Downings’ home, where the kettle was already whistling on the stove. Nita had seen us both walking back, and as we walked in she said, ‘I thought you would have been back before now.’

      ‘There’s a lot to see,’ Ray replied. ‘And Mr Hale wanted to see everything.’

      ‘It’s Don, Ray. Call me Don. This Mr Hale sounds more like a bailiff.’

      Ray laughed. ‘Don’t mention bailiffs. There’s one round here that we don’t care for at all, isn’t that right, Nita?’

      She laughed too. It was obviously some in-joke. Nita handed me a hot mug of tea. It was a family home full of personal mementoes and treasured photographs, yet Stephen’s face was always missing, apart from a few childhood snaps. Their only contact with him now was on infrequent visits to a distant prison several hours’ drive away.

      This thought of Stephen suddenly reminded Ray of something, and he scurried away into the lounge before returning with a large basket. He said excitedly, ‘This is Stephen’s clothing from the day of the attack,’ and tipped out the contents on to the table.

      I was shocked to see Stephen’s old jeans, T-shirt and work boots, together with rings, a watch and a leather wrist strap.

      I couldn’t understand why the police had returned these items, and why the family still retained his clothes after all these years. Incredibly, as I looked much closer, I could just about see some very tiny spots of blood on his T-shirt, but only because they were highlighted by a yellow forensic marker.

      Ray pointed out a particular dark stain on the left knee of these discoloured and dirty jeans, which he said was congealed blood. No other stains were obvious to the naked eye. ‘Look at all these clothes,’ he said. ‘They are not drenched in blood. And yet our Stephen was said to have battered this poor woman to death.

‘If he had, he would have been covered in blood from head to toe. The only blood he got on his clothes was from kneeling next to her when he found her. What’s more, I know the ambulanceman who took Wendy to hospital that day. He carried her into the ambulance.

      ‘He said he was covered in blood, as she was bleeding so much. He had to burn all his clothes afterwards, they were completely ruined. They were absolutely soaked in blood. You can talk to him. His name is Clyde Bateman. I used to work with him at Bakewell ambulance station. I was a senior ambulance driver and he was my boss.

      ‘He was summoned to attend an appeal eight months after the trial but was never called as a witness. He wanted to talk about the bloodstaining. He’s now retired, but every time I see him he maintains that Stephen didn’t have enough bloodstaining on him to have committed the attack.’

      Ray was still excited. He was sweating and slightly breathless. He eventually paused as I queried, ‘How come you have Stephen’s clothes?’

      ‘They told me to take him down a change of clothes to the police station, and then they sent these off for testing. They gave us back the watch and the jewellery on the same night as the attack,’ Ray said.

      ‘The clothes came back later. It’s obvious there’s not enough blood on them, though.’

      It was beginning to get dark and, as I had now spent several hours with the Downings, I decided to make a move, but Ray motioned me to sit back down. ‘I’ve a lot more to show you. I’ve got more files and notes. You’ll need to see them all,’ he pleaded.

I had to take an urgent step back. It had been quite an afternoon. The Downing family had made this a personal crusade for the past 20-odd years, but I didn’t want to be drawn in or build up their hopes before I got my bearings.

      I politely declined Ray’s offer. I told the pair I had to get back to work. I wanted to spend some time going through the files so that I could examine their claims in more detail. I decided I would make an early start the next day, and cancelled my weekend engagements.

      For a split second I felt complete panic. Ray’s papers were piled high next to my desk, and I wondered, What if the cleaner has arrived early and dumped them, not realising their importance?

      When I returned to the office, the pile was thankfully still intact. I phoned Ray to arrange another meeting. He suggested I should go the day after next, as Stephen was due to ring from prison. He thought it would be good to speak to him directly.

      By then everyone else had left the office. I had my coat on ready to follow them, my hand on the door handle to leave, when suddenly the phone rang. After such a busy day I was in two minds whether to answer it, but I reluctantly picked up in the end.

      ‘Good evening, Matlock Mercury. Don Hale. Can I help you?’

      There was complete silence.

      I asked again, ‘Hello, hello? Matlock Mercury.’ Still silence, although I had the impression someone was listening СКАЧАТЬ