On the Sunday morning after the Christmas party, Farrell had been seen by a neighbour carrying a large, heavy-looking roll of carpet out of his house and struggling to load it into his van. This was instantly viewed as suspicious, even though various friends of Farrell’s told the police that he had been doing up his cottage over the previous couple of months, with a view to selling it. Although he said he had taken the carpet to the dump, it was never found. Apart from that sighting, Farrell had no alibi either for the Saturday night or for a large part of Sunday, the twenty-four-hour window of time during which it was assumed that Jane had been possibly abducted, and murdered. When questioned two weeks later, he had given misleading information regarding his whereabouts on the Sunday morning, saying that he had to visit his mother, who was ill. It turned out that this had been the previous weekend. When this was discovered, he had claimed unconvincingly that he had ‘got confused and had mixed up the weekends’. From the police point of view, he was now a proven liar. Whilst Eve understood why they had seen this as further proof of his guilt, in her own experience perfectly innocent people made mistakes about dates and times when put on the spot, particularly in a formal interview situation. Also, not everybody had perfect recall of what they had been doing even a week before, let alone two or longer. But on top of everything else, it was damning for Farrell. It was not clear from the file if there had been any other suspects and, if so, who they were.
The final section was labelled ‘Defence’. The police mugshot of Farrell taken at the time of his arrest showed a man in his mid-to-late thirties, a broad, fleshy face, with regular features and thick, short, fairish hair. He looked shell-shocked, with the drawn, exhausted expression of somebody who had been put through the mill. She wondered how long the process of questioning had taken before he was formally charged. The psychological assessment had painted him in a positive light, but the defence case, as it was, appeared to have rested entirely on the absence of direct evidence linking Farrell to the crime or the deposition site. The actual crime scene itself had never been identified. Based on what Eve had seen so far, it was surprising that the CPS had managed to get a conviction and she wondered if Farrell had come across poorly during the trial. Given what Duran had said, it was more likely that the defence team had failed to bring out, in any meaningful way, the absence of direct evidence against Farrell. Instead, they appeared to have lost the case because the jury had accepted the picture painted by the prosecution of Farrell’s poor character. At the end were a few sheets of paper containing the logs for both outgoing and incoming calls covering the four weeks up to the Monday morning when Jane McNeil was reported as missing. This also included some voicemail transcripts. She flicked through them but nothing stood out as particularly interesting. Also, without knowing who the people were behind the names, it all meant very little. The file was better than nothing, but it was hardly comprehensive and she wondered whether information had been left out deliberately, or if it was all Peters/Duran had been able to put together. Hopefully, she would learn more from Dan Cooper.
She felt suddenly tired. She had read enough and went into the bedroom, pulled the curtains tightly shut across the blinds and switched on the shower. As she undressed, she had a sudden image of Jason, lying on the bed, looking up at her in the dimly lit room. ‘Why is it always so dark in here? You can’t tell if it’s day or night. I want to see your lovely face.’
‘I can’t sleep if there’s any light,’ she had replied, although that was only the half of it. Sleep, or not sleeping, had been an issue for many years. Even the smallest pinprick of light was a disturbance. She had fitted special blackout blinds behind the curtains and bought the most comfortable bed she could afford, but it still wasn’t enough. She had tried everything, from hypnotherapists to special sleep clinics and cognitive behavioural therapy, some more effective than others for a temporary fix, but it had all been a waste of time. Nothing had come close to curing her insomnia. It was why she usually preferred to sleep alone. As with everything else, the problem was in her head and nothing could fix that. When she did manage to fall asleep, the nightmares would often come, so vivid and desperate that when she woke up she was bathed in sweat, struggling to remind herself that they were only dreams. ‘You sleep fine when I’m here,’ Jason had said. He was right and it had surprised her. He had been her short-term therapy and, for a change, she hadn’t needed the nightly pills. It was why she put up with his being there all night. She could curl up close and warm in his arms and, for a moment, imagine she was somewhere else.
She showered quickly and got into bed. She opened her laptop and found the 4Justice website. It was impressive, with a digital counter at the top, showing the number of cases they had been asked to investigate since the unit had been set up seven years before. There were links to a huge number of press articles on a range of subjects associated with miscarriages of justice, from a variety of renowned contributors. One page documented a list of cases that 4Justice had taken up, some with links to video footage. In many instances, a successful result had been achieved, with the sentence quashed and an innocent person having been released from prison. The advisory panel included a number of well-known forensic specialists, QCs, criminal law solicitors and journalists, including Dan Cooper and Kristen Harris. It seemed that, as well as Duran, Sean Farrell had the angels on his side. Could they all be wrong?
SEVEN
It had started to rain again and the morning traffic was almost at a standstill, backed up all the way along the Earls Court Road as far as the junction with the Cromwell Road. Eve cursed herself for leaving her umbrella at home and made her way as quickly as she could along the crowded pavement. The offices of 4Justice were in a shabby, four-storey building, not far from the Tube, the front door sandwiched between a Betfred and a Starbucks. The paint was scuffed and peeling and somebody had chalked the words ‘out of order’ against the small row of ancient-looking bells. A waft of warm doughnuts from one of the nearby shops momentarily filled the damp air and she suddenly felt hungry. Hopefully, the meeting wouldn’t take long. Sheltering under the narrow overhang above the door, she took out her phone and dialled the office number. After several rings, a woman’s voice answered. Repeating herself loudly several times over the noise from the street, Eve explained who she was. After a pause, she caught the words ‘first floor’ and the door buzzed open. The hall inside was poorly lit and smelled strongly of damp. Piles of dusty, unopened post lay on the threadbare brown carpet, next to a plastic recycling bin overflowing with unwanted fliers. A sign saying ‘4Justice 1st Floor, Exotica Travel 2nd Floor’ was pasted on the wall, with a large, black arrow drawn in marker pen pointing up the stairs. Peters had said that the charity was short of money, but after the impressive website, she had been expecting something a little more salubrious.
As she reached the first floor, the door on the landing opened and a stocky young woman, with short, spikey, black hair, appeared behind it.
‘I’m Zofia,’ she said, holding out a very firm, cold hand. She was dressed head to toe in black, her eyes heavily outlined in black as well. ‘Dan’s tied up at the moment. You can come in and wait.’ Her Polish accent was strong.
The office was spacious and light, with a large sash window overlooking the street. Shelf-lined walls were stuffed with files and books and the noticeboard that hung over the Victorian marble fireplace was papered with a variety of press cuttings and photographs. A mishmash of tatty tables and desks had been pushed together to form a block in the centre of the room, which was laden with computers and more files and papers.
Zofia pointed towards a sofa under the window. ‘You can sit there,’ she said offhandedly, before returning to her desk and tucking herself behind it, her face hidden by a large, leafy pot plant.
Eve took off her wet coat and hung it on an empty hook by the door. Moving a collection of