CHAPTER 1

Grey skies hung like a shroud overhead, threatening more snow. It was a bitterly cold morning and my eyes were tired from concentrating on driving in such perilous conditions. I turned off the main road and the tyres crackled over frozen gravel that formed the driveway. The narrow lane snaked between an avenue of trees, the branches reaching out over the lane like frozen tentacles. Beyond the trees, stretching away into a haze, the fields lay silent, scorched white by the artic conditions that had swept over southern England in the last twenty-four hours. It was nearly nine-thirty, my appointment was for ten. Some distance ahead I could just make out the faintest of lights, a milky glow shining out from an immense stone building. Mariners House, a sombre grey monster rising above the trees. At first glance it reminded me of Capers, the boarding school my father had insisted on sending me to thirty odd years ago. The memory touched a nerve. Four years at Capers had ended in expulsion, the humiliation for which I don’t think my late father ever truly forgave me.

A small parking area opened up in front of me and I eased my silver Jaguar to a halt. As the engine died I peered through the windscreen towards the stone building with its grilled windows. Time and the elements had aged the building; the grey walls were cracked, the faded paint flaking from the frames that surrounded the prison-like windows. My heart rate increased and the palms of my hands felt clammy. It had taken Ollie a long time to persuade me that my talents would be best used to help him. Sitting alone in the car I still wondered if I had made the right decision. I took a deep breath and stepped out into the bitter morning air, turning my collar against the rasping wind. A moment later I was standing on the steps in front of a huge wooden door. I pressed the bell and waited anxiously.

When the door eventually opened, a woman with stark features and clinical white uniform glared at me without speaking.

“Good morning,” I said, “I believe you are expecting me. Alexander Wallace.” I presented her with my card. Ollie insisted I use the cards. We had argued the point briefly, but of course my friend had won the day. I felt more like a double glazing salesman as I offered the card foward.

The woman inspected the card and glanced at me disapprovingly. “Come in.” The invitation was curt. “I’m Miss Williams. If you should have any problems whilst here you must be sure a member of staff contacts me instantly. I should tell you right now,” she continued, “we run a very regimental house. Intrusions, no matter how small, tend to disrupt the smooth running of our home. I would appreciate it if you could make your visit as brief as possible.”

“Of course,” I raised my hand to the side of my face. The swelling had receded but I knew the skin around my eye was still badly discoloured, now turning a yellowy dark hue as the bruising subsided. I presumed my unsightly appearance was at least partly to blame for her rather hostile greeting.

The hall in which we stood was warm and bright, long fluorescent tubes hung from chains stretching high into the curved ceilings. A cacophony of sound echoed around the high walls; distant voices accompanied by the clatter of cutlery and china plates. I assumed that my arrival had coincided with the ending of the breakfast. At the far end of the hall an elderly woman shuffled aimlessly towards us.

“Go back to the dining room at once,” Miss Williams bellowed. The old woman gazed towards us seemingly undisturbed by the shrill warning. “Now Maude,” Miss Williams warned, her tone menacing enough that if she were to bark orders at me I would have obeyed instantly. Miss Williams turned towards me. “Would you wait here please?” She pushed open a door and ushered me into a small waiting area. “I won’t keep you long.”

The door closed behind me and I could hear the brisk footsteps of Miss Williams as she headed towards the disobedient Maude.
The room was cold and drab. A single light bulb burned high above me emitting a shower of light. A small table in the middle of the room cluttered with a selection of magazines reminded me of every dentist's waiting room I had ever sat in. Around the table were four brown, leather armchairs. I sat down and fingered through two or three of the magazines: Country Life, Woman’s Realm; a Gardening Glossary, nothing that interested me. I fished into my jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with the questions Ollie had scribbled down. The handwriting would have been indecipherable to anyone else; it looked like a couple of inebriated spiders had stepped in ink and started a fight on the page. I fumbled for my glasses and began to browse through the questions. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. It could have been the icy wind seeping through the window behind me, but it could just as easily be the questions that provoked this involuntary reaction.

It felt like I had been there ages, but probably no more than ten minutes had passed when the door opened and Miss Williams leaned into the room. “Mr Wallace,” she said, as if calling to a room full of people.

I eased myself out of the comfortable chair with the inevitable groan that accompanies most people who are crashing towards fifty. Two cracked ribs and severe bruising to most of my limbs accentuated the pain.

“This is David,” Miss Williams nodded to a young man standing behind her. “If you go with him he’ll show you up to Harolds room. I do have one or two rules that I would like you to adhere to however.”

I hate rules, but I managed to force a smile onto my face. “Of course.” I said.

“Firstly, Harold is nearly eighty; if you could bare that in mind when you’re interrogating him.”

“I think interrogating is rather an inappropriate word…”

“Secondly,” she cut in, “I do not permit the use of tape-recorders or any other such equipment.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” It was getting harder to retain the forced smile.

The smile was not returned.

“And lastly, if at any time Harold decides that he’s had enough, I will expect you to respect his wishes.” She turned as if to leave but a last thought must have jogged her because she wheeled back round. “I don’t condone this; in fact I see very little point to the exercise what-so-ever. If you could just remember that you’re only here for a fleeting visit, we are the ones who will have to deal with any damage you cause.”

There was little doubt in my mind that whatever I said wasn’t going to placate the woman, but I thought I’d give it a try anyway. “I have no intention of upsetting him,” I said. “I’ll be gone before you know it, and I’ll treat Harold with courtesy and respect.”

Miss Williams looked at me with unemotional eyes. “I do hope so,” she said turning on her heels, the sharp creases of her uniform snapping to attention as she turned to walk away.

The young man that had been introduced to me as David smiled. At a guess I would have put him mid twenties. He was tall and clean cut, with large brown eyes and a face you could easily trust. He wore a blue tunic with a badge that said Nurse David Lark. “Bit daunting when you meet her for the first time isn’t she?”

“Just a touch,” I agreed.

“I wouldn’t take it to heart mate, she’s like that with just about everyone. Come on, I’ll take you up now.”

I followed David up a short flight of stairs and along a narrow corridor. The carpet was soft beneath my feet, the walls decorated in pastel colours and lined with paintings, mainly landscapes. It was not at all as I had expected. David walked at a brisk pace and I almost had to run to keep up with him. We were half way along the corridor before he spoke again.

“You have to be careful with Harold,” he began, “He’s a funny old sod, you never know quite what sort of mood he will be in from one day to the next.”

“Let’s hope it’s a good one today,” I said.

“No telling. If you manage to get anything out of him at all you’ll have done well. I’ve known him to clam up for days at a time. Keep your voice soft, and the tone steady, he responds better if he doesn’t feel threatened. Do you have any cigarettes on you?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“Pity, there’s nothing Harold likes better than a quick puff. Here.” He pulled a packet of cigarettes from inside his pocket. “Give him one of these, but for Christ’s sake please don’t let on that I gave it to you if you get caught.”

“Of course not, thank you.” I was grateful for any advantage that I could gain.

“Here we are then.” David stopped in front of me. “I’ll show you in then, you’re on your own. If you have any problems just press the red button, I’ll point it out to you when were inside.”

“Am I likely to have any problems?” I asked.

“No it’ll be fine I’m sure, but I have to tell you that, they're very funny about the rules. You can never tell when something will kick off right out of the blue. It doesn’t take much, that’s why we try and keep to a strict regime.” He smiled. “It’s weird really; I think that they’re so used to a regimented life that anything else just throws them off balance.”

David knocked on the door, and without waiting for an answer, opened it. The room was quite dark as the only light came from a window that faced out over the lawns. It was a dismal morning and brooding dark clouds appeared to be gathering in the distance. In front of the window, sitting facing out over a white landscape, sat an old man. He was arched forward in his chair. A tartan shawl draped over his shoulders.

“Harold,” David said, his voice barely a whisper, “there’s someone to see you.”

The figure sitting in the chair showed no sign of acknowledgment.

“He just needs to ask a few questions then he’ll be on his way.”

Still there was no response from the old man.

David turned to me. “Okay I’ll leave you to it now. Don’t forget, keep your voice soft, give him the cigarette, and be patient and you shouldn’t have any problems.” He raised his index finger and pointed out the red button on the wall beside the door.

“I trust you,” I said, trying hard to ignore the uncomfortable feeling knotting my stomach.

I had thought about this moment for some time. As David closed the door behind him I suddenly felt very alone. The room seemed to darken, the temperature dropping. I moved across the floor, my legs feeling strangely unsteady. The figure sitting in the chair was still and silent, save for low wheezing breaths, barely audible. I glanced out of the window. Snow was falling heavily now, cascading from the dark skies, huge flakes blowing into the glass window and melting instantly. I moved around the perimeter of the room, my eyes barely leaving the figure that sat before me. I could feel my heartbeat increasing with every inch I grew closer. I breathed deeper trying to control the emotions that appeared to be getting away from me. In the corridor outside I could hear talking, and I kept telling myself that I was not alone. I reached the window. I was now standing directly in front of the old man. Some hidden force deep within me prevented me from looking down. I drew a deep breath and looked down for the first time at the face of Harold Albert Forster who had been incarcerated thirty-four years ago for the brutal murder of nine women.



CHAPTER 2

I don’t think I have ever looked into such lifeless eyes. His face was heavily lined, the loose skin pale and faded; above his eyes the brows were thick and grey, the hair curling down over the lids.

Ollie had tried to warn me, but I’d paid little heed. Ollie had a tendency to exaggerate somewhat, and I remember thinking at the time that he was going way over the top. So I was quite unprepared for the feelings of utter revulsion that began to well inside me now. I had been briefed about the background of the man. Nine women had been murdered by this man; the last victim was his wife. Harold Forster had always maintained his innocence, even when faced with overwhelming evidence. I hadn’t read all the paperwork about the case – Ollie believed the less I knew the less my judgement would be clouded – all I knew was that Harold had been detained under the Mental Health Act at her Majesties Pleasure. He had been moved to Mariners House a couple of years ago, presumably to see out his last few years on this earth.

Now I gazed down at the man and felt my mouth drying rapidly, the words sticking in my throat. I closed my eyes for a moment and could picture Ollie saying; “Oh well, you gave it your best shot,” with that, ‘I knew you weren’t up to it’ look on his face. I suppose in the end it was this thought that spurred me on. I drew a deep breath and decided to be as direct and professional as possible.

“Good morning Harold.” I said, pausing to see if there was a response. The old man turned his eyes towards me; a slow, deliberate movement that entailed no moving of his head at all. I continued. “My name is Alexander Wallace. I believe they told you I was coming. It’s very good of you to see me.”

“Did I have a choice?” The voice was clearer and stronger than I had anticipated, and somewhat resigned.

“I honestly don’t know.” I replied.

Harold shifted in his chair. The grimace on his face betrayed the obvious pain that the smallest of movements caused the old man. His swollen knuckles gripped the edge of the chair, and he used his arms to turn his body towards me.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked, staring up at me. Something in my demeanour must have betrayed the fact that I was feeling as nervous as hell, because he added quickly. “There’s no need to be scared, I don’t bite you know.” There was the first hint of a smile on his lips, as the loose skin around his jowls creased.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, shifting a little closer as if to prove a point.

“Don’t apologise, I’m used to that sort of reaction. For Thirty odd years I've been poked around and studied by some of the greatest so called minds. Most were a little scared of me. One man actually wet himself when I touched him.” His mouth cracked open as if he were going to laugh, but there was nothing other than a gaping smile. “Not going to wet yourself are you?”

I returned the smile. “No, at least I hope not.” I felt my face redden; the old man had no idea what traumatic memories his last question had stirred inside me.

“Good. It smells something rotten you know.”

In a matter of moments Harold Forster had managed to completely alter my view of him. The monster I had anticipated had not materialised. Instead, I was faced with an affable gentleman, with a sense of humour. The cold staring eyes that seemed so dead when I first gazed into them, now betrayed a humour and intelligence that I was quite unprepared for. It was to his eyes that I now focused my attention.

I chose my words carefully. “Do you ever get a thrill? Knowing these people are afraid of you I mean.”

“Sometimes maybe a small part of me enjoys it. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh I think you do. There’s no drug quite as powerful as power itself. To look into a mans eyes and see that he fears you, is in awe of you,” he breathed in deeply. “No, you can’t stand there and tell me honestly that power such as that wouldn’t thrill you to a certain degree.”

I shrugged. “Maybe not,” I agreed reluctantly.

“Maybe not.” He whispered, his head nodding. “And now you feel that you have to agree with me so as not to alienate me before the interview is completed.”

“Not at all, I have never been in a position where any man has stood in fear of me, so I have no idea one way or the other whether I would derive any sense of pleasure from such power.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Fight your corner though eh.”

I could see him peering with interest at my bruised face. Time was at a premium though and I had no intention of getting side-tracked. “I bumped into a door.” I said, letting my face crack into a grin.

“Bastards, those doors.” He smiled, and turned his face towards the window. “Right, you want to get down to business. There are questions you wish to put to me, or are you just another eager psychologist looking for material to study?”

The body was disintegrating, but the mind was obviously as nimble as ever. If I’m honest, I found it more than just a bit surprising that someone as frail as he on the outside still had full control over what was quite clearly a very intelligent and perceptive mind. The two just didn’t seem compatible. It was a dangerous misconception, and I reminded myself there and then not to fall into the same trap in the future.

“Yes, there are a few questions I need to ask you.” I said. “But you’re under no obligation to answer anything you don’t want to.”

He nodded his head slowly, and his eyes appeared to betray the merest hint of a mischievous smile, almost childlike in its innocence. “You don’t strike me as the sort of chap to ask me anything offensive.”

I returned the smile. “I hope not.”

“Then we should get along fine.”

I produced the slip of paper with the questions on that Ollie had given me. I noticed Harold look at the paper, and the faintest look of disapproval registered in his eyes. Now I thought, would be a good time for bribery.

“I gather you like the odd cigarette,” I said, producing the small white stick from my pocket.

His eyes lit up. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, reaching out with a shaking hand. His fingers curled around the cigarette, the joints of the knuckles straining to bend properly. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and looked at me expectantly.”

“I don’t have a light I’m afraid.”

“There’s a box of matches in the draw over there.” He pointed to a small chest of draws. “It’s the top drawer, they’re under the pullover.”

I fetched the matches as requested and lit the cigarette. His lips pursed, and he breathed the smoke in, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

“Looks like you needed that.” I said.

“I can’t tell you how good that feels.” He blew a plume of smoke into the room. “The stick woman doesn’t allow smoking in the rooms, and well, as you can see I very rarely get outside these days.”

“Do you mind if I continue?”

“Please do.”

I studied the first question. “Had you ever been in trouble with the police before they arrested you for the crimes which you have served all these years for?” It sounded far too blunt coming from my lips, and it worried me that Harold may feel the same. His answer surprised me.

“Once yes; my wife’s sister accused me of assault.” A smile came to his face.

“Were you guilty?”

“No.” He raised his eyes towards the ceiling as if looking back in his minds eye to times long since past. “I was guilty of many things, but not that. She had a thing for me you see. Pretty girl she was, four years younger than my wife, with flaming red hair. Teased me for ages until one day I gave in. We were in the back room of her parents house, kissing, touching, you know what I mean?” He glanced at me, a boyish grin on his face. “Anyway, right in the middle of it, her mother walked in. There was no way out for her you see, she could hardly admit to trying it on with her sister’s husband. I was arrested. She dropped all the charges a week later. My wife believed me, and we never spoke to her parents or sister again.”

I was watching him very closely the whole time, and he hadn’t lied once.
“Sounds like a very sad state of affairs.” I said.

“It was. Poor Sylvia never quite came to terms with it.” He blew out a long cloud of smoke and gazed longingly at the dwindling cigarette.

The second question stared at me from the paper.

“How many of the nine women that you were accused of murdering did you know personally?” I blurted the question out quickly.

“All of them as far as I can recall. Some were just acquaintances, but I had come into contact with all of them at one time or another.”

Again he answered truthfully.

I drew in a deep breath and asked the next question. “Did you kill any of the women that you were accused of murdering?”

Harold Forster stared me straight in the eyes. “No.”

I admit to feeling a pain deep in the pit of my stomach. There was no bitterness in his voice, just resignation. I wondered how many times over the years he had denied the same question only to look across a table to see the same disbelieving eyes staring back at him. Just for a moment the total hopelessness of this poor man hit me with a wave of emotion. To be innocent and be accused of such hideous crimes and have no one believe you; over and over again…I wondered at what point one might actually start to believe what they were being told.

“How have you survived all these years knowing that you didn’t commit the crimes?” The question wasn’t on the slip of paper, it came from the heart.

“You believe me?” He looked stunned.

“Yes I do.”

“Well that’s a first.” The smile returned to his lips. “Why?”

I could have gone into detail but it would almost certainly have proved a pointless exercise. “Let’s just say that I have a very good instinct for this sort of thing.”

Harold looked at the cigarette that had almost burnt down to the end. He took one last puff, and handed me the remains. “Would you mind throwing that out of the window?” he asked.

I obliged, closing the window quickly before too much cold air could rush into the room. I leaned back against the deep window sill and looked at the next question on my list.

“Did you ever have any idea who might have committed the murders?”

He shook his head gently. “No.”

“Would anyone you knew at the time have any reason to set you up for killing those women?” I folded the paper away now.

“Not as far as I’m aware. I thought I was well liked. Never had a cross word with anyone. Life’s too short.” He let out a small laugh. “That sounds rich doesn’t it? Coming from someone who has spent the best part of their life locked up.”

I was amazed that this man still had the capacity to laugh. I couldn’t help putting myself in his position for a moment, trying to imagine how it must feel to be locked away indefinitely for such a brutal series of crimes, knowing all the time that you were innocent. The thought made me shudder.

“I only have one more question,” I said, eager to get it over with. “Do you remember the last words you said to your wife?” It sounded even more ridiculous than it had looked written down on the slip of paper. I trusted Ollie however, and presumed there must be a method to his madness.

Harold answered instantly. “Can we have liver tonight?”

I frowned. It wasn’t so much his words that intrigued me, but the speed and honesty with which they came.

Sylvia Forster had been the last victim in the series of nine murders, and the vital link that led the police to the inescapable conclusion that Harold was the killer; something that I now knew to be false.

“Can we have liver tonight?” I repeated the answer out loud.

Harold smiled. “Funny isn’t it, all the things you could possibly say to someone you love so much the last time you are ever going see them alive, and I say that. It was a Friday you see, and Sylvia always cooked fish on a Friday. I’m not a great lover of fish, never have been, but I do like a nice bit of liver. Can you imagine how many times over the years I have lay awake wishing I had said, I love you, or goodbye darling, anything in fact, other than can we have liver tonight?”

“Hundreds I should imagine.” My heart went out to him.

“How many nights are there in thirty four years? It’s the last thing I think of before I go to sleep every night.”

Ollie had warned me not to get too involved. I suppose the police have to learn how to distance themselves, but I was finding it hard not to let the plight of this poor soul effect me. I leaned forward a little. “I know you have been telling me the truth,” I said. “And I will do everything that I can to make sure that this miscarriage of justice is corrected as soon as possible.”

Harold smiled at me, reached out his hand and rested it on mine. “Don’t waste your time. There’s nothing you could say to anyone that is going to make the slightest difference.”

“You could have the verdict overturned. Walk out of here a free man.”

“To what end? My life ended thirty four years ago, all that’s left now is a shell, and a pretty decrepit shell at that. No,” he shook his head solemnly, “Don’t waste any time thinking about me.”

“But I know you’re telling me the truth.” I insisted.

“The truth! What is the truth? You only have to be true to one person, and that is yourself. When my time comes, and I pray it will be sooner rather than later, I will go to my maker with a clear conscience. That is the truth, and it’s all the truth I need.”

I gazed at him, wondering where he gained such strength.

“Are you married?”

The question caught me unawares. “No.” I said.

“Not a poof are you?”

I smiled. “No, I just haven’t met the right women yet I suppose.”

“Well when you do, take it from me, before you walk out the house in the morning, tell her you love her.”

“If I ever find the right person, I’ll do that.”

I left Harold Forster some ten minutes later - after first scrounging another cigarette from the nurse David - sitting in his chair staring out of the window, blowing clouds of smoke into the air.


The weather had deteriorated, and it crossed my mind that I may struggle to make it to London if the roads became too bad. My appointment with Ollie was not until lunchtime. When I pulled out onto the main road, although the traffic was moving at a snails pace, at least it was moving. I had plenty of time, so this was something which I was pleased about as I hate driving in anything but perfect conditions. Not a trait that many men would like to admit I know, but an accident in treacherous conditions some years previously had left me walking with a permanent limp, and now I would rather be safe than sorry.

I glanced at my face in the rear view mirror to check if the swelling had gone down. My present state had been the main factor in my agreeing to Ollie’s request that I helped him out. For the last twenty years I had managed to make a fairly successful living out of playing cards; Poker to be precise. My unique gift gave me the slight edge over the other players, and until four days ago – apart from the odd inevitable skirmish – nothing had ever given me cause to consider changing my lifestyle.

I had been playing at the same game for five or six years. It was a private game held at the house of one of the players. The required minimum stake to sit at the table was one thousand pounds – though most players brought much more; myself included. There was a hard core of four players, and usually another three or four would turn up by invitation. I never pushed too hard, not wanting to scare anyone. I would usually aim for around a thousand, maybe two, and lose the occasional large hand. Along with the other games that I played in, this gave me a fairly considerable income.

The night in question I had made a fatal mistake. I arrived at the game at ten in the evening, as I liked the action to be well under way before I sat down. I walked into the smoke filled room and glanced over at the table. There were six players, two of whom I had never met before.

Pete Raymond – the owner of the house – nodded to me. “Okay everyone,” he announced. “This is Alex.”

The faces looked up from the table. John Parry, Craig Smith and a guy I knew only as Turk, looked up and nodded. Turk looked solemn as usual and I guessed he was already losing heavily.

Pete continued. “This is Dave,” he pointed to a huge man sitting to his right. “And this is Philip.”

Both men glanced at me and nodded.


I quickly tried to assess the new blood. Philip was in his late twenties, with a mop of dark hair. He had a boyish smile, and appeared far too friendly to be sitting at a poker table. Dave looked out of place. Although he was sitting, I could tell he was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a barrel – like chest. He had a rugged face, and at some point his nose had been broken.

“Watch out for him,” Pete said to the others around the table, his eyes fixed upon me, “Comes here and takes our money every week.”

I was glad to see that statement followed by a huge grin.

Pete must have lost thousands over the years, and none of it was ever missed. Pete made his millions from developing computer software, and was clearly the most intelligent person sitting at the table. But he had one fatal flaw. Pete hated to think he was being bluffed out of a hand, he took it personally, which meant that nine times out of ten he would call you. I made a point of never trying to bluff against him. He thought nothing of losing three or four thousand pounds in a night, and he always said goodbye with a smile on his face. To him, poker was just a social occasion, the money was irrelevant.

I took my seat at the table, and placed four thousand pounds in front of me. The adrenaline was starting to pump through my veins as I watched the cards being dealt around the table. Seven card Stud. We play pot limit, which means that you can bet up to whatever is in the middle at any one time. To those who don’t play cards it can all seem quite daunting, but basically you just use the best five cards to make your hand. The art of poker is being able to read people, knowing when they’re bluffing, and when not; a massive edge for me.

I settled into my usual routine. Whenever I play poker with someone new I like to size them up before I get too involved, so I spent the first hour or so concentrating on Dave and Philip. I was quickly aware that Dave had very little idea what he was doing. He would raise when he should be calling, call when he should be raising, and had a very bad tell when bluffing. Philip was an entirely different proposition. He was an accomplished player, his face never changing whether he had a good or a bad hand. He read the cards well, and was already two thousand pounds up by the time the clock struck midnight.

I was tired by now, and ready to make my last move of the night. Unfortunately I made it on the wrong person. Dave was spilling money like water through his fingers, and when I called a massive bluff with a very weak hand he just couldn’t take it any longer. I turned my cards over to show a lowly ace high. I heard the gasp of air from his mouth as he realised instantly he had lost the pot. I never saw the fist coming. I remember a crunching sound, and the blinding pain, and toppling backwards off my chair. Then it all went black. I suppose it was a couple of minutes before one of the others dragged me to my feet and I suddenly realised I had wet myself.

It was at that moment I made the decision. This wasn’t the first time I had got into a serious scrape playing poker, and my body was trying to tell me enough is enough. In my thirties I would have fought back, or ran. Even ten years ago I would have stood more chance. But now, with my fifty first birthday just weeks away, I had to make a decision.

So here I was driving back towards London, with all the information stored neatly inside my head, ready to pass it on to Ollie. The words frying pan and fire kept coming into my mind.


CHAPTER 3

It was almost four-thirty by the time I pulled into the car park at the rear of the Fulton Hotel. The snow had eased to a faint trickle, the odd white flake drifting to the ground illuminated by the headlights of my car. It was still bitterly cold, so I made my way briskly from the car park to the entrance, carefully picking my way along the icy path.

The heat hit me as soon as I walked through the door, and by the time I approached the desk it felt like someone had been slapping me round the face with a wet towel, the skin tingling and stinging from the dramatic change in temperature.

“Good afternoon.” A man behind the desk shot me a smile that he had obviously practiced a million times before.

“Good afternoon. I’m meeting a friend of mine, Paul Hardy. Could you tell me whether he has arrived yet?”

“Of course. Mr. Hardy is in the lounge taking tea with another gentleman. Straight through the door to your right sir.”

“Thank you.” I headed towards the door feeling slightly anxious. Ollie had forewarned me about having to prove myself in order for everything to work out. It wasn’t something that I was looking forward to. Firstly, I’d never had to prove myself to anyone in the past, and secondly it made me feel like somewhat of a freak.

I eased the doors open and walked into a rather noisy room. At least thirty or forty people were seated at tables. Waitresses were scurrying around with trays that held pots of tea and plates laden with cakes and scones.
All very civilised, I mused, my eyes scouring the room for my old friend. After a moment I caught sight of Ollie, he was sitting at a window table talking to a well-dressed man of about sixty. Ollie spotted me instantly and hauled his huge round frame from the seat he had forced his ample behind into.

“Alex,” he shouted across the room at me, waving his hand furiously.

If my face hadn’t already been bright red, this announcement of my arrival would have surely done the trick. Almost to a person, everyone seated in the restaurant turned to look in my direction. I smiled politely and hurried over to the table.

“Afternoon,” I said quietly as I neared my friend.

“We thought you must have got lost or held up in this damn weather.” Ollie said, his voice still booming around the room. “This is Jason Hewitt.” Ollie gestured towards the distinguished gentleman seated opposite him.

Jason Hewitt rose and offered me his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in a clear authoritative voice.

I noted a slight look of disapproval register in his eyes when he looked at the discoloured skin around my eye. “Likewise,” I said. I quickly moved round and took a seat away from the eyes that I still felt fixed on me.

A waitress arrived instantly. “Can I get you anything Sir?”

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

She smiled and walked off.

I studied Jason Hewitt for a moment. He was a tall man with sharp features and unusually high cheekbones. His hair was trimmed short, grey and receding heavily on the top. I couldn’t help noticing that he had about him the air of a man who is used to being completely in control.

“So what is your opinion of our old friend Harold then?” Ollie asked with his usual directness.

An image of the old man invaded my mind. “He’s innocent,” I said, stifling any emotions that wanted to surface. “It seems ridiculous that he’s spent so long locked away for something he never did.”

Ollie glanced across at Jason Hewitt, then turned to me. “I did warn you about getting too involved.”

“How can you just switch off?”

I took a moment to look at the two blank faces in front of me. Both men appeared stunned by my revelation. Ollie didn’t bother to reply. There was an exchange of glances between the two before a question was fired at me.

“And you are sure about that?” It was Jason Hewitt who posed the question.

“I’m positive.”

“He couldn’t have just – how can I put this? Let it slip back into his subconscious, or in some way just convinced himself that he didn’t do it?” Jason Hewitt’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward, and I got the distinct impression that he was trying to tell me to give serious consideration to the question.

“It has never happened to me before, I can’t think why this man should be any different. However, you’ve only got my word for that, I’ve never been tested in such extreme cases in the past.”

Jason Hewitt lifted a hand. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “I’m not judging you, I just want to be sure that you are clear in your own mind.”

Judging me was exactly what it felt like he was doing.

“I’m as clear as I have ever been. If I were a gambling man,” I smiled broadly, “and I am, I would stake my reputation on it.”

The waitress arrived and placed a pot of coffee and cup on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

“No thank you.” Ollie smiled at the young girl, and I couldn’t help noticing that his eyes ran up and down her body as she moved away from the table.

I felt the stirrings of a laugh welling inside me. Ever since I had known him, Ollie had always had an eye for the ladies. And even now, as his weight ballooned towards the seventeen stone mark and the years hurtled him towards fifty, he still surveyed the fairer sex with that same predatory gaze that had landed him in so much trouble over the years. I could never see what women found so attractive about my friend, but his legacy spoke for itself. Ollie had been married three times, and I had lost count of the number of affairs he had indulged in. Maybe it was that huge beaming smile, or the generous nature of the man, whatever it was; if Ollie could ever bottle it he could make a fortune.

“Right then,” Jason Hewitt said, easing closer towards me, “I believe Paul has already forewarned you that we would have to……” he paused, searching for the words, “for the want of a better word, test you at some stage.” He blurted it out as if there were a nasty taste attached to the words.

The thought of having to sit through an examination of any kind didn’t rest easily with me. It was years since I’d been forced to prove myself in any way. Nevertheless, I had agreed to it all after careful consideration, so there was no way I was going to back out now.

“Yes, yes he has.”

“And you are in agreement?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes, I can’t see any reason why not. As long as we are all clear about one thing?” I waited for a response, casting just a fleeting glance in Ollie’s direction.

“And that is?” Jason Hewitt’s frown increased.

“That this is between the three of us.”

He looked shocked. “But of course, Paul made that quite clear to me at the start, and I can give you my word here and now that whatever goes on between us will remain confidential.”

I sipped my coffee. “Then we have an arrangement.”

We sat in the restaurant for almost half an hour talking over some of the finer details. I found Jason Hewitt to be a likeable and direct person. Whatever questions I asked were answered without hesitation, whether the answer was one I liked or not. For the most part Ollie sat quietly - which must have strained him immensely - only interrupting briefly to explain certain details to me.

Jason Hewitt rose from the table. “Right then Alex,” he said, smoothing down the front of his crisp grey suit, “If you would care to follow me we have everything set up in one of the function rooms at the rear of the hotel.”

I followed silently like a schoolboy being led to an examination, Ollie bringing up the rear. We went out across the foyer, and up a small flight of stairs. Jason Hewitt pushed open a large wooden door and entered a large room that I presumed had been set out according to his instructions.

I gazed around the room, amazed at the preparations that had obviously been going on whilst we sat drinking tea and coffee. There were ten tables placed evenly around the room. Either side of each table was a chair, one of which was already occupied at each table. In the centre of the table a small divide had been placed about eight inches high. The occupants of the room all looked as bemused as I was now feeling. I counted five men and five women, ranging in age from as young as twenty to around eighty.

“Go to whatever table takes your fancy,” Jason Hewitt said. “On your side of the table you will find a sheet with ten questions written down. Ask each question, and then fill in the box for either true or false. Each of these people has been told they can either lie or tell the truth when they answer each question. They will then put a tick in one of the boxes to indicate whether their answer was true or false. You then tick the box on your sheet of paper as to whether you believe they have lied or not. Is everything clear?”

“As crystal.” Somewhere inside me an arrogance that I struggled to control on occasions, almost forced a smile onto my face.

I turned to my left where a man in his early thirties was sitting looking decidedly bored. He was dressed in white overalls and appeared to have come straight from a building site.

I eased myself into the seat. “Hello.”

“Alright mate.” The voice was rasping and the stench of stale tobacco wafted across the table towards me.

I glanced down at the paper and surveyed the questions that had been set out for me. I read through it slowly, frowning once or twice at the thought of having to ask complete strangers some of the probing questions that were on the sheet. Resigned, I drew a deep breath, stared across the table straight into the eyes of the man, and began.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty two.” Truth.

“Are you married?”

“No.” False.

“Have you ever been to prison?”

“Yes.” False.

I cleared my throat before asking the next question. “Do you masturbate at least once a month?”

“No.” False, and his face reddened.

“Do you drive a car?” I continued quickly.

“No.” False.

“Do you own your own house?”

“Yes.” True.

“Are your parents still alive?”

“No.” True.

“Are you planning a holiday this year?”

“No.” False.

“What colour is your underwear?”

“Blue.” True.


“And finally, what is the number written on the sheet of paper in front of you?”

“Forty-three.” True.

I rose from the table. “Thank you,” I said turning to stare at an elderly woman seated at the next table, her eyes lighting up ready for the challenge I was about to set her.

I continued through the group, sitting at each table to stare into the eyes of the next volunteer. I couldn’t really say when I first discovered I had this gift, if indeed gift is the right word? I can remember my father standing in the kitchen talking to my mother, I must have been about six, maybe seven, I was staring into his eyes and it was as if a light suddenly flashed. Lie. The word rebounded around my head, and I was left thinking; why my dad would be lying to my mother? the woman he loved. And then at school when Mr. Jarvis – the headmaster – was asking Thompson whether he had struck one of the pupils. Thompson was a huge hairy beast of a man, or at least he appeared that way to a small child.

“Of course not,” Thompson had replied, his face pained.

And again the light had flashed. My insistence that Thompson was a liar had resulted in my ultimate expulsion. It took me a while to learn that sometimes it was better to keep my mouth firmly shut.

I stayed silent about my secret for years, not wanting to appear different I suppose, not wanting to be ridiculed, longing to just be normal and not know that every minute of every day someone was telling lies to someone else. I found myself listening in to conversations without even realising I was doing it, watching the eyes of those who spoke just to see if it worked with everyone. To my astonishment, I found that it did.

By the time I was a teenager I found myself becoming increasingly cynical about the whole human race. Rarely a day went past that I didn’t notice a lie being told; often minor white lies, but lies nonetheless. At home I would try to avoid ever having to look at my father for fear of seeing something that would betray his guilt as he went through life diving from one illicit relationship to another.

Paul Hardy was a young constable when I first met him. I suppose I would have been around twenty-three or four at the time. I knew Paul to nod to, or say hello to, as he was one of the officers who pounded the beat around our streets. He was a large chap even then, with a warm smile and honest eyes. Occasionally he would stop and chat to me if I passed him on my way home from work. A year or two drifted by, as the years do. I was stuck in a dead-end job selling electrical goods, spending most of my days dreaming about the things I should have been doing. I had been out for a drink with Paul from time to time, and slowly we had become good friends. In all the time we had known each other Paul had been one of the only people I had ever met who never felt the need to lie to me, a very rare quality indeed. One night we had been out drinking. On reflection I suppose I had consumed far too much for my own good. It must have been around this time that I started to refer to him as Ollie. The joke being that Paul resembled one half of Laurel and Hardy. Somehow the name stuck. We were back at his flat sharing a bottle of Vodka when I suddenly blurted out my secret to him.

“Yeah right,” he laughed, his voice mocking.

“Try me.” I said, stumbling to my feet, swaying uneasily from side to side. “Go on, anything, just tell me a lie.”

“Then you’ll know it’s a lie,” the hysterical laugh booming around the small room as he shifted on the couch, sliding to the floor in a heap. “Okay, he said holding up a hand, “My penis is so large most women swoon at the sight of it.” This statement was followed by more hysterical laughter as he rolled on the floor clutching a half filled glass in his large hand.

“Yeah right, now try me with something that might be even half true,” I laughed, watching him try to haul his bulky frame back onto the tatty sofa.

“You seriously think you can tell?”

“Just give it a go.”

“Right,” he held out a hand to steady himself, “Okay, how about this. I killed my own father.”

The silence seemed to last for hours; in reality only a few seconds had passed. The smile had disappeared from his face instantly, and now I was staring into his eyes with utter disbelief.

“It’s true.” It was as if someone else was speaking and I was just listening.

“As if!” Ollie tried to force the smile back onto his face and make a joke of it, but it was too late. Now, in his eyes I could see fear. In a moment of drunken madness he had blurted his darkest secret; a secret so vast that it stunned me for a moment.

I slowly eased myself down into an armchair as silence enveloped the room. Gone were the laughter and the idle drunken chatter, now there was just the two of us left to sit in silence with our deepest secrets exposed to another person for the very first time.

We never spoke about that night again, even after all these years. I never judged Paul, and he never questioned me. Ever since then we had remained firm friends, and there had been numerous occasions - as Ollie climbed the ladder of success – when he tried to persuade me to put my gift to a more appropriate use, each time I had found an excuse not to. Until now that is.

I sat at a table and waited as the people I had just questioned rose slowly and left the room. After a minute or two the door opened and Ollie came and sat down facing me.

“Well?” he asked, “No problems were there?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Jason Hewitt had gathered the papers from the respective tables and was sitting a short distance away studying the answers.

“You didn’t mind any of this did you?” Ollie asked, looking almost apologetic, a facial expression he used rather too much for my liking. “It was the only way I could secure the funding for your salary.”

“As long as it only goes this far, then no, of course not.”

“I told you Alex, this is strictly between the three of us. You have my word.”

“I don’t need your word.” I smiled.

Ollie smiled back. “No, of course you don’t.”

Fifteen minutes might have passed, maybe a little longer. Jason Hewitt rose from his chair and strolled the short distance across the room towards us.

“Sorry,” he said, “But I’m afraid there are too many wrong answers on these sheets.”

I was looking into his eyes. “No there isn’t,” I said quietly.

He frowned. “No, no there isn’t a single wrong answer on here. I don’t know how you do it Mr. Wallace…..”

“Please, call me Alex.”

“I don’t know how the hell you do it Alex, but that is a very rare gift you have. I can’t for the life of me imagine why you haven’t utilised it before?”

It was a question I had asked myself a thousand times. There had always been a small part of me that felt reluctant to expose myself to the pressure that would inevitably come from making life-changing decisions about another person’s honesty. My testimony wouldn’t stand up in court; in fact I would probably be laughed out of court. Or maybe it was a selfish nature that prevented me from putting such a gift to greater use. I had a lifestyle that suited me. I had nobody to answer to, and lived in comfort.
“No, I really couldn’t say.” I replied.


I reflected on this as I drove back to my flat, gingerly easing my car along the road. The snow had stopped falling, but with the night and the clearing skies came the bitter cold. A journey that should have taken just over an hour turned into almost three as I nursed the vehicle around corners and up hills.

I finally turned the key in my door at ten to eight and glanced down at my watch with tired eyes. Ollie had arranged to come round at nine to go through the first of my cases. If I had known what was in store, I would almost certainly have walked away.

The space that I called home felt lonelier than ever. Everything was clinically tidy, as always. I walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle, wondering why everything suddenly felt so empty. Not just the flat, but my entire life. My mother died ten years earlier, my father a year later. There was no other family to speak of and every serious relationship I’d ever had eventually disintegrated. Maybe it was the thought of Harold sitting in his chair staring out of the window that depressed me, or at the very least brought it bubbling to the surface. It was something I continually fought against. When life became too comfortable I would inevitably press the self-destruct button. My father had only ever talked to me about his emotions on one occasion. “I need excitement,” he told me, “I’d sooner die than just limp through life like all those other festering zombies.” It wasn’t exactly how I felt, but I did understand what he meant by it. And that scared me.