Twelve Red Herrings Read Online Free PDF Page B

more and
more anxious about the quality of the new management when they began to sack
some of my most experienced staff, including Joe Ramsbottom. A week later, I
wrote and instructed my stockbrokers to sell my shares as and when the
opportunity arose.
    It was at the beginning
of my fourth month in prison that ! asked for some writing paper. I had decided the time had come to keep a record of
everything that had happened to me since that night I had returned home
unexpectedly. Every day the prison officer on my landing would bring me fresh
sheets of blue-lined paper, and I would write out in longhand the chronicle
you’re now reading. An added bonus was that it helped me to plan my next move.
    At my request,
Fingers took a straw poll among the prisoners as to who they believed was the
best detective they had ever come up against.
    Three days later
he told me the result: Chief Superintendent Donald Hackett, known as the Don,
came out top on more than half the lists. More reliable than a Gallup Poll, I
told Fingers.
    “What puts Hackett
ahead of all the others?” I asked him.
    “ e’s honest, ‘e’s fair, you can’t bribe ‘im. And once the
bastard knows you’re a villain, ‘e doesn’t care ‘ow long it takes to get you
be’ind bars.” Hackett, I was informed, hailed from Bradford. Rumour had it
among the older cons that he had turned down the job of Assistant Chief
Constable for West Yorkshire. Like a barrister who doesn’t want to become a
judge, he preferred to remain at the coalface.
    “Arrestin’
criminals is ‘ow ‘e gets his kicks,” Fingers said, with some feeling.
    “Sounds just the
man I’m looking for,” I said. “How old is he?’
    Fingers paused
to consider. “Must be past fifty by now,” he replied.
    “After all, ‘e
‘ad me put in borstal for nickin’ a toolset, and that was’ – he paused again – ‘more
than twenty years ago.” When Sir Matthew came to visit me the following Monday,
I told him what I had in mind, and asked his opinion of the Don.
    I wanted a
professional’s view.
    “He’s a hell of
a witness to cross-examine, that’s one thing I can tell you,” replied my
barrister. “Why’s that?”
    “He doesn’t
exaggerate, he won’t prevaricate, and I’ve never known him to lie, which makes
him awfully hard to trap. No, I’ve rarely got the better of the Chief
Superintendent. I have to say, though, that I doubt if he’d agree to become
involved with a convicted criminal, whatever you offered him.’
    “But I’m not...”
    “I know, Mr.
Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, who still didn’t seem able to call me by my first
name, “But Hackett will have to be convinced of that before he even agrees to
see you.”
    “But how can I convince
him of my innocence while I’m stuck in jail?’
    I’ll try to
influence him on your behalf,” Sir Matthew sad after some thought. Then he
added, “Come to think of it, he does owe me a favour.” After Sir Matthew had
left that night, I requested some more lined paper and began to compose a
carefully worded letter to Chief Superintendent Hackett, several versions of
which ended crumpled up on the floor of my cell. My final effort read as
follows:
    In replying to
this letter, please write on the envelol:
    Nmber .i4_ .. 798.3. N. COOPER, R.W. i Au. ,. cor.;:..
,’. : :s [ H.M. PRISON .v- : ..: ,.’ o ARMLEY A..
    CA .. O .ccmeo LEEDS LS12 2TJ
    I reread the
letter, corrected the spelling mistake, and scrawled my signature across the bottom.
    At my request,
Sir Matthew delivered the letter to Hackett by hand. The first
thousand-pound-a-day postman in the history of the Royal Mail, I told him.
    Sir Matthew
reported back the following Monday that he had handed the letter to the Chief
Superintendent in person. After Hackett had read it through a second time, his
only comment was that he would have to speak to his superiors. He had promised
he would let Sir Matthew know his decision within a week.
    From the moment
I had been