Chapter 14

I always hated pulling up at red lights, as I worried my poor wee car would stall and everyone would stare at me. The engine was ticking over noisily, and I tried not to think about it conking out. My eyes drifted. I was next to a row of shops, and I saw a poster for the Evening Chronicle in a newsagent's window. The headline screamed DOMINIC GRIFFITHS TO BE FREED NEXT MONTH. Clare Delaney hadn't mentioned that. Had she known? She must have done, surely. Why hadn't she told me? My God, what a bitch. I could have prepared Anthony for it, even warned Barbara and Harry. They'd see the paper, watch the local news and have it hit them in the face. They all deserved better than this.

I drove home at speed. Well, what passed for speed in my Golf. I was fuming. I parked in my usual spot at the back of the building, tore up the stairs and into my flat, my sanctuary, and slammed the door behind me. I had a lot to do. I also needed a drink. While I booted up the laptop, I went to the fridge for a bottle of wine.

The stories I'd read on the internet about my father were understandably focused on the crime. However, nobody seemed interested in his not-guilty plea. Even now, twenty years later, he was still saying he didn't kill her. Did the police in the original investigation just assume he was lying? Shouldn't they have investigated his claim and tried to find someone else who could possibly have murdered her? It was hard to tell if all the evidence led to Dominic or if the police just hadn't bothered to gather any evidence beyond Dominic.

I grabbed a pen from the empty coffee jar I used as a pen holder and scribbled a note on a pad. I needed to speak to someone who had worked on the original investigation. Yes, on the face of it, Dominic was guilty – blood was found in his allotment shed, and the body was in his attic – but a thorough investigation should have taken place. Someone would be able to answer my questions. I'd no idea how I could question police involved in the case, especially as DI Braithwaite was in a nursing home. I could hardly just walk into a police station and ask to go through their archives.

I refilled my glass. I didn't even remember drinking the first one. I sat down at the table and logged on to Google. Now to find this Joby Turnbull. Unfortunately, all I knew about him was that he was roughly the same age as Dominic. He could be anywhere in the world. He might even have changed his name. Fortunately, Joby wasn't a common name. He shouldn't be too difficult to find.

I tried the usual social media sites: Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. There were several Jobys but no Joby Turnbulls. Eventually, I struck lucky with LinkedIn and found one living in Newcastle who was a social worker. Fingers crossed he was the one. I sent him a vague message saying I was a paralegal working with Dominic Griffiths' legal team, and if he was the Joby Turnbull who knew Dominic as a child, please could he get in touch. It wasn't a complete lie, and I didn't give him all the gossipy details in case he turned out to be someone entirely different.

There was a knock on the front door, and I jumped. I hardly ever received visitors. I closed the laptop, went over to the door and, closing one eye, looked through the spy-hole. It was Robyn. I wasn't in the mood for her cheeriness right now, and the last thing I wanted was to hear if she'd slept with the hunky new neighbour. I opened the door and put on my best fake smile.

‘Hello. I can't stop,' she said, as she barged her way in. ‘First of all, guess who's got a date with the incredibly sexy new neighbour on Friday night?'

‘I'd say you but that seems too obvious,' I said, closing the door.

‘It bloody is me. I saw him heading out, so I thought I'd properly introduce myself. I told him when bin day was, and if he wanted to take advantage of the milkman?—'

‘Like you've done many times,' I interrupted.

‘It was twice, actually. Anyway, we got chatting, and we had a laugh and he asked me out,' she said coyly, like an excited schoolgirl.

‘Well done. That's the fastest you've ever bagged a bloke. Wine?' I asked, heading back to the fridge for another bottle. There must have been a leak in my glass.

‘Better not. I need to lose half a stone by Friday.'

‘There's nothing on you.' I looked her up and down in her tight skinny jeans and skimpy bra top.

‘I'll give you all the details on Saturday lunchtime. I'm bound to stay at his for breakfast.' She sat down on my sofa and picked up the copy of the local paper from the coffee table. ‘Have you read this?'

‘I've glanced at it,' I said, as I handed her a glass of wine.

‘I can't believe it's been twenty years since he was put away. God, I remember it like it was yesterday.'

‘You remember Dominic Griffiths going to prison?'

‘Yes. Wait. Didn't I tell you?'

‘Tell me what?'

‘I knew the girl he killed – Stephanie White. I was actually on the local news. I went to place a bunch of flowers outside the school, you know, like you do, and the BBC were there filming it. My one claim to fame.' She smiled. ‘Actually, that's not true. I'm pretty sure I was sat two tables away from Will Young in Patisserie Valerie in St Pancras station last year.'

‘How did you know Stephanie White?'

‘Well, we weren't best friends or anything, but we were in the same class at school.'

The penny suddenly dropped. Stephanie would have been thirty-three now, and Robyn had kept mentioning her thirty-third birthday being on a Friday night this year and how we should definitely have a pub crawl around Newcastle.

‘I saw her on the day she went missing actually,' Robyn said, sipping her wine and playing with her hair with her free hand.

‘Really? Did you say anything?'

‘Yes. They held a big assembly at school the next day. The police turned up and everything. I remember it being quite a frightening time. After Stephanie went missing, my mum picked me up and dropped me off for ages.' She half-laughed at a sudden memory. ‘My dad, right, he said that?—'

‘What did you say to the police?' I interrupted, sitting down next to her. I didn't want to seem too eager, but this was brand-new information. Well, it was to me anyway.

‘I told them what I saw. Stephanie was at the back of the shops in Winlaton. Do you know them? There's an alley between the Co-op and… What's the one next door? Is it a Premier? Anyway, Stephanie was leaning against the wall. She was wearing rollerblades and a Newcastle United top. I only recognised her because of the top. It stood out.'

‘Where were you?'

Robyn rolled her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘We always had to go and visit my gammy on Sundays. She wasn't really my grandmother – my father was adopted. She was horrible. Face like a slapped arse. And she was tight with her Christmas presents. Do you know what she gave me when I was ten? A bloody apron. Anyway, we were driving past the shops when I saw her.'

‘Was she with anyone?'

‘Yes. She was talking to a bloke.'

My heart almost stopped beating. This was almost too perfect. An eyewitness to Stephanie's disappearance right on my doorstep. I could feel the blood thundering through my ears.

‘What did he look like?'

‘I only saw him from behind,' Robyn said.

I deflated. ‘You must have been able to tell something about his appearance.'

‘Well, yes. I mean, he was taller than Stephanie. Thin, but not skinny. He was wearing a tracksuit. Dark blue, I think. Or it could have been black. He was wearing white trainers.'

‘Did you say all this to the police?' I asked excitedly.

‘Oh yes. At school the next day – I told you the police came round – anyway, they had a designated room where you could go in and chat to some of the detectives. I went to speak to this woman in uniform. I told her what I saw, and she went off to get this plain-clothed detective, and I had to repeat my story. Then, I had to go to the police station with my dad and tell them the story again, so they could turn it into a proper statement. You always think police work is exciting, but when you're involved in it, you realise how boring it really is. I must have told my story to about ten different people.'

‘So, what happened after that?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘No. Well, not nothing. I remember Mum and Dad talking about me having to go to court to be a witness. Mum was dead against it. She kept saying I was too young, and I'd find it too distressing. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I remember feeling scared about it.'

‘Did you go to court?'

‘No.'

‘Why not? As far as I know, there were no other witnesses.'

‘One night, we were sat having our tea when this big knock comes on the door. Dad answered it, and this bloke came in ranting and raving, demanding to know who I saw with Stephanie. I burst into tears. My mum burst into tears. My dad's shouting for our Luke to call the police. It was frightening. I thought he was going to hit me.'

‘Who was it?' I asked.

‘Stephanie's father.'

‘What? He came round and shouted at you?'

‘Looking back, it's obvious he was upset about his daughter being murdered, but he was in a real rage. My dad grabbed him to drag him out of the house, and Stephanie's dad punched him. That just made me and Mum worse. We were screaming bloody murder.'

‘What happened?'

‘He seemed to come to his senses after he'd hit my dad. He knew he'd gone too far. Luke had called the detective who'd taken my statement – he'd given us his card – and he turned up about ten minutes later, full of apologies. He calmed everything down and took Stephanie's dad away.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘I know. My claim to fame, eh?' she said, pointing at the newspaper with a silly grin on her face. ‘I wonder if ITV will do a drama about it. They're pretty hot at the moment – true crime dramas. I wonder who'd play me.'

‘So why didn't you have to go to court?'

‘Well, I didn't find out this until a long time later, but my dad told this detective that he could have Stephanie's dad charged with assault, but he wouldn't if they'd let me off having to give evidence in court.'

‘So, let me get this straight.' I needed to get this organised in my head. ‘Stephanie's dad comes to your house and causes hell, and this other detective removes your statement from the case, in return for your dad not pressing charges against Mr White?'

‘That's right.'

‘Who was this other detective?'

‘Him,' she said, pointing at the photo in the newspaper. Leading Dominic into court was, according to the caption underneath, Detective Inspector Ian Braithwaite.

‘I wonder if Barbara knows about this,' I said, almost to myself.

‘Who's Barbara?'

‘Barbara White. Stephanie's mother.'

Robyn shrugged. ‘What do you know about it? Are you working with the firm who's getting him out?'

‘No. I'm…' I decided not to tell her. ‘Listen, Robyn, would you come with me to meet Barbara White and tell her what you've told me?'

‘Why?' She frowned.

‘To find out if she knows already, but if she doesn't, she definitely should.'

‘I don't know.' She squirmed.

‘Please, Robyn. It could be important.'

‘If you think so, then I guess I could. I'd rather not though. Is there something you're not telling me?' she asked, a look of suspicion on her face.

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive.'

I don't think I convinced her.

‘Hmm. Well, anyway, I'd better be going. I've got some trousers to take up.' She stood up to leave.

‘Robyn, this man you saw with Stephanie on the day she disappeared, was it Dominic Griffiths? I mean, was he the same height and build?'

She paused for a moment in contemplation. ‘Looking at that photo of him on the front of the paper and the picture I have in my head of the bloke talking to Stephanie, I'd say it was the same person. I'll see you later.'

Robyn left the flat, closing the door firmly behind her.

I looked back to the newspaper. So, an eyewitness saw a man matching Dominic's description at the scene. My theory that the wrong man had been convicted seemed to be going up in flames.

The only defence left for Dominic seemed to be that the balance of his mind was disturbed from taking a high dose of a now banned drug. However, that left me with a moral dilemma. Should someone be released from prison, for a crime they committed, just on a technicality?

I knew my answer. I just didn't want to admit it.