4. Prison Chaplain Zoe Carter

THE ACCUSED

The Reverend Zoe Carter was troubled.

The fact is, she was absolutely certain that a few of the inmates she spoke to in the ladies wing of Brimpton Gaol were, if not spotless in themselves, innocent of the crime they were alleged to have committed. She knew that, despite the proclaimed excellence of the judicial system there were occasional errors and with a few politicians suggesting a return to capital punishment she was convinced in her mind that the long trail of legal executions in the past, in which the innocent had been hanged, would be added to if there was any return to such draconian retribution in the from of executions. Or legalised murder, as she put it.

There is only one ultimate judge, she told anyone caring to listen to her.

And they knew what she meant.

But any question of the hangman and his noose was irrelevant for the moment. Yet the fact that men or women could be locked away for any portion of their lives when they were guilty of nothing troubled her, largely because it was acknowledged that Brumpton Prison, like all other prisons, was in some way a means of educating its inmates into more antisocial activities on their release into the big wide world. Prisons, she was convinced, saw the birth of crimes that the criminal involved hardly contemplated before his time behind bars for a relatively minor crime, and his mixing with some even less desirable than him or her.

And there was the detective Inspector, Rosie Baur. Her husband had been killed in a car chase or something like that, but when she had discussed it after the funeral she could detect no need for revenge in the widow, just two children to bring up whilst holding down a responsible job. So that very fact suggested to her that they might be witnessing a miscarriage of justice in its more embryonic state.

“I need to see Adam,” she told herself.

Adam Butler was the main assistant to Doctor Greaves, the pathologist who dealt with both civil and legal cases. The man himself would be no use to her, he kept his lips firmly closed when it came to his work for the police force, but Adam was a different kettle of fish and she rather liked him. He was younger than Greaves and yet seemed to be a repository for a great deal of wisdom.

And he would tell her if there was anything at all odd about the death of Mary Griffin. He often dealt with police cases, but not this one. He had assisted Dr Greaves and in such a position had been responsible for focussing his camera where the doctor wanted it focussing.

A simple phone call made sure that Adam would happily meet her in one of the local pubs, for a drink, she said, for old time’s sake. But he was no fool and was fully aware the she wanted information from him, information that he could either refuse to offer or talk about freely.

The pub, The Star, was hardly any distance at all from the prison, so she knew she had to be careful what she said and how loud her often stentorian pulpit voice might be. Quite a few prison officers from the Men’s wing as well as a spattering of women officers used it for winding down after a day’s often far from pleasant duties.

“Well, Adam,” she said. Smiling broadly when she saw him, “I thought it was about time we had a reunion.”

“You mean there’s something that’s troubling you, and let’s be honest, that’s why you wanted to see me. Sit down and I’ll get myself a pint before I take the bus home. And you?”

“I’m driving,” she sighed, “and there’s nothing half the police force wouldn’t give as an excuse for breathalysing me. Make it a half.”

They sat down in a corner, even though it was too early for the pub to be particularly bus.

“Well let me guess,” he said, “you’ve got that police detective in your mind, the one who’s supposed to have knifed a woman who broke into her caravan.”

“You’re bright as ever, Adam, “she murmured quietly. “You probably helped old Greaves. Was there anything you thought might be inconsistent with the police charges?”

“Well, I took a look inside her caravan and about half the detective’s cutlery was in there,” he began equally quietly, “which makes the supposition that she’d taken it with her from her kitchen seem unprovable. In fact, improbable seeing as if you discount the so-called murder weapon there were three spoons, three forks and two knives, all neatly in her cutlery drawer together with a few other kitchen implements stored separately, as least two of them a great deal sharper.”

“That’s interesting,” murmured Zoe.

“And the wound. It wasn’t just a stabbing but had dust and particles of stone in it,” he said. “If you take that evidence at its face value the truth would appear to agree with Detective Baur’s version of events. And the caravan door had been forced open but had the detective opened it she would almost certainly have used a key.”

“So why are they prosecuting her?” asked Zoe.

“Now don’t tell anyone I said this, but I know for a fact that the superintendent’s orientation, shall we say, is disguised by what amounts to a marriage of convenience.”

“Really? I half suspected, but I don’t see why he has to keep it a secret. Not in this more liberal age.”

“And there’s more. A year or two ago a good friend of mine, after training for the police force, was turned down by Superintendent Knott for a place at Brumpton nick. The lad came out top in his group and is as bright as a button, but Knott wouldn’t have him, and we all reckon it was because he was black. Good at everything, likely to make the local force shine all the brighter, but not suitable for Knott and his force.”

“And Rosie Baur is of mixed race, a shade more black that white, too. So you think there’s that old fashioned prejudice at play, as well?”

“A woman who he’s convinced must be inferior because of the colour of her skin. That’s what it seems to be to me. Now look, Zoe, we never had this conversation.”

“If I was Roman I’d call it a confession and keep it to myself.”

“But you’re not,” murmured Adam!” .

“Then I’ll just keep it to myself” she grinned. “Come on if you drink up I’ll drop you off at your place.”

He grinned back at her. “You’re on,” he said.”

© Peter Rogerson 17.04 21

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