Capital Offence

Chapter 9

Jamie held out the letter to pass it around, then thought better of this, and continued to stare at it.

The green ink scrawl was tricky to decipher in places, making it hard to get the flow.

Jamie was trying hard to get a feel for the man who’d penned the note. He’d read salacious true-crime accounts in the past. He knew it was voyeurism of a kind he’d find hard to justify publicly, but he shared the fascination of an insight into the psychopathic mind. At least that was how he would justify his curiosity - the same way that thousands of other readers tried to kid themselves that they weren’t just sick and ghoulish. The way they tried to kid themselves that they weren’t testing their own reactions against the unthinkable. (Under what circumstances could I keep human heads in the fridge? Would it be worse if I’d boiled them up first?)

So he’d seen this kind of letter before, in books. But this one was chilling, for a number of reasons.

It was addressed to him personally, for starters.

There was something else. The spelling was accurate, although the note seemed just a stream of consciousness spilling across the page. But, given the circumstances... Who knew what pressures of time the man was under? Not to mention the crushing psychological burden. The man was on Death Row, for goodness sake.

Still something.

Jamie tried to get a feel for the man’s background. He had a nagging doubt that the note was more lucid than the literary style suggested. If the man was a drifter he’d certainly benefited from an education. And what was this ‘Life is a long dark tunnel’ thing?

“This guy, Pearson. Have you met him?” He looked in turn at his advisers.

Quentin Ricco smirked. “I’ve seen him. Behind bullet-proof glass. No way I’d want to be in the same room as that man. He’s a real evil sod. Looks totally normal, like an ordinary bloke, but you can tell he’s worried - shit - that guy’s sitting on the point of a knife.”

Jamie looked back at the letter, still searching for some insight.

Ricco continued, pleased to be centre stage. At least he’d been to the Bar-L, sniffing the cabbage-smelling air.

“He’s completely barking of course.”

The others looked at him quizzically.

“You should hear what he was saying a few weeks ago.”

The others looked up. Howe frowned - what was the little shit trying to pull this time? Howe cleared his throat, before addressing Ricco and the others in his customary low gravelly tone.

“There’s been nothing across my desk...”

“No,” broke in Ricco. “Nobody would take it seriously. If you ask me the guy’s schizophrenic. But we can’t say that officially, now the judge has ruled that he’s sane.”

Jamie was staring at the date on the letter. What the hell was that meant to mean? That was three months ahead. This is still only May! OK, the guy might have lost it, but August 14th? Why the fourteenth of August?

“It was really wild stuff. But I got it out of him - the Governor, the Heid Bummer at Barlinnie - Murdo McDonald. Remember that woman who kept phoning every time Jamie was on telly? She said he was sending out coded messages that only she could understand. Then she said she’d been secretly married to Jamie just before the election.”

Howe and Cammy frowned at Ricco. “Well?” prompted Cammy. 

Jamie was still wrestling with the date. What the hell was that meant to mean?

Ricco was enjoying the attention. “See the thing of it was - and he only told me ‘cos I’m with Jamie’s office - the thing of it was that this lowlife Pearson kept insisting that he knew Jamie, that Jamie would sort things out for him.”

His colleagues laughed - Cammy heartily, Howe more a chesty seen-it-all-before kind of rumble.

“No way they were going to let that kinda shit out - imagine what the papers would do with that story. They’d know it was bullshit, but that wouldn’t stop them digging up every old classmate that Jamie had ever gone for a pint with. Phee-ew! Anyway he’s changed his tune now. Says he made a mistake!”

Howe grimaced, and drew in his breath. A heavy-duty muck-raking session was the last thing they needed. Thank God the Prison Governor had had his wits about him. Russell pulled out a pocket book and started to make a note regarding possible advancement for McDonald at some suitable point in the not too distant future.

The men became aware that the scratching of Cameron’s pen was the only sound in the room.

They looked up at Jamie, who sat unmoved, still staring at the letter.

August 1984. August 14th 1984.The fourteenth of August 1984...

A long hot summer’s evening.

A night a guy might fancy a few beers to cool him down.

A night for a ride on your bike.

Jamie started to speak, then had to cough and start again.

“This guy Pearson...”

He paused, trying to sound casual. Cameron wondered if Jamie were perhaps feeling a little unwell. Or perhaps it was just the green-shaded light on the table beside Jamie, making him look a little paler than usual.

“Do we have a picture on file? Not the one that was in the papers.”

“Yeah,” responded Ricco, pulling a file out of his attache case. “Check out this mean bastard.” He pulled a small black and white ID photo out from the file, detaching it from the paperclip which held it to the corner of a charge sheet.

Jamie held his breath, trying to fight the moment of no return. He felt it rushing towards him, like the roaring wind from the open side door of a plane in flight. He braced himself against the cut-out in the fuselage, his knuckles white on the handles on either side of the drop. Ahead was a gut-wrenching plunge into space. Behind, he could feel the heat, could hear a greater roar, from the flames which were rapidly transforming his life to charred embers. A screaming noise forced itself into his consciousness. It could be within his head, but it might be connected with the increasing speed as the plane angled itself downwards, plummeting faster and faster towards the ground. Now his clothes were on fire - Christ, his parachute must be in flames. But the pain - death must be preferable - I can’t bear this - I’ve got to let go...

And Jamie plunged forward into space, smoke tracing his downward trajectory, as the wreckage of what he had left behind exploded in the still air in a fountain of sparks and debris, like...

...like...

                   ...like...

Dave looked older.

God almighty, over twenty five years older.

His face was haggard, worn with worry, his eyes reflecting back the dead flat light of a police station flashgun. His skin was lined, that sallow, leathery cigarette smoker’s face perfected by Keith Richards. Skin that had lost its will to live.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

The room was silent for a long time.

Howe coughed quietly.

Jamie looked up, his face ashen.

“What’s the timescale on this?” he demanded.

“Well as you know, we didn’t want to get into the American trap of endless appeal procedures drawing out the agony - completely inhuman for all concerned...” offered Cammy Russell.

“Well?”

Howe intervened. “Today’s the twenty ninth of May. Execution is scheduled for the twenty sixth of June, unless something totally unforeseen happens to prevent it. That’s exactly four weeks. The other avenues of appeal have been exhausted.”

Jamieson Maclean sat deep in thought. At last he spoke.

“I need to meet him.”