The Scapegoat: One Murder. Two Victims. 27 Years Lost.. Don Hale

was summoned to attend an appeal eight months after the trial but was never called as a witness. He wanted to talk about the bloodstaining. He’s now retired, but every time I see him he maintains that Stephen didn’t have enough bloodstaining on him to have committed the attack.’

      Ray was still excited. He was sweating and slightly breathless. He eventually paused as I queried, ‘How come you have Stephen’s clothes?’

      ‘They told me to take him down a change of clothes to the police station, and then they sent these off for testing. They gave us back the watch and the jewellery on the same night as the attack,’ Ray said.

      ‘The clothes came back later. It’s obvious there’s not enough blood on them, though.’

      It was beginning to get dark and, as I had now spent several hours with the Downings, I decided to make a move, but Ray motioned me to sit back down. ‘I’ve a lot more to show you. I’ve got more files and notes. You’ll need to see them all,’ he pleaded.

I had to take an urgent step back. It had been quite an afternoon. The Downing family had made this a personal crusade for the past 20-odd years, but I didn’t want to be drawn in or build up their hopes before I got my bearings.

      I politely declined Ray’s offer. I told the pair I had to get back to work. I wanted to spend some time going through the files so that I could examine their claims in more detail. I decided I would make an early start the next day, and cancelled my weekend engagements.

      For a split second I felt complete panic. Ray’s papers were piled high next to my desk, and I wondered, What if the cleaner has arrived early and dumped them, not realising their importance?

      When I returned to the office, the pile was thankfully still intact. I phoned Ray to arrange another meeting. He suggested I should go the day after next, as Stephen was due to ring from prison. He thought it would be good to speak to him directly.

      By then everyone else had left the office. I had my coat on ready to follow them, my hand on the door handle to leave, when suddenly the phone rang. After such a busy day I was in two minds whether to answer it, but I reluctantly picked up in the end.

      ‘Good evening, Matlock Mercury. Don Hale. Can I help you?’

      There was complete silence.

      I asked again, ‘Hello, hello? Matlock Mercury.’ Still silence, although I had the impression someone was listening at the other end. I thought I could hear someone breathing, and a slight background noise.

      Then a mature man’s husky voice shouted angrily, ‘Keep your fucking nose out of the Downing case if you know what’s good for you! Do you get my meaning?’

      Before I had the chance to answer, he slammed down the phone.

CHAPTER 3

       What Ray Saw

      I returned to the Downing household a day or two later. I decided not to mention my anonymous caller. I thought he was probably a local crank who had spotted me on the estate and just wanted to rattle my cage. Besides, there was a more important phone call at hand.

      Nita put the kettle on and within a few minutes she had a piping-hot cup of tea ready. Stephen was going to phone from prison but would only have a few minutes to chat. The couple said all his calls were monitored and restricted to a few short minutes via a special phone card during breaks from work.

      I knew very little about their son, other than what I had read in those dusty old cuttings and from listening to Ray and Nita’s descriptions of him. I asked Nita, ‘Had Stephen been working long as a gardener for the council?’

      ‘No, no,’ she replied with a knowing smile. ‘He’d only been there for about seven weeks. He liked it, though. They’d shown him how to keep the hedges tidy, prune the trees, mow the lawns, keep the graves tidy, that kind of thing.

      ‘Although he was left to his own devices, other workmen regularly visited him and Stephen would help them out. To be honest, though, he didn’t seem able to stay in any kind of job for very long.’

As they spoke, I tried to imagine a young, immature Stephen Downing – a boy in many ways – convicted of brutally killing a married woman nearly twice his age at his place of work.

      It seemed clear that he was not as bright as many other children of a similar age, and to me it seemed his struggle to cope with life continued into his teens and early working career.

      Ray said Stephen loved model-making, needlework and cooking. Nita added that sometimes he would take over the kitchen to make everyone a meal, and he enjoyed baking. It appeared however, that Stephen had little in common with other teenage lads, and to many people he was considered odd and a loner.

      As we chatted, I was startled out of my thoughts by the loud ringing of the telephone from the adjoining room. Nita rushed through and picked up the receiver, while Ray and I trailed after her.

      She quickly passed the phone to Ray, who explained that I was there with them and wanted a quick chat. He then thrust the receiver into my chest.

      Stephen sounded much younger on the phone than I had imagined. He was quite friendly but nervous, as he had never spoken with a journalist before. Initially he was slightly excitable, speaking at thirteen to the dozen, and it seemed he wanted to tell me his life story in one go, probably due to the limited time restrictions for a prison call. He seemed keen to accept my help and was almost emotional as he thanked me for my interest.

      I told him I would appreciate as much help as possible from him and asked him to send me his personal account from the day of the attack. His parents seemed elated that after all those years someone had finally agreed to look into the case.

      After the call, we sat back down in the kitchen, where Ray agreed to share his own recollections from the day of the attack. He grabbed another cup of tea and began.

‘It was bitter cold that morning, that I do remember. I had woken early – about 5.30 a.m. I was a bus driver in those days for Hulleys of Baslow. I had the early morning route that day. I remember pulling back the curtains and being surprised to see a heavy frost.

      ‘I had a wash and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. Nita had come down by then.’ He looked across to his wife for support. She must have heard the story many times before. ‘You asked Stephen if he was going in to work, didn’t you, Nita?’ he said.

      ‘Yes, there was a sleepy response, if I remember correctly,’ Nita admitted. ‘Stephen just couldn’t get up in the morning. He had been off work on Monday and Tuesday with a heavy cold. I doubted whether he would make it to work that day.’

      Ray continued, ‘I knew Nita would wake him early enough, but she couldn’t be behind him all the time. She also had to look after Christine. That day was important, because it was her first day back after the summer term. Christine wanted to be early, so Stephen had to fend for himself.

      ‘He seemed okay the night before, and said he wanted to go back. I asked Nita before I left if she thought he’d be fit for work. She wasn’t sure, but said she had his sandwiches ready if he decided to go in.’

      ‘So, did Stephen get off to work on time?’ I asked.

      Nita was grinning, ‘He was at the very last minute as usual. I called him at 7.20, and told him that Ray had been gone for ages and Christine was checking her school stuff. Even though we only lived a few minutes from his work, he was often still late.

      ‘In fact, he was in such a rush that day that he put on the wrong boots. They were probably the first pair he could find in the half-light, but they were his best blue dress boots.

‘He only realised this on his way in to work, and panicked, thinking his dad would shout at him. In any case, he changed them when he came home at lunchtime.’

      ‘Anyway,’