Chapter 1: Free Again

The wicket-gate banged closed behind me and there was a loud report as the bolt slammed home. I turned and looked up at the high walls and large wooden gates that I had been incarcerated behind for the last five years.

'Okay, man, just what are you going to do now?' I thought to myself. Revenge on someone was in the front of my mind. I didn't know exactly on whom, but at the same time I would need to be careful. Seven years at Her Majesty's Pleasure was enough for me.

Slowly I began to walk down the short approach road to the prison. A small group of people waiting at the bus stop on the other side of the main road were watching me. They were probably on their way to work and I should imagine they had all seen me being let out; I suppose they must watch prisoners getting released most mornings.

As I got to the end of the approach road, I noticed what I took to be a small group of reporters, off to my right, who were just beginning to make their way in my general direction. Damn, the bastards had been pestering me for years whilst I was inside and now they were waiting to ambush me outside the joint.

Suddenly a car appeared beside me, the door swung open and a familiar face climbed out of it. "Your car, Mr Carpenter," the man said handing me the keys.

"I'd say you could do with getting out of here a bit snappy like," the man said, gesturing in the direction of the approaching reporters with his eyes. "There's £500 cash in the glove box, with a mobile phone and your luggage in the boot. Ronny's waiting at the cottage; he asked if you'd please give him a ring if you decide to spend the night elsewhere."

"Cheers, Ralph!" I said sliding into the driver's seat.

There was no time to adjust the damn thing. I took off as quickly as I legally could. I wanted away from those damned reporters, but I had no intention of upsetting the local constabulary.

Swinging out onto the main road, I headed west away from the city, varying my speed after I got out onto the motorway to check whether I was being followed. It didn't take me long to spot the car, a little white one with a single occupant.

"Damned reporters," I said to myself out-loud as I turned into a motorway service area. This one I intended to scare the shit out of and tell them where to get off.

I pulled into an empty area of the car park and waited for the trailing car to follow me in; surprisingly it stopped quite close to me. Then I got out and walked over to it. As I got nearer to it, I was even more surprised to discover that there was a woman in the driving seat.

"Now look here, lady, I've got nothing to say to any bleeding reporters. You bleeding bastards tried to hang, draw and quarter me. What gives any of you the idea that I'd want to speak to you now? Just piss-off and leave me well alone."

The woman sat there with a curiously neutral expression on her face all during the little tirade that I'd delivered in just about the angriest sounding tone of voice I could muster. Then I turned and walked — sorry, stomped - away from her car towards the cafeteria. Look, I was a convicted murderer; I was trying to look the part to frighten her off.

But apparently she didn't frighten that easily. I'd just sat down with my cup of coffee when she slipped into the seat opposite me.

"Mr Carpenter, first I need to tell you that I'm not a reporter. Secondly I think I can help you and I really need you to help me. Will you please listen to what I have to say?"

I looked at her closely. Oh, the look was meant to worry her somewhat. But the look I got back told me she wasn't in the least bit intimidated or afraid of me.

I'd say she was about thirty-five, with just about everything of the right proportions and in all the right places, if you know what I mean. Come on, I'd been in the bleeding slammer for seven years; I was going to notice that kind of thing.

"Okay, shoot, let's have your spiel and then you can leave me alone, all right?" I said after trying to stare her out, failing miserably.

She nodded as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a little folder, just like some of the coppers keep their ID in.

'Shit, she isn't a bleeding copper, is she?' I thought to myself.

With a deft flick of the wrist, she opened the little folder. Helen Caffrey, British & International Mutual Insurance it said on the card, alongside an extremely unflattering photograph of her.

"You're wasting your time with me, girl. I've got nothing left to insure. What my missus didn't take in the divorce, she's had in child support and alimony."

"No, Mr Carpenter, I don't sell insurance. Technically I'm a loss adjuster."

"So? I haven't lost anything that I was insured against. You know there aren't many people who think to insure themselves against false accusations of murder."

"You did plead guilty, Mr Carpenter!"

"I didn't have much choice on that one, lady. Those bleeding coppers had me stitched up like a turkey at Christmas. They'd planted so much evidence that, if my mother had been on the bloody jury, she'd have convicted me. No, with the way those arseholes had me stitched-up, if I'd kept pleading innocent, the bastards would have me locked up forever. It's all to do with repenting your sins or some such f-ing crap like that."

"So are you now saying that you were framed and didn't kill Mary Simmons?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm on parole, you know. Yeah, maybe you do know that. Have you been sent to try and stitch me up as well?"

"Mr Carpenter, look, my name's Helen. May I call you John?"

"Call me what you like. It doesn't change anything."

"John, have you got time to listen to a story?"

"Go on then, young lady, I'm listening. For the moment!"

"John, my father was a loss adjuster and he taught me the business. Do you know what loss adjusters actually do?"

"Yeah, they come to look at the damage when you make a claim and then try to wriggle the insurance company out of paying out on it."

"Well, I suppose it could look that way from some peoples' perspective. But really my job is to make sure that the claim is genuine and people aren't trying to rip off the company."

"That's what I said, didn't I? The companies figure every claim is somebody on the fiddle and it's your job to prove them right."

"I somehow don't think we're going to find any common ground on that," Helen finally said.

"You've got that one right, girl." Helen gave me a frown. I was quite pleased with myself; I'd found her Achille's heel. She didn't like being called "girl"; quite a lot of women don't like that.

"John, some of us are specialists. We investigate claims that look suspicious or inflated. That's what our real job is."

"So what do you want with me. I ain't made any claims."

"The company my father and I work for carried a life insurance policy on Mary Simmons."

"Hey, what? And you think you can get the money back from me, because I've been convicted of killing her. Well, you're out of luck on that one, baby. My missis made a pretty good job of cleaning me out."

"John, please be serious for a minute and listen to what I've got to say, will you? It's important."

"Okay, shoot, girl. I won't interrupt again."

"William Simmons took out a massive insurance policy on his wife six months before she was murdered. Although he'd taken out a similar policy on himself as well, my dad was still suspicious about it for some reason. The company had to pay out when you were convicted of Mary's murder, but my father wouldn't leave it alone. William Simmons cancelled his own policy just a few months after his wife was murdered and my father didn't like that either."

"Well, Mary Simmons was a rich woman. When he got his hands on her money, I should imagine insurance was the last thing Bill Simmons was worried about."

"You knew the Simmons well?"

"Not really, only through business. We handled some of Mary's company recruitment. Not much, because she was a good boss and the staff turnover was minimal."

"Look, John, my father always suspected that something was not right about what happened to Mary Simmons and you. Even after you changed your plea to guilty, he still wasn't convinced."

"What about you? Did you think I stabbed Mary Simmons in that hotel room?"

"Well, to be honest with you, yes, at the time I did. But..." Helen suddenly stopped talking.

"But what?"

"But my father wouldn't let it go. John, have you ever seen Columbo on television?"