She realized that she’d been indiscreet and they walked on through the jostling, curious women in silence.
The chaplain was small. She wore a white nylon roll neck sweater, under a brightly coloured cardigan, to represent the dog collar, and red cord trousers. She made Vera tea.
“That’s all some of them come for,” she said. “lea in a china cup and biscuits. I don’t mind. It doesn’t seem a lot to ask occasionally, does it?”
“What did Jeanie Long come for?”
“She said it was for some intelligent conversation and a break from the noise on the wing.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Perhaps. And rather arrogant. I didn’t find her an easy person to like, Inspector. She believed she was different from the other women. She wasn’t prepared to give them a chance.”
“She was innocent,” Vera said, trying to contain her anger. “That made her different. How often did you see her?”
“Once a week, on Friday mornings. The governor asked me to talk to her when I first arrived here. He said she was having a hard time. She wasn’t getting on with her named officer. We fell into the habit of weekly meetings. I’m not sure what she really got out of them.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Not religion,” the chaplain said quickly. “She made it clear from the beginning that that was a no-go area. “My mother believed in all that crap and look what it did for her.” She was always on her guard against anything which might seduce her away from the fight. As if she had to stay angry to keep faith with herself. “It would be so easy to give in,” she said once. “To let it go.” The only times I ever did see her let it go was when she talked about music. She became a different person then, gentler and more relaxed.”
“Did you discuss the Mantel case?”
“She did certainly. At every opportunity. I was uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to encourage false hopes. The case went to appeal once, soon after she was sentenced, but it was thrown out. There was no new evidence. I couldn’t see that it would ever be reopened. And of course all my training and belief, and the ethos of the prison, is about acceptance of wrongdoing. That has to come before the possibility of rehabilitation.”
“You believed she killed the girl, then?” Vera thought this was a load of sanctimonious nonsense.
“I’m naive. I didn’t think the court could get it that wrong. I thought perhaps she’d convinced herself that she was innocent because she couldn’t face the horror of what she’d done. And I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she was very manipulative, that I was being conned.”
“Did she take any practical steps to clear her name?”
“I think she did in the beginning. She wrote letters to the newspapers, and anyone else she could think of, protesting her innocence. Though soon she wasn’t news any more and the press lost interest, until The Guardian picked up on the ten year anniversary of the trial. Soon after her conviction her mother took out an advert in one of the London papers with a photo, asking anyone who’d seen Jeanie on the day the girl was killed to come forward. Then her mother died, and I suppose she gave up hope. All she could do was to go over and over the facts.”
And that’s what she did at your meetings?”
“For much of the time. I didn’t think it was healthy, repeating the same stories, week after week. She said she had to remember. Everyone else would forget what had happened. Some day, she said, she might have to stand up in court and give her version of events again. She’d need to know what to say.”
“Can you remember what she told you?”
“Oh, I think so,” the chaplain said. “I heard it often enough.” She turned slightly in her chair, so she wasn’t looking directly at Vera. Outside there was a brief commotion, raised voices, the shout of an officer, but she took no notice. “Jeanie was passionate about music. Ambitious. She wanted to make a career of it. Not teaching, she said. She’d never have managed that. She knew it would be tough to get into the profession, so at university she stayed focused, concentrated on her work. She went out with a couple of lads, but there was nothing serious. They’d have got in the way. Then she met Keith Mantel and she was in love. The way most kids are when they’re fifteen and fall for some pop star But Keith Mantel was real and available and he seemed to reciprocate her feelings.”
“What did she feel about Mantel when she was inside?”
“She said she had no regrets. That summer was the most wonderful time of her life. Remembering it was all that kept her going. I think she still had the fantasy that when her name was cleared they’d get back together’
“Did she talk about Abigail?”
i “Yes, and it was almost as if she blamed the girl for her own murder. I hated the way she spoke about her. She said the power Abigail had over her father was unnatural, strange. “If I was religious, I’d have said she was evil. I tried to understand her, but it’s hard to understand someone who’s that screwed up and self-obsessed. Of course, I could see how it had happened
her mother dying when she was young, her father spoiling her. But she’d turned into a monster and there’s no excuse for that.” She blamed Abigail, of course, for Keith’s decision to throw her out. I could tell that still hurt. She was still making excuses for it, trying to find an explanation which didn’t have her playing the role of spurned lover.”
“Did she describe the day of the murder?”
“Yes, and it was much as she told it in court. She phoned the Old Chapel early in the morning. There was only the answer machine. That didn’t mean Keith wasn’t in. She said he wouldn’t talk to her, that he knew if they spoke together he’d have to let her back. She was tempted to go to see him, but it was a weekend and she knew he wouldn’t be himself if Abigail was there. On a whim she decided to go away for the day. She drove to Hull and took the first train to London. She got a train back in the late afternoon. No one saw her or spoke to her. When she arrived back at her parents’ house she learned that Abigail was dead. She tried to phone Keith to offer her sympathy, but again there was no reply. Her parents persuaded her not to go to the house. Later she was told that he’d moved in with a friend so he could grieve in peace. Only a few days later she was arrested.”
“Did she have any theories about who had killed Abigail?”
“Usually she spoke vaguely about Abigail asking for trouble. The way she dressed and led men on. Posing and giggling and flirting. Some sad, sick old man, Jeanie said. I did wonder…”
“Yes?”
“I did wonder if Jeanie might have been talking about her father. If that was why she hated him so much. Not because he’d killed Abigail. She’d have forgiven him for that. But for letting her take the blame. For leaving her to rot in here. I didn’t believe that, though. Not for more than a moment. I thought she was guilty.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Vera arrived back at her hotel it was almost dinnertime and she was spoiling for a fight. From the prison she’d gone into Crill, into the police station, where the incident room had been set up. She’d expected to be treated as she was at home. Not quite as a female deity, but as someone whose word counted for something. It hadn’t been like that. Paul Holness had been there, lording it over the incident room, shouting his orders, handing out scraps of praise to his adoring team. He’d treated her requests first with a patronizing amusement then with downright hostility. She’d misjudged him. Holness might not be bright but he didn’t want her playing an active role in the Christopher Winter murder enquiry.