The main picture is a candid shot of a man in a dark raincoat, caught in profile on the street, looking over his shoulderas if talking to someone behind him. A man who’d come to my door yesterday, telling me his name was retired Detective Gordon Webber. In the image he’s younger, his beard still fully black. But it’s definitely him. There are five words handwritten in pen, blocky black capitals at the top of the photocopied page.
THIS IS WHY HE QUIT
Below it, the text of a story that takes up most of the front page and runs onto the second sheet of A4 behind it. I read further, a sick dread curdling in my stomach. It outlines the sensational collapse earlier that year of the trial of Janusz Makowski, a 33-year-old laborer who had been wrongly accused of the 2001 murder of Edward John Stiles. Makowski had been cleared of all charges after a judge halted the trial over concerns about police conduct.
A subsequent case review by a team from a neighboring force, Leicestershire Police, uncovered “significant violations of procedure” related to the handling of evidence, tampering with key prosecution exhibits, and coercion of witnesses involved in the case. I read on to the bottom of the article, which outlines the findings of a hearing that had looked into every aspect of the trial that had collapsed.
Just like the scribbled words said: former Detective Gordon Webber had left out something rather important from our conversation yesterday.
He had been demoted for misconduct and quit the force not long after.
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The headline sums it up:MURDER COPS RAPPED AFTER CASE PROBE.
Reading between the lines, it seemed fairly clear that Webber had been doing absolutely everything he could to get a conviction, even if it meant trying to frame an innocent man. But the judge had seen through it and halted the case, triggering Webber’s suspension and an internal investigation. The resulting firestorm of blame had ended the careers of three senior officers, and seen four others disciplined, demoted, and kicked off the murder squad—including Webber.
His career had crashed to earth in public disgrace.
Webber, of Stapleford, Notts, was described as “falling far below the standards of professional behavior expected of a serving officer” by the chair of the misconduct hearing.
So my first instincts had been right about him, after all: he had lied to me. I hear my wife’s voice, almost as if she’s whispering in my ear.I don’t think you should trust him. I don’t think you should trust anyone.
How he had managed to return to a civilian investigator role years later was anyone’s guess. Perhaps the police were so desperate for experienced staff that the bar had been loweredto allow it. I google Janusz Makowski and find a small piece a year later about a compensation payout he had received after his wrongful arrest and detention on remand for almost a year before the trial that had collapsed. And then—nothing. No hits on Google after 2009 that relate to the same man. I guessed he might have changed his name. I probably would have done the same, in his shoes.
As to who was trying to warn me off the ex-detective, I didn’t have a clue.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call from Maxine. She looks different on the little screen: older, more businesslike.
“Finally,” I say. “I’ve been leaving messages, trying to get hold of you.”
“Been busy,” she says breathlessly. “Following up leads. That’s why I need to talk to you.”
“Did you send me the note?”
She frowns. “What note? What are you talking about?”
“This.” I lay the pages flat on the kitchen table and point the phone at it, give her a brief description of the contents. “Someone hand-delivered it to my house this morning.”
“Not me.”
“Do you know Webber?”
Something passes across her face, then it’s gone.
“Forget about that for a minute. I’ve found something you need to see.”
“Can you show me?”
“The quality’s not good enough to look at on a small screen. You need to see the original—up close.”
We meet back at Stapley’s Tea Room, off Market Square, in the middle of the city. Maxine is already there at an upstairs table when I arrive, sitting with her back to the wall, coffees ordered for both of us.
She’s on her own today.
“Good to see you.” I give her a quick update on Webber’s theory. “What have you got?”
“Charlie’s been busy digging up what he can find on Peter Flack. From what we’ve gathered so far he studied at Trent High School, started work at eighteen, bounced around a few different jobs before an apprenticeship as a joiner. Ended up working for one of the biggest companies in the city, at their national head office.”
