Lost - A Cold Case

A short story of broken system.

A door slammed, heavy footsteps, clanking keys. Jack retreated to the far-right wall, eyes downcast. Keys in lock, door opened. The guard walked to the shelf and placed a tray onto it. He retrieved the latrine bucket, replaced it with a clean one, and walked out the cell door. Closed and locked the door. Jack waited for a count of one hundred.

He shuffled to the shelf and retrieved the tray. Three slices of dry bread and a bowl of slop. He smelt it – the smell of rotting vegetables entered his nostrils. He ignored it, took a slice of bread, and threw it into the corner. The rats would appreciate that he thought – rather that than them nibbling the soles of his feet and callouses on his hands.

Jack eased himself backwards onto the bed his back against the cold stone wall. His joints ached and the bones in his arse were so painful each movement sent shudders up his spine. He knew he had lost a lot of weight. 575 days! No day light, an hour break once a week outside, no visitors. The only person he saw day in, and day out was the guard. He stopped speaking to Jack when Jack remembered the rules. He still had the scars to prove this. He curtailed the memories. They would not help at all. He was tired of arguing with himself. Now all he thought of was warm food, a pint, laughter of his child and a decent pair of underpants.

One and a half years of this silence. Now wasn’t time to think, his mind had other ideas. The memories started slowly, his daughter’s face, Ellie would be three now. His mother’s laughter – she died, a cold letter from his sister. The loss of his job, his house, his wife, and daughter.
“Enough” he screamed silently.

The memories kept coming. His breathing increased. Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. He brushed them away furiously. The mocking eyes of his wife – her brutal words. “You are not enough for us!” A sob rose. He forced it down – reality appeared, and he rose from the bed. He held back the moan as his feet hit the ground. He shuffled to the shelf and poured water from the jug into his paper cup and took a few swallows.

Glancing around his cell his eyes rested on the only items he was allowed to keep – a Bible, a notebook, and a black crayon. The Bible he never read, the pieces of paper glued together held some scrawls. Writing with the crayon was difficult. What he enjoyed was drawing. He glanced at his drawing of his duaghter on the wall, put the paper cup down. That night sleep did not come. It was so cold icicles formed on the ceiling in the right-hand corner of the room. Winter was cruel. His cell being on the outside of the block. There was a leak in the roof where they formed. He remembered the punishment for asking it to be repaired. The guard shoved him so hard that he hit the floor and bounced. That day forever etched in his mind when he sat down.

The coarse heavy woollen blanket which had thinned through the years did nothing to stop the frigid wind creeping through the broken eaves making him ice cold. Even wrapping his feet in the sheet did not help; he learnt not to shiver, this would just make things worse. Just, wait for morning…. Which took hours to come. His thoughts went to his daughter’s face, her laugh, and her smell – some nights he could smell the soap and softener on her clothes.

He used to go to the sparse library. No more, he read every book they had. Every now and then he would go to the wood working area but the guards there would stand and mock everything he made. The little pram was tramped upon. That hurt. Each little item he made was still on the shelf. They wouldn’t let him bring his work into the cell.

The guard arrived, his heavy stomps heard. Same routine, same food, same shit. Today was exercise day. At midday, the guard fetched him, cuffed him, and walked him down to the four-by-four yard. Four walls of concrete, no roof. Jack was uncuffed and entered the area, thankful for a bit of sunshine. He stood in the corner where it was most warm. The sun warmed up his bitterly cold bones. A sigh escaped his mouth. When his bones warmed up, he started to shuffle. When his muscles eased, he was able to take decent footsteps.

Around and around, corner to corner he walked for three quarters of an hour. He kept his thoughts to a minimum and just enjoyed the pain and the sun. His breathing improved with each step the clean air entering his lungs. Soon it was over. The guard tapping on the rails with his baton.

“Times up Bastard” – he muttered through the rails.
“Get to it – I don’t have all day shithead!” – Jack walked up to the gate, eyes downcast waiting for it to open.
“Go on down to the showers – you stink like a rotten carcass.” He continued muttering. Cuffed him and shoved him in front of him.

At least the showers were warmer today Jack thought. Normally at this time they were ice cold. He washed himself noticing his ribs were more prominent. His hair had fallen out months ago, he left his beard and moustache. They were thinning by the day too. He rinsed himself, switched off the taps and walked to where the clean grey overall was. He dried himself with the scrap of a cloth that was supposedly a towel. Put on his thin underclothes, socks, and black shoes; and walked to the door and knocked.

“About time!” mocked the guard, he cuffed Jack – “not as if you have much to wash,” he laughed and locked the door.
Jack kept his eyes down; he didn’t even have the energy to grimace. He walked beside the guard to his cell, was uncuffed and he walked through the open door into the right-hand corner. The guard stood at the entrance of the cell.

“You will have a visitor tomorrow.” He smirked walking out the door, closing and locking it. Visitor, he thought trying to rack his brain for who will come to see him. For months he asked why there was a lack of a solicitor and always got the same reply “be patient.” His patience had run out once and he felt the baton on his back and legs. He was laid up in the med ward for weeks with a broken femur. He swore to keep his mouth shut.

After hours of nothingness floating around his head he slept. A deep sleep, no nightmares this time. He awoke to the piercing sound of the wake-up alarm. Rolled over, sat up ever so cautiously and placed his ice-cold feet on the ground. His feet finding his shoes. He stood and stretched, walked over to the shelf, and emptied the remains of the jug into the paper cup. At least it was not frozen today. Used the latrine. His thoughts returned to the visitor. 576 days in prison and a visitor today – he wondered who it could be.

Not long after the footsteps of the guard alerted him and he walked over to the right-hand corner and kept his eyes lowered. The guard opened the door and beckoned him over.
“Visitor has arrived, turn around. Do not try any sudden moves or my baton will find your legs!” Jack turned around holding his arms out backwards.
The guard cuffed him.
“You can turn around now shit face,” he guffawed.
“We’re going left.” He snapped.
Jack walked towards the door exited and turned left. Walked alongside the guard. His legs and feet ached today, he knew he could show no slowing or else the guard would bellow. They walked down the corridor to the fire-doors. The guard there stood up and unlocked the doors. They walked through towards the next set of fire-doors. Same sequence. Turned right, down two flights of stairs and left again.
They entered a single visitor room. He was taken to a chair and cuffed to the bars on a table.
“Wait here.” Muttered the guard.

Jack looked around the somber room. In front of the table were two other chairs. The tabled was butted up against the wall. No pictures, just a window with bars on. The door opened and in walked a young guy with a dark suit on. He walked over to the table.
“Good morning Mr. Whittecombe, I am John Casey duty solicitor from the Court in Fort William, appointed to represent you in your case.” He sat down and took out a folder from his briefcase.

Jack nodded not knowing what to say. 576 days after the arrested the Solicitor arrives! He felt really pissed off, settled back, and waits.

“May I call you Jack?” asks the solicitor.
“Sure, how do you do Mr Casey.” Replied Jack. “576 days incarcerated in this god-forsaken prison and you arrive today?” Jack says trying to stop the anger from rising.

John Casey sits quietly allowing a few minutes to pass.
“I was assigned your case two weeks ago Jack, been gathering information on the case. It has been quite difficult to locate the witnesses and your wife.” John shifted uncomfortably. “It appears that this case was misfiled, and it was retrieved when the cold cases were reviewed.” He was uncomfortable and sat further forward.

Jack nodded. Typical. Misfiled Case. He was not amused. His thoughts started unravelling. When the solicitor mentioned the case, he went absolutely cold. His heart pounded in his ears. His breath came in shallow gasps.

“I have not thought about my case in a year, waited for days, weeks, months for someone to come represent me. Was beaten because I kept enquiring for a solicitor, and now! NOW! Why? Misfiled! Am I nothing to the system!” Jack sobbed.

The solicitor drew a breath in, he felt so uncomfortable.
“Jack, I tried to come as soon as I could, there were delays.” John felt extremely uncomfortable now. He knew why there were delays, but this information was safely kept aside his head.
“Can I discuss with you what we have ascertained so far?”

Jack could not wipe the tears that were at the corner of his eyes. He hated showing his vulnerability. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and sniffed.

“Go ahead, you need not refresh my memory. I live that scene every day of my life. Do you know how hard it is to try clear your mind from that! Lying cold, shivering day in and day out on a thin mattress on a concrete bed!” he replied trying so hard not to lose it.

“I never killed Arthur!”

John paused before answering: “Jack, for what it is worth, please accept my apologies. Let me get straight to it.”

The solicitor went through the night that Jack was locked up. Jack listened but he knew what preceded the police presence. His mind went back to the day. Monday, 5^th of April 1970. He stood in his boss’s office receiving his notice. The bullshit about redundancies necessary as money was short, cost of goods, blah blah blah. Jack was the accountant for gods’ sake! He saw the figures, had numerous consultations with the very man, and yet he, he was the one being dismissed.

The anomalies were worrying but his boss dismissed them say they were necessities. Jack knew otherwise. His so-called overtime was to find the evidence. And he did. That put a huge wedge between him and his wife. Their relationship had diminished overnight. But the nail on the head – her boss was her father. He knew he had to tread very carefully.

His mind went back to the day he met Jenny. His eyes found hers over the heads of the other students in the university’s lecture hall. The bluest eyes he had ever seen. She kept the stare until he dropped his gaze. Almost daily they had some encounter. He watched her as she walked out of lectures, those long legs, her straight back and that beautiful curly black hair swishing on her back.

Yip he was into her. Months passed before he plucked up the courage to invite her for a coffee. She laughed that day when he asked saying she was getting impatient. They walked to the canteen in the university and sat for over an hour talking, their latte’s getting cold. Their relationship developed. They were both in their last year of uni. Hers was for a MA in Business Administration. Jack was proud of his achievements studying BAcc in Accounting and Finance.

The morning Jenny threw her ring at him and said, “You are not enough for us!” just broke him. Arthur arrived and asked him to leave. He phoned Heather and asked if he could stay a few weeks until he could arrange his own place. She reluctantly agreed. He continued working for Arthur, the relationship almost unbearable.

Then he found the anomaly. Arthur was losing money in heaps, but instead of being careful he started syphoning of profits and closing bank accounts. This was a red flag to Jack, and he increased his search. Bingo – one evening he saw the trail. It surprised him as Arthur was well-known in the car industry. The patterns of his careless attitude were seen on the balance sheet and Jack knew it would catch up on him and now it had.

That information he retrieved was on the Polaroid photographs, he had “borrowed” it from the Salesmen saying he wanted a photograph of his daughter in his wallet. He had them in the safe in the Royal Bank of Scotland in Glasgow. A bank his mom and dad used. He inherited the key to the safety box when they died.

“Jack, you are far away,” the solicitor shuffled papers. He saw the distant look in Jack’s eyes and could feel the memories flicking through.

“Where were you on the night of the 1st of May 1970?”

Jack took a breath: “As said before in my statement which I have memorised – I was unpacking boxes in my newly acquired apartment. And no, I had no visitors, but my neighbour has signed a statement saying he had greeted me on the stairwell when I exited to place the cardboard boxes in the container. He knocked on my door offering me a cup of tea later.”

“There was an hour missing between the time you went downstairs and the time you left it was six and a half minutes. What I need to find out is what happened to the rest of the time away from your apartment.”

Jack sat back. How could he explain the hit on the back of his head, being placed in a blacked-out van and driven a short distance. It happened so quickly. On coming too there were two guys dressed in all black wearing balaclavas – they just sat waiting for time to pass. The one guy received a phone call, silence, then started the car and drove away. He couldn’t see anything. Only the flashes of light passing over the van window. The next thing he was dropped back at the corner shop.

The next morning, after the incident with the guys in the balaclavas, he listened to the news on the TV – Arthur Smythe was found dead in his car in an abandoned warehouse that morning by a security company. That was a shock. Why? Who would want him dead?

“John, may I call you John?” Jack shifted in his chair. What he was about to say would stir the pot.

“Sure, not a problem,” John replied smiling.

“The thing is, I did not put everything into my statement. After I dropped the cardboard boxes into the bin, I walked over to the corner shop for a few items. On coming outI was knocked out, put into a black van, and driven a short distance. The two guys wearing black balaclavas and black outfits said nothing when I cam to after a few minutes. A call came through and they drove back to the corner shop and dropped me off. I walked back to my apartment holding my hankey to my head where the blood was pouring out This accounts for the 43 minutes of my time away.”

“It is the absolute truth,” Jack went on to explain that he had found someone was skimming from bank accounts and closing them. Arthur’s cheque book was the source. It made sense to believe it was him. At first it was not evident, but the balance sheet started showing anomalies. The money drawn did not tally up to any invoices or petty cash receipts.

Something clicked and he mentioned Jenny had been appointed as one of the directors and was putting the pressure on her dad to pay her dividends. Jenny had mentioned that she and her mother with Ellie were leaving to go live in France at one of their homes there. Whilst Jack was telling John this, the penny dropped. He went cold.

“I flipping don’t believe this!” Jack exclaimed. “The bloody bitch!” he shouted.
“Calm down Jack!” John turned his head and saw the guard entering the room.

“Is everything okay here?” asked the guard walking towards Jack.
“All is fine, Jack just remembered something,” John leaned back. The guard returned to his position outside.

“Jack, explain,” he asked taking his note pad out his briefcase and the pen from his jacket pocket. He needed to get this down.

The weight of the solicitor’s questions pressed down on Jack. Slowly the fog lifted, and he explained that it only became known after their marriage that Arthur adopted her when he married her mother. Her mother’s previous husband was down and out, worthless, and wanted nothing to do with Jenny. Arthur was extremely compassionate and promised he would take care of Jenny.

That too was when he saw her cruelty and ugliness. He had noticed the whispering with her mother, her absences at work and the pressure she was putting Arthur under for those shares. Arthur gave Jenny everything and Jenny took advantage of this. The pressure on her father, the sly insistence, the distances—this was not random. It was planned.

She wanted 51%. He remembered how Arthur panicked. And then he pieced it together—the timings, the torn-out cheque book stubbs, the patterns lining up. Arthur mentioned that his cheque book went missing and he had signed a few cheques as the salesmen always required money for cleaning products. It was Jenny, using her stepfather’s cheque book, she must have seen the signed blank cheques. His heart pounded as he connected the dots.

Jack leaned back. He took a deep breath. “It was all a setup. Every detail lining up with her. Every small gap… she exploited it.”

John wrote furiously, noting the revelation. “So, she framed you?”

“Yes. And now I have to show it. Those photographs, it’s everything I have.” Jack’s hands clenched. “I didn’t touch Arthur, but they made it look like I was the one who killed Arthur.”

John nodded slowly. “We can work with this. The evidence is strong, and your timeline matches. Now we just need to make sure the court sees it all clearly.”

Jack was shaking. “How was Arthur killed?”

John looked through the case notes. Turning pages he came to the right section. “He was gassed in his own car in a remote abandoned warehouse. They say it must have been pre planned. A phone call, address given. They don’t know how, but there was a handkerchief lying on the floor by his feet. They think it was chloroform. There was a faint smell still left on the handkerchief.”

Jack was mortified. Arthur wasn’t a horrible man. He was just thinking about his daughter when he asked him to leave the house and then later firing him.

“How was he discovered, it was a remote warehouse?” Jack fidgeted.

“A tip off. Saying you were seen running from the warehouse. They put the missing minutes “together” (using his hands to demonstrate) and nabbed you.”

Jack thought for a moment. Jenny must have truly hated him. He felt really sad. Jack let out a shaky breath. For the first time in 576 days, a sliver of hope cut through the despair. Perhaps this nightmare could end. He knew that there was a lot of work to do.

Perhaps justice—finally—could be his. He smiled and looked at John. His eyes were drawn to the gold pen John had been using to write the notes. He looked again; it was similar to the pen he had given to Arthur Smythe on the first Christmas they spent together. Cost him a bomb, a special, limited edition from Fraser’s on Buchanan Street. He had only ever seen two of them.

Jack’s mind went cold. He specifically asked for the pen to have a red stone placed below the clip. And there it was right in front of him. His hope vanished. He suddenly realised the solicitor wasn't there to help him.

He was there to find out what he knew

I do hope you enjoyed this short story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sorry for the long read. My fingers would not stop typing and my mind kept throwing words in my direction. The twist at the end was deliberate. You knever know when a short story could turn into a good book. 🌸