Page 48 of The Cut
The old Red Lion pub dated back to the late 1600s. It claimed to be one of the oldest inns along the Fosse Way, built long before the rest of the village had settled, and an infamous haunt of highwaymen. The Lion was named after Richard the Lionheart, who once travelled incognito along the war route on his crusade from Wales to Jerusalem, a myth the locals liked to cling to for tourists. At the back of the pub, in the beer garden, the fulcrum of a ducking stool, which had once reached out into the river, was remarkably well preserved. They hadn’t been so barbaric as to burn witches in Barton Mallet, they had just dunked them in the water and waited to see whether or not they would float. In 1665 the Malleus Maleficarum, the ‘Hammer of Witches’, fell on the unfortunate Mary Barton and so the village got its name.
The Barton Malleteers were acutely aware of strangers. No one ever visited the village by accident and they were a suspicious folk. It was hardly surprising, bearing in mind the tragedies that had befallen the place on more than one occasion.
The footage was deliberately grainy. The shot moved like a black-and-white silent film in flickering fast motion, crossing the road and plunging into the darkness of the inn. Max leant forward as the light adjusted to the dim saloon.
The Red Lion was all yellowing whitewashed lime plaster and black-painted beams. Ceilings so low you had to duck under to get to the roaring fire of the stone inglenook that spewed smoke190into the room. Everyone had their regular table and the hum of chatter and thwack of the balls on the pool table gave a cosiness to the whole place. In a small, partitioned annexe, two figures sat across a table in deep conversation. The discreetly positioned camera was propped up on the stone window ledge behind her, hidden in a collection of woven baskets of dried herbs. The shot was dirty, clipping her shoulder and the white-blonde hair cascading over it. Her head was facing the protagonist of this particular scene: The Bent Copper.
‘Throughout his incarceration, Patel has always maintained his innocence.’ Her voice was low and conspiratorial.
‘Not quite … he finally admitted his guilt in … When was it? 2010? He was tried as a minor, so initially he was only in a Young Offender unit. They were too soft on him … got his parole far too easily for my liking. They said he’d been rehabilitated, bloody ECHR lefty lawyers … good behaviour, my arse.’
‘What happened? Why was he re-arrested?’
‘He was tagged, broke a restraining order.’ PC Davis screwed up his lip. ‘I’d just come up the ranks, Dad was retired.’ A smile spread across his face. ‘He broke into private property and threatened the owner of the house.’
‘Benjamin Knot?’
‘Yes. We arrested Patel again and banged him up in maximum security. He finally got the sentence he deserved.’
‘Do you know why he targeted Mr Knot?’
Davis paused. ‘Well, obviously the two of them have history. But it was an unprovoked attack. If there was ever any doubt what kind of person Patel is, it vanished that day. Dave Patel is a psycho.’
‘Why do you personally think there was doubt over Patel’s guilt?’191
‘There wasn’t … there isn’t. His confession is now public record, signed and sealed. Condition of his final release.’ Davis sniffed and turned to glance across the crowded bar to the pool table.
‘But not all the evidence was heard at the trial, the DNA samples were not conclusive, the jury was divided.’
Davis’s lips tightened as he chewed down on his teeth.
‘If it had been an accident, Dave would have done the right thing and come forward immediately. Instead, he went home and cleaned himself up, tried to wash away the evidence, but they found traces of her blood on his trainers. My dad did his job thoroughly. The jury was not divided, just the media.’ Davis thumped his empty glass on to the table.
‘The murder weapon was never found?’
‘Rarely is. In any case we didn’t need it, the rest of the evidence was enough. Case closed.’ He clapped his hands together, then wiped them down his trousers as if he was cleaning the memory of Patel from his fingers in disgust. ‘Right. Want another half?’ He stood up out of his seat and stepped out into the saloon. The camera tried to adjust its focus. ‘My round, then I’m done.’ He had moved out of shot.
‘Just one more question.’ The sound dropped out momentarily as the hubbub of the rowdy bar began to rise. ‘Off the record.’
‘IPA, was it?’ The black frame burst into light again, revealing an empty stool, horse brasses pinned along the beam of the fireplace behind it.
‘Patel always claimed he was filming that night … he said that footage was kept out of the trial.’
There was a pause. The digital auto zoom buzzed in and out of focus on the flames in the fire, trying to find a face to recognise.
‘I wouldn’t know about that … but like I said, my dad didn’t leave a single stone unturned. His OBE says so.’192
The sound of laughter burst from the back room, and a man, just a tiny figure in the corner of the shot, moved towards the jukebox. Max’s hand shot out like a dart and froze the frame. He breathed in deeply and advanced the shot frame by frame as the figure slowly turned and stared over towards the nook and directly into the camera lens.
‘There you are …’ Max muttered to himself. ‘Long time no see.’
A shiver of electricity rippled down his spine as he set eyes on Ben Knot for the first time in thirty years. He zoomed in closer. God, he looked so different.
His phone buzzed as a message dropped into his inbox from Foxcatcher.
Did you review the Davis footage?
Max was still staring at the frozen image on the huge cinema screen. Maybe she hadn’t noticed him at the back of the bar in the midst of all the hustle and bustle. She’d been too focused on the copper. Max replied:
