Page 125 of Maybe Tomorrow

Freya was so exhilarated she didn’t pick up on the friction between them.

‘I’ve had a visit from Dr Caspian Tandy earlier. He’s been checking the semen stains on Alice Patterson’s underpants since… well, it seems like since the dawn of time. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he’s got a match. Whoever it is isn’t on the National DNA Database, but the semen does not belong to Anthony Winstanley. He’s in the clear, Jennifer. We can get Anthony out now.’

Jennifer tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘What?’ she eventually said.

‘This is what we’ve been waiting for. Proof. Definite, unequivocal proof that Anthony is innocent. No more waiting for the CPS to order a retrial.’

‘I can’t believe it!’ Jennifer was bursting with excitement. ‘So, do we know who the real killer is, then?’

‘No,’ Freya said. ‘He’s obviously not a serial rapist or serial criminal, or we’d have his DNA on file. We may never find out, but the main thing for now is that Anthony Winstanley can come out of prison. I’ve asked Caspian to write up a report. He’s going to do that tonight and send it over first thing in the morning. I’m guessing you can set the wheels in motion to get Anthony pardoned?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I can. This is wonderful,’ Jennifer said, suppressing a grin. She glanced across at Malcolm. He had one arm on the mantlepiece.

‘I know. I really want to tell Pauline, but I think we should wait until we see Caspian’s report.’

‘Yes. Definitely wait until it’s all in black and white.’

‘I never thought this day would come. I’m so happy.’

Freya lunged forward and hugged Jennifer tight. Jennifer looked over Freya’s shoulder into her husband’s eyes. She mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, but he turned away.

ChapterFifty-Six

Wednesday 13th July 1994

Time spent in prison: ten years, one month

When Anthony was first sent to prison on remand, he wore size forty-two-inch trousers. Now, ten years later, his waist measured thirty inches. His weight loss wasn’t down to regular exercise and a fitness regime, it was due to stress and anxiety about another beating, the constant reminder something may have been put in his food to kill him or make him sick. He picked at his meals, cutting open sausages to make sure glass hadn’t been placed inside, smashing a jacket potato, looking for pieces of razor blade, and he refused to eat anything with a sauce, fearing someone had spat in it, or worse. The weight had dropped from him and, on someone well over six foot tall, it wasn’t a good look.

Since news of his release was announced, and the whole world knew he was innocent, the prison staff couldn’t do enough for him. He was moved from the segregated wing to more comfortable surroundings and spent the following week in a suite occasionally used by staff. One of the nicer prison officers, Bill, measured him and contacted his mother to give her his new clothing sizes. She went out and bought what she thought he’d like, and sent them in. She wanted him to step back out into the world feeling good.

The food had improved dramatically, too. He was even treated to a takeaway pizza and joined a few of the officers one night when they sent out for McDonalds. After a decade of over-analysing every morsel of food, he struggled to accept their kindness. When he was told to help himself to a wrapped burger, he knew none of them had been tampered with, but he was still reluctant. Self-preservation was ingrained in him. Bill tried to reassure him, but regaining trust and adjusting to feeling safe would take time.

On the morning of his release, he’d been too excited and anxious to eat any breakfast, but he’d been told it was going to be a long day so would need something to give him energy. He was left alone in the staff canteen and made himself a few rounds of toast, coating them with jam and peanut butter. Along with a mug of tea, it tasted good.

At seven o’clock, the door opened, and Bill stood in the doorway with a big smile on his face.

‘It’s time to go, Anthony,’ he said. He held a carrier bag in his hand containing Anthony’s belongings, a few clothes and books, a couple of home comforts his mother had brought in for him.

Anthony looked up. His bottom lip wobbled.

‘I’m scared,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Of what?’ Bill asked, coming fully into the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Your mum and Leo are outside waiting for you. Your solicitor is there, too. They’re all good people waiting for you.’

‘I’m scared of what’s going to happen?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, and I ended up in here,’ he said, struggling to hold back the tears. ‘People said horrible things about me. Everybody thought I was a killer. Nobody believed me when I said I hadn’t done it. What if it happens again?’

Bill pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Anthony, what happened to you shouldn’t have happened. It was shocking. But a lot has changed over the past ten years. There are new rules in place now to make sure it doesn’t happen again, to you, or anyone else. The police can’t treat you how they once did anymore.’

‘People are going to be looking at me, aren’t they? I’ve seen what’s been written about me in the newspapers. They think I’m weird.’

‘It doesn’t matter what people think, Anthony. The only people who matter are your family and friends. They’ll look after you. Now, come on. You don’t want to stay in here for the rest of your life, do you?’ he said with a smile.

Anthony didn’t say anything. He remained seated, a frightened look on his face, his eyes wide and staring, a heavy frown on his brow. He really didn’t want to go anywhere.