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‘He said he was covered in blood, as she was bleeding so much. He had to burn all his clothes afterwards, they were completely ruined. They were absolutely soaked in blood. You can talk to him. His name is Clyde Bateman. I used to work with him at Bakewell ambulance station. I was a senior ambulance driver and he was my boss.
‘He was summoned to attend an appeal eight months after the trial but was never called as a witness. He wanted to talk about the bloodstaining. He’s now retired, but every time I see him he maintains that Stephen didn’t have enough bloodstaining on him to have committed the attack.’
Ray was still excited. He was sweating and slightly breathless. He eventually paused as I queried, ‘How come you have Stephen’s clothes?’
‘They told me to take him down a change of clothes to the police station, and then they sent these off for testing. They gave us back the watch and the jewellery on the same night as the attack,’ Ray said.
‘The clothes came back later. It’s obvious there’s not enough blood on them, though.’
It was beginning to get dark and, as I had now spent several hours with the Downings, I decided to make a move, but Ray motioned me to sit back down. ‘I’ve a lot more to show you. I’ve got more files and notes. You’ll need to see them all,’ he pleaded.
I had to take an urgent step back. It had been quite an afternoon. The Downing family had made this a personal crusade for the past 20-odd years, but I didn’t want to be drawn in or build up their hopes before I got my bearings.
I politely declined Ray’s offer. I told the pair I had to get back to work. I wanted to spend some time going through the files so that I could examine their claims in more detail. I decided I would make an early start the next day, and cancelled my weekend engagements.
For a split second I felt complete panic. Ray’s papers were piled high next to my desk, and I wondered, What if the cleaner has arrived early and dumped them, not realising their importance?
When I returned to the office, the pile was thankfully still intact. I phoned Ray to arrange another meeting. He suggested I should go the day after next, as Stephen was due to ring from prison. He thought it would be good to speak to him directly.
By then everyone else had left the office. I had my coat on ready to follow them, my hand on the door handle to leave, when suddenly the phone rang. After such a busy day I was in two minds whether to answer it, but I reluctantly picked up in the end.
‘Good evening, Matlock Mercury. Don Hale. Can I help you?’
There was complete silence.
I asked again, ‘Hello, hello? Matlock Mercury.’ Still silence, although I had the impression someone was listening at the other end. I thought I could hear someone breathing, and a slight background noise.
Then a mature man’s husky voice shouted angrily, ‘Keep your fucking nose out of the Downing case if you know what’s good for you! Do you get my meaning?’
Before I had the chance to answer, he slammed down the phone.
CHAPTER 3
What Ray Saw (#litres_trial_promo)
I returned to the Downing household a day or two later. I decided not to mention my anonymous caller. I thought he was probably a local crank who had spotted me on the estate and just wanted to rattle my cage. Besides, there was a more important phone call at hand.
Nita put the kettle on and within a few minutes she had a piping-hot cup of tea ready. Stephen was going to phone from prison but would only have a few minutes to chat. The couple said all his calls were monitored and restricted to a few short minutes via a special phone card during breaks from work.
I knew very little about their son, other than what I had read in those dusty old cuttings and from listening to Ray and Nita’s descriptions of him. I asked Nita, ‘Had Stephen been working long as a gardener for the council?’
‘No, no,’ she replied with a knowing smile. ‘He’d only been there for about seven weeks. He liked it, though. They’d shown him how to keep the hedges tidy, prune the trees, mow the lawns, keep the graves tidy, that kind of thing.
‘Although he was left to his own devices, other workmen regularly visited him and Stephen would help them out. To be honest, though, he didn’t seem able to stay in any kind of job for very long.’
As they spoke, I tried to imagine a young, immature Stephen Downing – a boy in many ways – convicted of brutally killing a married woman nearly twice his age at his place of work.
It seemed clear that he was not as bright as many other children of a similar age, and to me it seemed his struggle to cope with life continued into his teens and early working career.
Ray said Stephen loved model-making, needlework and cooking. Nita added that sometimes he would take over the kitchen to make everyone a meal, and he enjoyed baking. It appeared however, that Stephen had little in common with other teenage lads, and to many people he was considered odd and a loner.
As we chatted, I was startled out of my thoughts by the loud ringing of the telephone from the adjoining room. Nita rushed through and picked up the receiver, while Ray and I trailed after her.
She quickly passed the phone to Ray, who explained that I was there with them and wanted a quick chat. He then thrust the receiver into my chest.
Stephen sounded much younger on the phone than I had imagined. He was quite friendly but nervous, as he had never spoken with a journalist before. Initially he was slightly excitable, speaking at thirteen to the dozen, and it seemed he wanted to tell me his life story in one go, probably due to the limited time restrictions for a prison call. He seemed keen to accept my help and was almost emotional as he thanked me for my interest.
I told him I would appreciate as much help as possible from him and asked him to send me his personal account from the day of the attack. His parents seemed elated that after all those years someone had finally agreed to look into the case.
After the call, we sat back down in the kitchen, where Ray agreed to share his own recollections from the day of the attack. He grabbed another cup of tea and began.
‘It was bitter cold that morning, that I do remember. I had woken early – about 5.30 a.m. I was a bus driver in those days for Hulleys of Baslow. I had the early morning route that day. I remember pulling back the curtains and being surprised to see a heavy frost.
‘I had a wash and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. Nita had come down by then.’ He looked across to his wife for support. She must have heard the story many times before. ‘You asked Stephen if he was going in to work, didn’t you, Nita?’ he said.
‘Yes, there was a sleepy response, if I remember correctly,’ Nita admitted. ‘Stephen just couldn’t get up in the morning. He had been off work on Monday and Tuesday with a heavy cold. I doubted whether he would make it to work that day.’
Ray continued, ‘I knew Nita would wake him early enough, but she couldn’t be behind him all the time. She also had to look after Christine. That day was important, because it was her first day back after the summer term. Christine wanted to be early, so Stephen had to fend for himself.
‘He seemed okay the night before, and said he wanted to go back. I asked Nita before I left if she thought he’d be fit for work. She wasn’t sure, but said she had his sandwiches ready if he decided to go in.’
‘So, did Stephen get off to work on time?’ I asked.
Nita was grinning, ‘He was at the very last minute as usual. I called him at 7.20, and told him that Ray had been gone for ages and Christine was checking her school stuff. Even though we only lived a few minutes from his work, he was often still late.
‘In fact, he was in such a rush that day that he put on the wrong boots. They were probably the first pair he could find in the half-light, but they were his best blue dress boots.
‘He only realised this on his way in to work, and panicked, thinking his dad would shout at him. In any case, he changed them when he came home at lunchtime.’
‘Anyway,’ Ray coughed, resuming his story. ‘By that time I reached the depot. I was pleased to see the coaches weren’t frosted over.
‘I was driving our old faithful bus Nell, which operated on the daily service round the local villages. I checked her over. She was always reliable, and I thought, What a pity Stephen couldn’t be more like her.
‘She started first time, and I drove out of the main yard but took it steady in case there was any ice about.
‘As I approached Middleton-by-Youlgreave, I noticed some people huddled in a small group by the bus stop. One woman was stamping her feet to keep warm, and they were all wrapped against the bitter chill wind.
‘“All aboard the skylark!” I shouted as the door swung open, and a cold breeze came in with the first passenger. I checked my change and adjusted the ticket machine ready for the next stop. The clock on the dashboard was visible to all, and the minute hand clicked to 8.05 a.m.
‘I had arrived on time just before 8 a.m., but couldn’t leave until the scheduled time of 8.10. I closed the door again, and while we waited I took a quick glance to admire the view.
‘The engine shivered against the cold. The clock suddenly clicked, and it was 8.10 a.m. precisely.
‘I asked if everyone was on – not really expecting a reply. I glanced in the rear-view mirror as I set off, and then suddenly this woman appeared directly in front of me. I had to stand back hard on the brakes, and the passengers were all tipped forward in their seats.
‘I opened the door again and let on this young woman I recognised as Wendy Sewell. She had been totally oblivious to any danger and was fiddling for change inside her purse. She had actually brushed against the front radiator of the bus just as I was setting off. Still breathless with shock, I said to her, “You were lucky!”
‘She replied, “Yes, I’d laddered my tights and had to look for another pair. I thought I’d miss the bus!”
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I nearly knocked you over!’ She seemed totally unconcerned, and then it dawned on me – she hadn’t even realised her lucky escape.
‘I then said, “You’re not usually on this bus.” And she replied, “No, but I’ve some business to attend to in Bakewell.”
‘Wendy sat on the front passenger seat by the door. She looked straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge anyone. I glanced at her again as she sat down. She had long, dark-brown hair, which curled just above her shoulders. She was wearing a beige trouser suit with a black jumper.
‘As she crossed her legs, her left trouser leg ran up slightly and I noticed that she was wearing tights underneath with small white ankle socks and rather dingy-looking white plimsolls.
‘I thought she had probably put on the tights to guard against the cold. She carried a light-brown wicker-type shopping basket over one arm, and put her purse into a small handbag, which she placed under a cloth in her basket. I shook my head slightly and thought, What a pity. A pretty young woman – shame about the shoes!’
I stopped Ray for a moment. ‘You’re sure about the purse, tights and basket?’ I asked. I needed to be sure because I couldn’t find any record of these items in the police scene-of-crime report. There was also no mention of any diary, which again was supposed to have been in her handbag – allegedly together with a black book.
It seemed rather odd that the victim was found without her handbag or any other important personal effects. I recalled that there was no mention either of finding her tights.
Ray thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, I am absolutely certain. That very morning, she placed her purse into the basket and then covered it with a cloth.’
‘So, what do you think happened to these things?’ I asked him, adding, ‘They were not found at her office, so are they still in Catcliff Wood?’
‘Why not?’ Ray replied. ‘I don’t think anyone bothered to look, despite it being right next to the cemetery. After they forced a confession out of Stephen the police made little effort to find anything, or to question anyone else.’
He was keen to continue with his story. ‘I exchanged a few more pleasantries with Wendy but we were fast approaching Bakewell town centre. She was more intense as we came into Rutland Square. She seemed to have some things on her mind. As soon as we stopped, she was up and out in one, and ran down the street without saying a word. I shouted, “Cheerio!”, half expecting her to wave back, but she didn’t. I never saw her alive again.’
Ray wiped a tear from his eye – he was still emotional as he recalled these details – but soon regained his composure. He dipped his biscuit into his tea. ‘I had a funny feeling it would be a memorable day. The strange thing is that I could have killed Wendy Sewell myself that morning, quite by accident, of course, and then we wouldn’t have had 20-odd years of this bloody nonsense.’
Nita said she arrived home from work on the bus just after 1 p.m. She had only put the kettle on a few minutes before when she heard Stephen’s key in the door. ‘I shouted to him that it wasn’t locked,’ she said. ‘Stephen said the shop had already closed for lunch, and he asked me if I could get him another bottle of pop and take it across to him later at the cemetery. He had an empty bottle with him to collect the refund, and he put it on the kitchen table with some money.
‘I asked him if he was staying for a cuppa as I was making one for myself. He said no, as he had just come back to change his boots and feed the hedgehogs.
‘I told him I had already fed them, and said I would get him another bottle of pop when the shop opened and take it down to him later. He stayed for maybe another minute or so, but said he had to get back to his work and would see me later – but he too never returned home.’
CHAPTER 4
The Confession (#litres_trial_promo)
So far, I had only heard the Downing family’s version of events, which, understandably, was all very cosy and supportive. I now had to examine the official papers to get some perspective on this. If Stephen really was innocent, I could only help if I thoroughly understood his best lines of defence.
Jackie had collated a massive bundle of paperwork from the courts and other key sources relating to the case. Among them was the Home Office summary, which included his original, alleged confession taken down by the police.
The police confession was stark and distasteful and gave Jackie second thoughts about becoming involved with the case. I told her to stick with it and wait until we received Stephen’s documents with his version of events.
A copy of his confession was written down by officers on the night of the attack, dated 12 September 1973, and stated:
I don’t know what made me do it. I saw this woman walking in the cemetery. I went into the chapel to get the pickaxe handle that I knew was there. I followed her, but I hadn’t talked to her and she hadn’t talked to me, but I think she knew I was there.
I came right up to her near enough. I hit her twice on the head, on the back of the neck. I just hit her to knock her out. She fell to the ground and she was on her side, and then she was face down. I rolled her over and started to undress her. I pulled her bra off first. I had to pull her jumper up and I just got hold of it until it broke, and then I pulled her pants and her knickers off.
I started to play with her breasts and then her vagina. I put my middle finger up her vagina. I don’t know why I hit her, but it might have been to do with what I have just told you. But I knew I had to knock her out first before I did anything to her.
It was only a couple of minutes. I was playing with her and there was just a bit of blood at the back of her neck. So, I left her, went back to the chapel, got my pop bottle and went to the shop, and then went home to see my mother and asked her to get a bottle of pop for me because the shop was closed. I suppose I did that so that no one would find out I’d hit the woman.
I went back to the cemetery about 15 minutes later and went back to see the woman. She was lying on the ground the same way as I’d left her, but she was covered in blood on her face and on her back. I bent down to see how she was, and she was semi-conscious, just. She put her hands up to her face and just kept wiping her face with her hand. She had been doing that when I first knocked her down.
I went to the telephone kiosk to ring for the police and ambulance so that they would think someone else had done it and I’d just found her. I hadn’t any money, so I went to the Lodge and asked Wilf Walker if he was on the telephone, but he said he wasn’t. So, I told him what I’d supposed to have found. He came to have a look and then he went to ask these other blokes in a white van outside the cemetery if they had seen her, but they said they hadn’t, so one of them went to phone for the police. I just stayed because there was no place to go.
I noticed the immediate inconsistency with what Ray had told me about Wendy Sewell having moved when Stephen returned to the cemetery. There was no mention of this within his confession statement.
In stark contrast to his confession, I then received an interesting report from one of Stephen’s prison officers. It had been sent via a contact of mine at the Home Office. It related to a home visit Stephen had made to Bakewell six months previously, in March 1994 – the first time he had set foot back in the town since his trial almost exactly 20 years before.
Downing had been accompanied by prison officer Clive Tanner, who commented, ‘He coped very well. There were a lot of people there who knew him before and were coming up to him and greeting him. It came across as very strange to me how in a small community, where I assume a murder only takes place possibly once every hundred years, when the offender returns he is warmly welcomed by a great deal of the local people. Maybe there is something in the point he is trying to make about not being guilty.’
A copy of the trial judge’s summary then arrived from Nottingham Crown Court. I had told Jackie to ask for a full transcript, but was informed there wasn’t one, which I found strange. A check with the court clerk confirmed that no full record of the trial existed. As a result, all I could do was work from the judge’s summing up.
The Honourable Mr Justice Nield began his summing up on 15 February 1974. He reminded the jury of their duty, pointing out that Downing, who was soon to have his eighteenth birthday, had a ‘perfectly clean record’.
They were informed that manslaughter did not arise, because ‘it is agreed that this unfortunate woman was murdered’. He explained, ‘The issue is whether the Crown has proved it was this man who committed that murder.’
Turning to Stephen’s confession he continued, ‘One of the main planks of the prosecution case is the statement made by the accused and signed over and over again.’
He stressed that the prosecution had to establish that the statement had been ‘voluntarily made’ and ‘accurately recorded’, and went on to explain, ‘If the jury thought there had been oppression, any improper conduct by the police to induce this young man to make a statement, or to threaten him if he did not that such and such things would happen, then the statement is valueless.’
While there was much to pore over in the judge’s summing up, the most striking contradictions between Stephen’s confession and the prosecution case were found in the medical and scientific evidence presented by the prosecution.
At 2.40 Mrs Sewell reached Chesterfield Royal Hospital. Mr Stillman, the surgeon, found multiple lacerations of the skull, and an X-ray confirmed there were fractures. Doctor Usher, the pathologist, performed a post-mortem examination on 15 September, the day after this woman died, and he found ten lacerations to the skull as if she had been violently assaulted by someone using the pickaxe handle. He took the view there must have been at least seven or eight or more violent blows and, whoever did it, would seem to have been in a frenzied state.
The judge pointed out that several witnesses had described Stephen Downing as ‘calm and cool, certainly not frenzied’ just moments after he was supposed to have carried out the attack. One witness, however, PC Ball, the first policeman to the scene, had not regarded him as cool. He had said, ‘He was very excited. I told him to calm down.’ This contradicted the evidence of other witnesses, who had seen nothing abnormal in Stephen’s demeanour.
The judge turned to a report that the prosecution case relied upon heavily. It was written by Mr Norman Lee, a Home Office forensics expert. Mr Lee’s evidence concerned the bloodstaining on Stephen’s clothing and on the pickaxe handle, the murder weapon. He said:
There were stains on his trousers on the knees where he might have kneeled, and on the front of the trousers mainly on the lower legs. There were also a large number of splashes and heavy smears.
There was some blood on the right leg as high as the thighs. He said these stains would have been visible to the people in the cemetery. In addition, there were small spots of blood on his T-shirt and his gloves. An examination of Stephen’s boots showed a lot of smears and small spots of blood, mainly at the front.
Stephen claimed at trial that, after finding Mrs Sewell, he knelt down and turned her over, whereupon she raised herself up and began to shake her head violently. That was the explanation, he said, for the blood on his clothes.
Mr Lee conceded that the blood on the boots ‘might arise from somebody getting up from his knees and pressing on his toes on the ground’. He also went on to say that ‘the blood-staining on the clothes, some of it, is consistent with someone turning over the body’.
However, the very small spots and splashes found on the clothes, boots and gloves were not consistent with turning someone over. And he did not accept Stephen’s explanation that the small spots of blood flew on to his clothing from her head and long hair as she violently shook her head about.
He said, ‘I cannot imagine how you could get splashings as small as those in the way Downing is suggesting,’ and added, ‘If she had flung herself about, then for such tiny spots a lot of energy must have been applied.’ His preferred explanation was that the spots came from Mrs Sewell being beaten, ‘and the harder you hit, the smaller the spot of blood’.
This was a complicated yet very vital point. I read and reread it to make sure I understood his argument. Norman Lee seemed to be saying that violent force produces a spray of blood, which would appear as tiny, almost microscopic spots, on any surface hit by this spray, such as clothing.
He did not believe Wendy Sewell could have shaken her head so violently as to produce these minute spots found on Stephen’s clothing. He claimed they must have come from the blows of the pickaxe handle.
I could not see why Norman Lee was so sure. When cross-examined, he repeated that she could not have shaken her head so violently as to produce that result.
And yet it was not only Stephen who had described the victim thrashing around in an aggressive manner. The judge pointed out that the senior ambulanceman, Clyde Bateman, who arrived on the scene had also reported that, on the journey to the hospital, ‘she became very restless, moving about a lot, throwing out her right arm all over the place, and his uniform was covered in blood but, according to that witness, she was not shaking her head’. And PC Ball told the court that ‘she resisted violently with her arm’.
Although the ambulanceman had not noticed her moving her head, I believed this might have been due to her worsening condition. Stephen found her just after the attack, whereas she was in the ambulance almost an hour later. She soon fell into a coma due to her head injuries, from which she never recovered.
