Amanda Knox - Guilty By Appearance

I've had the same conversation with so many people today about Amanda Knox. Each one goes something like this:

"Knox has been freed then."
"Yeah. The scientific evidence was pretty flawed."
"True. Must have been hell for her."
"Sure. Young woman locked up for a crime she didn't commit."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"One thing I can't get over. She just looks guilty."

If Knox could hear what people are saying about her in my neck of the woods, she'd hear these words reverberating around her head. 'There's just something about her', 'It's her eyes', 'She doesn't look innocent', 'She's sneering at us'.

Police back in Victorian times had a failsafe method of detecting whether you were a member of the criminal classes. It all depended on the shape of your head and the quality of your features. It was called physiognomy.  And it was state of the art - having a unibrow, for instance, was a sure sign of guilt. There were men with callipers measuring the distance between your eyes and the size of your forehead. It was important to the Victorians because they believed that being a criminal was something in your phsycial make-up. It was genetic, if they'd known what genes were.

But we've moved on from that. We've progressed through real science. In our modern world it's what moves one generation on from the previous one. And there's no scientific evidence that puts Amanda at the scene of the crime, Meredith's bedroom.There's flimsy, circumstantial evidence, heresay, and a forced confession without witnesses. But none of Knox's DNA is there. It's difficult to murder somebody and not leave any DNA behind. There's plenty of Rudy Guede's.

So why does that little voice in our heads keep saying she's guilty? Look at any photo of her when she's not smiling. The hooded eyes. When eyes are that sunken, they have got to be hiding nefarious thoughts and deeds. They look like the entrance to caves that hold weapons of mass destruction. Then there are the eyebrows that arch in towards those eyes, as if tipping us off that she has secrets she's keeping from us.

But this is all nonsense. We are creatures of the scientific world. We are rational beings. We must banish the beliefs of our medieval forefathers. Yet they keep raising themselves up from their burial grounds to tap us on the shoulder. 'Look how far apart her eyes are. That's not right.' Shut up. 'Look at the pouty mouth, offering the promise of sexual favours.' Be quiet.

I want to be a man of the modern world. I want to think logically. I want to deny my superstitious ancestry. But something keeps dragging my mind back into the pit. At least I know that's what's happening. I can live with it.

Enjoy your freedom Amanda Knox. R.I.P. Meredith Kercher.

Mark Capell is the author of 'Run, Run, Run', available from Amazon and Amazon U.K.

Things That Sparkle

I was looking across at Putney Bridge in London with a friend when she pointed at the river and said, 'Sparkles.' I followed her finger to see the light bouncing off the water, each point of light looking like a diamond bobbing on the surface. She explained that she'd liked things that sparkled ever since she was a kid, especially the sun on the river.

Things that sparkle. I thought about it. It was a beautifully innocent remark from a person who hadn't lost contact with the child within. Me? That's a different matter. I've always been suspicious of things that sparkle. I associate them with the meretricious. A few diamonds around a woman's neck looks elegant. But that only makes me think about the history of the necklace. They've been discovered in prehistoric times. Nobody can be sure why women started wearing them. But the necklaces were often buried with the body. So they could well have been status symbols, reinforcing my cynicism.

What about people? J.F.K., he sparkled. The smile dazzled, the speeches conveyed passion and intelligence. He was a new breed of politician, aware of the power of the media. But seemingly sincere. Yet sweep aside the glittering veneer and you find that L.B.J. passed more civil rights legislation and Nixon conducted the withdrawal from Vietnam. That said, his heart was in the right place, wasn't it? It was tough back then. America hadn't even started to tackle the issues of racism properly. The first steps out of the cabin into a cold environment are always the hardest to take. But when I think he's retained his lustre, I remember the lust. Poor Jacqueline. She sparkled.

Princess Diana. She sparkled more than the celebrities that still swim in her wake. She carried out a lot of charity work, changing attitudes to AIDS and landmines in particular. But she also withdrew her patronage from a lot of charities when her personal life hit the skids. She manipulated the media - courting them when she wanted them to tell her side of the story about her marriage - then complaining about press voracity when she'd personally finished feeding the beast. I'm not trying to diminish her achievements. She was more of a saint than most of us. But she could sin with the best of them too. She was a real person.

Who sparkles today? To be honest, I can't think of anybody. Movie stars? No. Too concerned with their career paths, appearing in the latest franchise, to stand above any other group of thrusting professionals. Politicians? Too giddy from spinning to locate their own beliefs. Musicians? The ones that might sparkle with talent are made invisible from the glare of talent shows that exhibit starlets who twinkle for about as long as their songs last. You rarely find sparkles on TV. I once wandered into a bar in the Latin Quarter in Paris, drawn in by the heartfelt gusto of a torch singer, her voice echoing on the cobbled stones outside. She sparkled but only in and around that bar. She didn't reach a million living rooms.

And perhaps that's the point. These days, when the careers of the stars are managed as assiduously as their diaries, we shouldn't look in their direction for our sparkles. Or to the politicians, or to the princesses, or anybody we've been told to respect. Instead, we should keep our ears open when passing a bar. Or our eyes on the river at just the right hour of a summer's morning. That's where we'll find our sparkles.

Mark Capell is the author of 'Run, Run, Run', a novel available at Amazon and Amazon U.K.

A Letter To James Bond

Dear Mr James Bond,

First of all my apologies for leaving during the main course on Wednesday. It was a matter of some urgency, of national importance. I'm sure you understand.

To the matter in hand. I'm writing to you because our working relationship has become increasingly difficult. In many ways you have been of great service to MI6 and your country. But not in the way I'd hoped.

You have brought MI6 great fame, which is not what we wanted. Your primary role is that of secret agent. You are, quite possibly, the most conspicuous 'secret' agent since the whirling, twirling, limelight hogging dancer, Mata Hari; who, I should remind you, finished her career slumped in front of a firing squad.

In the days when you looked like Sean Connery, I thought there was hope for you. You had an aura of intent. There were quips and a slightly upturned corner of the mouth, but rarely anything that could be described as a smile. But then you turned into some Roger Moore type character. You became a showman, a music hall song and dance man, a nod-and-a-wink merchant. I'll admit that you're not bad at disguise as you now look like Daniel Craig. But you still seem too eager to bed a contact instead of arranging a dead drop; too content to be drawn into a car chase when ordering a drone to follow would be less likely to cause an international incident.

Let me draw your attention to the work of some of your colleagues: namely, George Smiley, Percy Alleline and Ricki Tarr. I admit that I wouldn't be inclined to invite any of these men to one of my dinner parties. And none of my lady friends would look at them with a view to any kind of romantic involvement. But isn't that the point? They're spies, James, spies. They're racked by self-doubts, paranoia and often mis-placed loyalty. They're so worn out by their unstinting examination of every coded communication that they barely have the energy to raise a gun. And if they do, it's one shot to the back of the head, not a bloody great explosion that can be picked up by a satellite orbiting Mars.

I know I've suggested this before but have you considered returning to the Navy? Or maybe you should transfer to the army. The paras would be an ideal regiment for your style of combat. Spying isn't your forte. Move on.

So, unfortunately, it is with no regret that I terminate your employment with SIS.

Yours sincerely,

CONTROL

Mark Capell is the author of the thriller, 'Run, Run, Run'. For more information, video trailers and extracts, visit www.run-novel.com

The Day I Met A Notorious Gangster

He was about 75-years-old, much shorter than me, and he stooped. Lines queued up on his face to mark the length of his life. From a distance, he just didn't look as menacing as his name -  'Mad' Frankie Fraser.  But when he looked me in the eye, my God, I was taken aback.

"Hello, Frank. Pleased to meet you."

He stretched out a hand with raised veins. It was the firmest handshake I'd ever experienced. And I still couldn't stop looking at his eyes. Though I was wearing clothes, I felt naked.

"Hello, Mark. Thanks for asking. I'm very well. And yourself?" It was a polite and warm response. But I wanted to run a mile.

It wasn't the first time I'd met a gangster. It was always guaranteed to get ratings on the TV show I was directing. But this man was different. When he looked at you, he froze the water in your eyes. Instantly, I was terrified of him. I'd met younger, more muscle-bound criminals and not thought anything of it. So how did he have this effect on me?

'Mad' Frankie Fraser first turned to crime during the Second World War. While London fended off the Blitz from Hitler's airforce, Frankie was using the blackout as cover to throw bricks through jewellers' windows. He'd even dress up as an Air Raid Warden and get the public to help him load his bag with the jewels, saying the owner had requested he put them somewhere safe.

But he really he hit his stride during the 1960s, the time of the Kray Twins and the Richardson gang. Gangsters were cool in swinging London. The famous photographer, David Bailey, took an iconic picture of the Kray Twins. It was when I asked him about these times that I got an inkling of how he could have such an effect on me, even in his doteage.

I asked him about Jack 'the hat' McVitie. Reggie Kray was sentenced to life imprisonment for his murder. "Frank, is it true that Jack 'the hat' McVitie got his nickname because he never went anywhere without his trilby?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, he liked his hats. Nice bloke. Went off his head though. Drugs and that. You'd have killed him, Mark."

I was lost for words for a second. Then I recovered. 'I don't think I would have, Frank.'

'You would. Yes, you would.' His eyes were even more fierce. His eyebrows closed in on each other. He wasn't to be contradicted. I wanted to protest. I wanted to stand up for the law abiding majority. But what came out was an awkward smile and a noise that was a murmured, embarrassed chuckle.

And that was why Frank had such an effect on me. He was a master of the body language of intimidation, even at that age. It was like a boxer setting you up with a one-two. At first, he was ridiculously polite. I've never met anybody who was so careful with their Ps and Qs. But then he'd hit you with the stare and rock you with his morality, or lack of it.

I asked him if he'd recommend a life of crime. 'Oh yeah,' he said. 'But I've spent forty-two years in prison, so that's not good.'

I nearly laughed but thought it best not to.

When I decided to write my first novel, a thriller called 'Run, Run, Run', I was determined to use this. I wanted to know if ordinary, decent, law-abiding people could ever be pushed to a point where they could think like hardened criminals; to think like 'Mad' Frankie Fraser. 'You'd have killed him, Mark.'

- Mark Capell

'Run, Run, Run', a thriller, is available from Amazon for the Kindle and to read on ipads, computers and phones. To view a trailer and hear extracts from the novel, visit the website at www.run-novel.com. Follow me on Twitter too @MarkCapell.