Thornwyn

by Laurence Todd

  Worryingly for me, I knew MI5 were thinking I was some part of Thornwyn’s grand plan for the information taken from Bartolome. Establishing I had nothing to do with this was now an imperative.

  I contacted the office. I was informed Smitherman was there but was in a meeting with the assistant commissioner. I said I’d grab him tomorrow.

  It was just after nine in the evening and I was winding down with a cold beer. I’d arrived home late as I’d written up all the details of my interviews during the past couple of days, including my conversations with Jeremy Godfrey and Edward Priestly. I’d gone into detail about how Byzantium had been robbed, who by and where the weaponry had ended up, and had summarised my thinking about the issues involved, including everything I’d learnt about Paul Sampson and the pivotal role Neville Thornwyn seemed to have played in this situation. I pulled no punches with my hypothesis.

  Curiously, though, I’d omitted any details concerning Brian Turley, both visiting him at his flat and discovering the personnel involved in robbing Byzantium through him, as well as his admission of assaulting and inadvertently causing the death of Noel Partias. Even as I was typing my notes up, I wasn’t completely sure why I’d left these facts out.

  The phone rang. I answered.

  “Rob, apologies for disturbing you but you’re needed back here.” It was Smitherman.

  “Why’s that?” I was dismayed.

  “You’re wanted in an interrogation.”

  “Of whom?”

  “Tell you when you get here.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way.” I hung up. Fuck it.

  I drove to the Yard in record time, using the siren to clear the way. I parked and went up to the Special Branch office. Smitherman was in his office, glancing at a report.

  “Evening, DS McGraw. Apologies for the intrusion but you’re needed on this. The person concerned has specifically asked to speak to you, says he won’t talk to anyone else, so don’t take your jacket off; you’re off downstairs to interrogate a suspect soon.”

  “In connection with what?”

  He looked up from what he was reading and paused for a second.

  “Jeremy Godfrey was murdered a couple of hours ago. He was stabbed in the car park by Hemel Hempstead railway station.”

  My eyes opened wide in surprise.

  Smitherman summarised the facts of the case. Godfrey had caught the 6.15 train from London Euston to Hemel Hempstead. In the car park outside he’d been involved in a fierce argument with another man, which had got quite vitriolic, and there had been lots of swearing. Godfrey had then pushed the other person away, and had been heard by a nearby witness to say something like, “Get the fuck away from me and my family, you AIDS-ridden queer,” whereupon the other man had produced a knife and stabbed Godfrey through the chest. The victim had died almost immediately. The assailant had then been seen calmly putting the knife back into his coat pocket, walking into the station and getting on the train to London Euston a few minutes later.

  All this had been witnessed by several commuters who’d overheard what was said and had made statements to police. It’d initially been thought the victim had just been punched, but one man, going across to offer help, had noticed the victim had been stabbed and the alarm had been raised.

  The whole incident had been captured on CCTV. The assailant had been identified and police had been to the man’s home, arrested him and taken him into custody. He’d not even taken his coat off and had offered no resistance when told he was being arrested. The knife used in the attack had still been in the coat pocket. He’d even been heard to say, “What took you so long?” He was now being held in an interview room waiting for whatever happened next. Smitherman said it should be a straightforward case to wrap up.

  “So who’s the suspect?” I finally asked.

  “Someone called Geoffrey Tilling.”

  Tilling was in quite an upbeat mood when I entered the room. The officer watching him said he’d been singing what sounded like an operatic tune quietly to himself. I told him to take Tilling’s handcuffs off. The officer seemed doubtful about the wisdom of this action and asked if I was sure, reminding me the suspect had just killed someone, but he complied when I repeated my order. He left the room and I sat down opposite Tilling.

  Tilling smiled broadly. “Hello, DS McGraw. I hope I’ve not put a dampener on any plans you had for this evening.”

  Compared to the two occasions I’d previously spoken to him, he sounded positively chipper, looking calm and unfazed even though he was about to be questioned about the circumstances preceding an unlawful killing.

  He was wearing a lavender shirt underneath a floral waistcoat, which somehow seemed to match his designer stubble. His collar was open and I saw a silver crucifix on a chain around his neck. He looked much less distressed than when I’d last seen him almost two weeks back, somehow more alive in his own spirit, as though the weight of the world had been lifted from him. He didn’t appear at all worried about being in an interrogation room.

  I acknowledged his greeting. I asked if he wanted to speak to a lawyer before I began or have one present during this interrogation. He said he didn’t and he didn’t want to make any phone calls either. I then asked how he’d been coping since I’d last seen him.

  “I’m okay, thanks. I’m holding my head up. I’m cherishing the times Paul and I had together rather than focusing on his loss. You know what they say, better to have loved and lost and all that.” He shrugged.

  This was at least a positive step forward compared to where he’d been when I’d first talked to him.

  I waited a moment before speaking. “You’ve been arrested, so you know . . .”

  “Yeah, I know.” He was still smiling at me. “Anything I say will be taken down and used in evidence against me, blah blah blah. They’ve told me all that.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, if you’re certain, let’s make a start.”

  I switched on the tape recorder, identified myself for the record and said I was about to interview Geoffrey Tilling, who’d been arrested on suspicion of committing an act of murder, and who’d declined legal representation. Tilling stated his name, and then, slowly and carefully, he began explaining the events leading up to Godfrey’s demise.

  Tilling had recently realised Paul Sampson still had a valuable piece of jewellery at his family home which Tilling had loaned him several months previously, so he’d decided, after work, to go to Berkhamsted to ask for its return. He said he’d decided to go in person as he wasn’t sure any letter would be answered and didn’t want to talk on the phone.

  Sitting on the train, he’d seen Jeremy Godfrey walking past. Godfrey had stopped, given him a look of total disgust and mouthed something at him which didn’t appear to be friendly, though Tilling was unable to identify what he’d said. Tilling said he’d ignored him but, as the train had left Watford Junction and the carriage had emptied out, Godfrey had returned and sat opposite and asked if he was going to Berkhamsted. Tilling had replied he was and explained the purpose of his visit.

  According to Tilling, Godfrey had then leaned forward and ordered him to “Stay the fuck away from my family, you understand that? You go near my daughter’s house and you’ll regret it. The last thing she needs is the likes of you bothering her.” His tone had been aggressive. He had then returned to his own seat.

  Tilling then explained what happened next.

  “As he walked away I felt something snap inside me. I can’t explain it but every fibre of my being felt like it was on fire. I got really angry at what this arsehole had just said. It just kept going round and round in my head: The likes of me? Just who does this bastard think he is?” I noticed he was breathing slightly faster as he spoke. “My whole life I’ve had small-minded jerks like him flaunting their hetero moral superiority at me and thinking they’re better than me because I’m gay and proud of it, so I thought, Fuck letting him talk to me like that, and I decided to make a stand. I followed him off the train at Hemel.” H
is hands, which had been flat on the table, had formed into fists.

  “So you were angry when you got off?”

  “Angry? I was bloody livid.” His voice rose slightly and his face was turning red as he emphasised the point. “I called out to him as he got to his car.”

  “What were you hoping to do when you confronted him?”

  “Initially I was just gonna tell him I’m going to Paul’s house to ask for the return of my property and he can go fuck himself if he thinks I’m gonna let him fuck my life over any more than he and his fucking family had already done.” He nodded almost aggressively, his expression changing to one of pure hostility. His voice had hardened. “I was gonna challenge him to try stopping me going. I got right up in his face about it.” He nodded again, looking pleased with himself.

  “So, what happened next?”

  “He got quite belligerent and we argued for a few moments, him telling me not to go there, but then . . .” He paused. “You know what he said?”

  “No.”

  “He asked, quite openly, did I know he was instrumental in Paul’s dying? He told me, with Martha’s assistance, he’d switched his pills for much stronger ones and she’d left the cognac there for him. They made Paul’s death look like a suicide. He admitted quite openly they’d killed him.”

  His voice softened slightly and he began to choke up as he spoke. “He said he didn’t want his granddaughter to have anything to do with her father, didn’t want her raised by a couple of fairies. He wanted Paul out the way, so he and Martha made him drink the cognac and swallow a large handful of very strong sleeping pills until he blacked out. He was almost smiling as he said what they’d done. He then said it obviously couldn’t have been a suicide as everyone who knew Paul would know he wasn’t man enough to do anything like that.”

  Tilling paused for a few moments. He sniffed loudly a couple of times and dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “For a couple of seconds I was stunned. Still am. I couldn’t believe what he’d said. I couldn’t take it in, and I could feel myself shaking with rage and anger.”

  “Did you believe he was serious?”

  “I did. You could see the delight in his face when he told me. He then pushed me away, said something like I had AIDS and told me to fuck off away from his family. At that point I just lost it completely and I lashed out with the knife.”

  “Did you already have the knife in your hand?”

  “I don’t remember.” He was crying. “No, no, I didn’t. It was in my jacket pocket. I just remember it being in my hand and thrusting it in his direction.”

  “You didn’t target any part of his body?”

  “No, I just lashed out blindly.”

  “Well, you got him straight through the heart, Geoffrey. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

  I looked at Tilling wiping his eyes for a few moments. That he was a man in pain was clear, despite his occasional attempt at bravado.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. That’s not what I got off the train for.” He was sobbing quietly.

  “Why’d you take a knife in the first place?” I asked. “You always walk around armed?”

  He looked serious as he composed himself to answer the question. “I’d been to Paul’s house once before and Godfrey was there. He’d threatened me, said something about doing me in if I ever came back. He said it in front of his daughter. I mean, look at the size of me compared to him. Physically, I’ve no chance against him, so I took the knife with me in case he was there again and came at me. I was just gonna wave it in his face, I wasn’t gonna kill him or anything. To answer your earlier question, no, I don’t usually go around carrying a knife, but I did so this evening in case Mr Ex-Army Macho Man decided to act out his homophobia and get violent.”

  He sat back in his seat, looking at odds with the world, trying to grasp the changed reality of the death of the man he’d loved. I wondered if the enormity of what he’d done had fully registered with him.

  “I think I told you once I thought Paul had been murdered,” he said. “Well, this proves I was right, doesn’t it?”

  He then sobbed for about half a minute, his head bowed and hands over his face and his whole body trembling. I was wishing a female officer could have been present. He stopped and wiped his eyes on his sleeve and apologised for crying. I told him he had nothing to apologise for.

  I waited a few more moments.

  “So, you’re saying, for the record, you didn’t set out this evening with the intention of killing Jeremy Godfrey,” I stated.

  “Correct,” he said, sitting up straight, sounding a little more in control. “I was hoping he wouldn’t be there. Martha Sampson may well be a fraud and a repulsive upper-middle-class Home Counties bitch, but she’d at least have been reasonable when I asked for my jewellery back. I’d no idea he was gonna be on the same train as me.” He looked directly into my eyes, almost imploring me to believe him. “I’d have got another one if I’d known.”

  “If Godfrey was right, and she’d helped him switch the pills for stronger ones, how reasonable do you think she’d have been when you went to her house?”

  He shrugged. We were both silent for a few moments. He nodded slightly, acknowledging I was probably right.

  “You really need to talk to a lawyer, Geoffrey, because, if you’re going to rely on the story you’ve just told me, you could be able to plead guilty to manslaughter.” I was wondering whether Tilling might have the defence of provocation available to him because he’d responded violently after being told by the victim about his part in the death of Paul Sampson, the man he’d loved. The legal question would be whether the response was proportionate to the provocation, or even whether Godfrey’s words amounted to provocation, but that would be one for the lawyers to ascertain. I wasn’t wholly certain as to Tilling’s legal situation.

  “Well, I killed him. I certainly didn’t mean to, I just lashed out. Is that manslaughter?”

  “If you admit killing Godfrey but deny any intent to do so, you could have the option of pleading guilty to manslaughter. If the Crown accepts this, there’ll be no trial; it’ll then just be a question of whatever the judge thinks is an appropriate sentence.”

  “And if they don’t accept it?”

  “You’ll be charged with murder,” I replied calmly. “It’s then up to the jury. But, whatever, it’s essential you take legal advice.”

  He nodded, resignedly. However, I had to point out the one reality of his situation which might well be the defining factor concerning his legal culpability.

  “You were carrying a knife, though. That may well count against you, particularly at a time when the incidence of knife crime’s increasing. You need to be aware of that. Celebrating knife culture may well be the done thing for rappers, but look how many of them die violent deaths. It’ll be for the lawyers and whoever charges you as to whether the fact you had a knife on you at all is detrimental to your cause, so you need to be aware you could be staring at a murder charge.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” he said softly. He sat quietly for the next few seconds.

  “Anything else you wish to say?” I asked.

  He shook his head. I terminated the interview and switched off the tape machine. He then sat bolt upright. There was an expression which was hard to read on his face.

  “You know what? I’m not at all sorry he’s dead.” His voice sounded harder. “I mean, I didn’t go out tonight wanting to kill him, but he came on to me. If he’d said nothing on the train, none of this would have happened. But what he said about Paul in the car park really upset me, so fuck him. At least there’s one less homophobe on Earth tonight.” He sounded choked as he finished. He couldn’t maintain the hardened stance to its conclusion.

  “Do yourself a favour, Geoffrey. Keep that thought to yourself. Don’t repeat it in front of the lawyers and definitely don’t say it in court.”

  I left him to think about where his life now was.

  Smitherman h
ad left to go home so I reported my conversation to the night duty officer, who then made the necessary arrangements to have Tilling held in custody overnight and arraigned before Horseferry Road magistrates’ court tomorrow morning. Someone would also need to go and talk to Martha Sampson about the claims made by Tilling concerning her role in the death of her husband, though I was aware there was no corroborating evidence and, even if Jeremy Godfrey hadn’t been killed, hearsay evidence was inadmissible in court. Given her father had also just been murdered, the next few hours for Martha Sampson would not be pleasant ones.

  E I G H T

  Thursday

  Smitherman was now finally available, so I wandered up to his office. Today was bright and sunny with little breeze and hardly a cloud in the sky, so the view looking at the trees in St James’s Park from his office window was delightful, and, despite having had little sleep last night after arriving home late, I was in a positive mood.

  Smitherman looked up and gestured towards the chair. I sat. He looked pensive, like he was about to impart bad news. He took a deep breath. This didn’t bode well. My good mood was on the edge.

  “Before we begin I have to tell you something, and you won’t like hearing it either. I’ve just received details about a fatal accident in West London shortly after midnight.” His tone was solemn as he looked directly at me. “And it involves someone I believe you know.”

  “Fatal accident?” I asked nervously. I could feel my good mood beginning to dissolve.

  “According to this report,” he said, holding up a sheet of paper, “he walked straight out into the middle of a busy road without looking and was hit full on by a taxi. Died in hospital a couple of hours later.”

  “Who did?” I had a sinking feeling I knew what was about to be said.

  “Brian Turley.”

  It felt like a punch in the stomach. My breathing became erratic as I tried to remain calm.