Mr. Ramsey continued to stare at Michael for a few seconds more, as if seeking to ascertain by his appearance whether or not he was telling the truth. Eventually the barrister grunted what might have been affirmation and resumed his examination of his papers.
“Will Alison be at court today?” Michael asked. “She knows where I was on all three occasions. If someone would just listen to her, they would let me out this morning.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be happening, Michael. Don’t get your hopes up. That’s not what today is about. It’s just a remand to give the police time to get their evidence together. No doubt Mr. Giles and your friends can use the time profitably to gather proof of your innocence. For the moment, my job is to ensure that you are sent somewhere where you will be safe, and to try to see if I can get you in to see your grandmother who is, as I understand it, your only living relative and is gravely ill—a condition which was probably brought on by the shock of your arrest?” He spoke the words as though rehearsing for his performance upstairs. Michael confirmed the details.
“I’ve been told that we are up first, so we should be asked to go into the court in about five minutes,” said Giles. By now he had become a more or less familiar face, and Michael was glad to have him nearby. Nonetheless, his pulse quickened as he cast his mind forward to what awaited him upstairs in the austere courtrooms of the Old Bailey. Even despite the hours he had spent trying to process what was happening to him, Michael felt petrified at the prospect of finding himself actually standing in the dock and having his name attached to these dreadful charges. The judge as he appeared in Michael’s imagination was a terrifying figure out of a storybook nightmare, and he felt his insides turn to water when, from the corridor outside, he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. The two lawyers stood up, anticipating an escort to lead them upstairs. Instead, when the door opened, Michael was surprised to see that the two people who entered the room were Detective Chief Superintendent Norman Bailey and Detective Constable Collins. The two lawyers seemed to be every bit as surprised as Michael was, and when he spoke, Superintendent Bailey had lost some of his recent self-assurance.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. Something unexpected has happened, and I think the formal procedure is that I should speak privately to Mr. Giles, but as you are all here and these seem to be unusual circumstances…?”
The barrister pulled out his own chair and gestured for Bailey to sit on the spare one. The female detective walked the few paces to the side of the room and stood with her arms folded and no readable expression on her face. The four men were sitting.
“Just about an hour ago, a few miles from here in Battersea Park, two small children were standing on the side of the pond and feeding the ducks, when a man ran by, picked up the children one at a time, and threw them into the water.” Michael gasped and sat back in his chair, his hands rising up involuntarily to the top of his head as though to prevent it from lifting off his shoulders. The superintendent was still speaking. “The children’s mother was a little way away at the time and was more concerned with saving her children than with identifying the assailant. She managed to pull both of the children safely out of the water, and they are recovering, but what description she was able to give us of the person who pushed them in seems to match closely the man we have been looking for as the Madman.”
Michael leaned forward and felt his body bend double, his head hovering just above the surface of the table, and he pressed the palms of his hands hard into his face. The surge of emotion came from a deeper place inside of him than he had ever known existed, and he was overwhelmed by the force of it. No physical manifestation could express the sense of relief he felt, and all he could do was to sob for some minutes until the trauma flowed out of him and the waves of fear gradually subsided.
Eventually Michael felt someone’s hand on his shoulder and slowly regained awareness of his surroundings. When he sat up straight, he saw that his barrister had packed away his papers into a file and was standing near to the door.
“Congratulations, Mr. Beaumont. I’m sure we are all relieved, if not perhaps quite as relieved as you are. I shall leave it to these good officers to offer you the most profuse apologies in the history of the police force, and to my young friend Mr. Giles to consider the size of the claim for compensation, which I very much hope he will instruct me to pursue. Good day to you gentlemen, and lady.” He touched his wig with his index finger and exited.
After the barrister had gone, Bailey left it to Collins to explain what would happen next. There remained the mystery of the matching voiceprint, and the police would still be investigating whether it was Michael who had sent the recording or whether there had been interference with the readings from the monitor. “In the meantime, we will, of course, be dropping the most serious charge of murder, and as soon as we have completed some formalities here, you can be on your way.”
“All that’s very well and good, but of most immediate concern to my client is that the damage which has undoubtedly been done to him by this unjustified arrest, and the publicity which has arisen from it, should be terminated as quickly as possible and his good name should be restored.” Michael thought that his young and inexperienced lawyer was growing in stature with every word. “We will want to approve a statement which we then need you to issue as quickly as is possible.” He stood and looked at the detectives, first at Bailey, then at Collins, and then back again. “Are we agreed?” Bailey nodded to indicate that they were agreed.
“But there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you, Michael, before you go,” said the detective.
“Yes, what is it?”
Bailey looked intently at Michael as he spoke. “Is there someone out there who hates you?”
“What do you mean? Of course there isn’t.” Michael paused. “Or not that I know of anyway. Why would you ask that question?”
“Well, if I were you, it’s the question I would be asking myself,” said Bailey. Again, Michael frowned deeply and urged the detective to continue. “Just think about it. All these incidents have taken place in areas close to where you live, work, or visit. Waterloo, which is close to where you were on that first weekend; Kingston, very close to where you live; and Brighton, just a little way away from where Alison lives and where you and she spend a lot of time together. We still don’t know how there came to be video of a person who looks remarkably like you, dressed as the killer was dressed, just a few hours after the Brighton incident. And we still don’t know how or why your voiceprint is such a close match to the voice on the recording, but we suspect that it must be possible for someone to doctor the monitor or the readouts. However, we do know that you have access to a sound recording studio, and that we received a recording of someone who says he is the killer, stored on a device like one you carry on your key ring.”
“Oh, and just one more thing.” Now Collins joined the conversation. “You told us that you don’t own a gray hoodie, and yet we found one among the clothes at your home.” All that Michael could do was to register further surprise. He remained silent, waiting for the next revelation.
Bailey glanced across the room towards Collins, as if he was trying to weigh up whether to go ahead and share another piece of information. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and Michael glanced over in time to see Collins nodding agreement. Bailey sat forward, closer to the table, and continued, now speaking in a lowered voice.
“And there is one other thing which we haven’t shared with the public, because when we get our man, we need to have some information which only he and we know if we are to be sure that we’ve got the right person.”
Michael and his solicitor found themselves also leaning forward, both feeling anxious not to do or say anything which might dissuade the detective from sharing his confidence. “A few days before we received the recording which you’ve heard, we were sent a letter from someone claiming to be the Madman. It was on the same kind of paper and using the same typeface as
the note which came later with the recordings, so we are confident it was from the same person.” Bailey paused again, as though double-checking with himself that he was doing the right thing by continuing. After a moment he appeared resolved. “The letter said that the writer had been driven to commit the first crime after seeing what he described as ‘all the happy couples’ on the South Bank on that day. And it didn’t occur to me until our CCTV showed that you had been in the area around that time, and the group of people he is referring to, unless I am very much mistaken, could easily have included you and Alison.”
Once again there was a pause of a few moments to allow the import of what was being said to sink in. “Maybe it’s all just a remarkable coincidence.” It was DC Collins who picked up the thread, “but from the outside, it does look very much as though someone somewhere might have been trying to put you under suspicion. And it worked.”
“But if for some reason the real killer was trying to do that,” said Giles, “why would he then commit another crime at a time when Michael was in custody and therefore couldn’t be the Madman?”
The two detectives looked at one other, and Collins shrugged. Suddenly the atmosphere had lightened just a little. “That remains a mystery. Maybe by then whoever it was felt that he had had his fun. Or maybe he’s just got a taste for what he’s doing and can’t stop himself from carrying out more murder and mayhem.”
“Or maybe the killer and the person trying to frame Michael are two different people?” The interrogative in Giles’s voice indicated that he was in territory he knew nothing about. “Just a random idea.”
“We won’t know that until we get the bastard. But meanwhile anything you can think of which might help us, I hope you’ll let us know.”
The speculation had thrown Michael’s mind into a further tailspin. Nonetheless he agreed that he would think hard about what the two police officers had said. “But in the end, I’m sure it’s just been a dreadful set of coincidences. I’m a straightforward and very ordinary guy—just not the sort of bloke who makes enemies.”
Giles turned to Michael. “I’m getting a cab back to the office, but would you like me to drop you off at the hospital? We can telephone your friend Alison on the way.”
Just an hour earlier Michael had been absolutely certain that he would be driving out of the precincts of the court on his way to prison at Wormwood Scrubs, where his presumed status as a child killer would guarantee him the most terrible treatment available in the British judicial system, and the likelihood of terrible injury or death if ever he strayed too close to any of the other inmates. In the event Gordon Giles went out before him to hail a taxi, which was allowed through the security gates so that Michael could get in undetected.
“You could, of course, stand on the courtroom steps and say your piece about the police’s wrongful arrest. It’s probably the fastest way to let the world know that you were falsely accused.”
Michael shook his head. “Maybe I could do that, but I’m sure as hell not going to. This has been bloody terrible, but at the end of the day, if you listen to the list of evidence they just talked us through, it’s no wonder they arrested me. I’d have done the same. I want to get some answers as soon as I can, but right now all I care about is my grandmother.”
The two men agreed that it would be quicker for the taxi to divert a few hundred yards to drop Giles off near his firm’s offices in Gray’s Inn before taking Michael on. When they arrived there, Michael asked the driver to wait while he got out of the cab to say goodbye. He felt a strong and sudden urge to hug his solicitor, but a second later he knew that would feel awkward, and instead the two young men shook hands warmly.
“It’s good that you don’t feel rancor towards the police,” said Giles, “but what Mr. Ramsey said back there has some truth in it. We should meet in a few days to discuss what you want to do.”
Michael agreed to consider the matter. “Right now I just want to make sure that the news that I’m no longer a suspect is spread as widely as the news of my arrest. I don’t know whether they’re going to catch this lunatic, but whatever happens I don’t want to go through the rest of my life being thought of as the man who might be the Madman.”
Michael got back into the taxi and asked the driver to take him to St. Thomas’ Hospital. All this time he had been wondering what had happened to Alison, and now he switched on his mobile phone, hoping to find some contact from her. When it came to life, the screen showed that he had thirty-seven missed calls. He dialed his mailbox and began listening to a series of messages from journalists who seemed keen to be his friend. He lost patience after five or six, rang off, and then pressed the speed dial for Alison’s cell phone. By now the taxi was crossing Blackfriars Bridge, and Michael looked over the water towards Waterloo, where this still-unbelievable nightmare had all begun just a matter of a few weeks earlier. The steel girders flashed past like a motorized camera shutter taking photos of the dark gray water swirling down below, and he thought of the children whose lives had been cut short when they were thrown to their deaths. Once again he felt the welling up of emotion as the sound of Alison’s phone ringing clicked through to her recorded voice. Simply hearing her brought on yet another barely controllable wave, and when the tone ended he found that he could not speak the words he wanted to say. “Please call me. It’s Michael,” he said.
When the taxi pulled up outside St. Thomas’ Hospital, Michael stepped out onto the pavement and fished in his pocket to pay the fare. He found he had only ten pounds left, which he handed to the driver through the open passenger window.
“That’s all right, mate,” said the taxi driver. “I’ve been listening to the radio while we’ve been driving. You’re that bloke, ain’t you? You’ve had a terrible time. Have this one on me.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Michael, “really kind. Thanks very much.”
“That’s no problem. Think of the great ‘you’ll never guess who I had in the back of my cab’ story I’ve got now. This one’ll last me a lifetime.” The cab drove away, leaving Michael standing alone on the pavement to contemplate his own notoriety.
He was about to enter the hospital when he realized that once inside the intensive care unit, he would have difficulty making or receiving any further phone calls. His anxiety about Alison was now rising quickly, and he could think of no explanation for why she had not picked up his call or responded to his message. He had hoped and expected that she would be as anxious to speak to him as he was to speak to her, and would be standing by for any news. It occurred to Michael that if anyone knew where she was, it was likely to be the police, and so, still standing on the pavement outside the hospital, he called directory inquiries and asked to be put through to Charing Cross police station. Eventually, after several delays and diversions, he was connected with the officer he was looking for.
“Hello, Sergeant Mallinson. It’s Michael Beaumont. No doubt you’ve heard what’s happened?”
Mallinson said that of course he had heard and was very pleased with the turn of events. “I’m sure you think we are all the same, but I reckon I’ve been in this game long enough to spot a mass murderer when I see one. Or if I can’t, I certainly can spot someone who definitely isn’t one.” Immediately Michael felt ashamed about his “good cop, bad cop” suspicions and was about to say so, but Mallinson was still speaking. “I’m sorry about what you had to go through, but we were all just doing our jobs. So what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering whether you have any idea what has happened to my girlfriend, Alison? I know you were questioning her, and that she went to my home and brought in these clothes for me, but do you know where she went next? She’s not answering her phone, and that’s not like her.”
There was a brief pause while Mallinson considered the question. “Maybe she’s getting some sleep somewhere, Michael. She certainly looked all-in when I saw her late last night. Or maybe she’s turned off her phone because every call she was getting was from some low
life journalist.” Michael was relieved to hear the suggestions, and he reckoned that both explanations were entirely plausible. He assumed that the conversation was coming to an end, when Mallinson spoke again. “There is just one thing, though, that you might like to know.” The policeman waited for Michael to confirm that he would. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, and it’s something we would have followed up on if the case against you had continued, but with the turn of events we had no reason to pursue it.” Michael was increasingly anxious to get inside the hospital to see his grandmother, but now his curiosity was soaring once again, and he felt impatient for the policeman to complete his story. “I’m not quite sure how best to put this, Michael, but Alison Parsons as such does not exist.”
“What do you mean she doesn’t exist?” For a moment Michael wondered if Mallinson was cracking some ill-judged joke. “I know she exists. We’ve all met her. Do you mean she’s an android?”
Mallinson laughed halfheartedly at what he in turn took to be a weak attempt at humor and continued, “No, Michael, I don’t mean that she’s an android. What I mean is that the person you know as Alison Parsons is real enough, it’s just that whoever she is, she isn’t Alison Parsons. Obviously there are plenty of people called Alison Parsons, but she isn’t one of them. We were in the process of finding out her real name and who she actually is when the news came through that you are no longer a suspect, so we’ve been told not to waste any time on it.”
Michael stopped the sergeant in midflow. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t the police trying to get to the bottom of who Alison really is?”
“Well, Michael, it’s not really our business if someone wants to call herself something she’s not, so long as she’s not doing it for criminal purposes, and in this case there is no reason for us to believe that she is.”
“So what you’re saying is that Alison Parsons is not Alison Parsons, and you don’t know who she is?” The policeman confirmed that that was what he was saying. “And you don’t care either?”
The Bridge Page 16
