And the guilt was by far the worse of the two.
I had berated myself thousands of times for having gone to Birmingham without her, or having gone at all, and also for not coming home again that night. All to have had a few glasses of wine at the charity dinner.
For Nancy, it was the guilt of not insisting that Amelia stay over with her and Dave that night, and also for being just across the road from the disaster, almost in full view, but still helpless to stop it.
Nancy and Amelia had been very close, even though Nancy was a few years older. Closer even than sisters. They had shared a special bond insofar that neither of them was able to have children and they had each comforted the other in that respect. And now, just as for me, Nancy’s best friend forever had suddenly gone, cruelly snatched away from life and laughter.
I loaded the dirty plates and glasses into the dishwasher. Then I noticed the little blue-covered notebook lying on the worktop.
I flicked through it and there, sure enough, all on one page near the back were all the login details for Mary Bradbury’s bank accounts, written in Amelia’s fair hand. Just seeing the neat flow of her handwriting caused me to choke back a wave of sorrow.
Thanks to the police, I had no computer to use, so I tried logging in with my replacement mobile phone.
Insert customer number – check.
1st, 3rd, 4th and 8th characters of the password – check.
Security questions: insert favourite place. I looked in the notebook. Venice – check.
Insert favourite book. Rebecca – check.
As if by some form of internet sorcery, Mary’s bank account details suddenly appeared on my screen.
I felt slightly guilty looking at them.
Her balance was almost six thousand and I could see that monthly direct-debit payments would soon be due for such things as gas, electricity and telephone.
But it was the historical transactions that I was interested in.
Fortunately, all account activity for the past seven years could be recalled so I asked the system to look for credits only from three years previously.
One, for just over three million pounds, immediately caught my eye.
That would have been the proceeds of the house sale, wired to Mary’s account by the lawyers, before being then invested in stocks and shares.
I searched for six months before that and for nine months after but there was no other credit remotely close to a hundred thousand, not even a tenth of it.
It didn’t exactly prove that Joe had kept the money – he might have deposited it straight into his mother’s investment plan – but it was enough for me to be suspicious. Plenty more than enough.
24
Sunday morning dawned with brilliant sunshine in a cloudless sky. Something I sorely needed to try and brighten the gloom and despair that had descended upon me once more.
It was the effect of excessive alcohol, I told myself, but that was only half the story.
For the past eleven days, I had been living in denial, dealing more with trying to prove my innocence of Amelia’s murder rather than with the reality of being permanently left alone. I had been half-expecting her to walk in at any time, laughing that it had all been a great hoax, and I had often caught myself believing I’d heard her voice, maybe in another part of the house, or out in the garden.
But last evening, with the arrival at my door of Dave and Nancy, I had begun to realise the enormous actuality of what had really happened.
As if on automatic pilot, I got up, showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on my clothes and went downstairs.
Sunday mornings at the Old Forge had always been lazy affairs.
Amelia would wear her dressing gown, cooking ham and cheese omelettes for breakfast, while I went to collect the Sunday papers. And then we would nestle together on the sofa, eating and reading.
During the winter months, I would light a fire in the sitting-room grate and we would pass the day in happy contentment, often making love in the afternoon on the carpet in front of the fire, bathed in the warming glow from the hot embers.
But, on this particular Sunday, the only things lying on the sitting-room carpet were the stacks of papers I had removed from Amelia’s desk.
I returned everything to the drawers from which it had come, even, for some reason, placing the Living or Dying with My Friend Suicide booklet back inside the cookery magazine as if accepting that, if Amelia had wanted it so hidden, I wasn’t going to differ.
Next I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee.
Damn it. I should have asked Nancy if she had any spare milk. I also found black coffee rather bitter but I didn’t fancy putting sugar in it.
Thinking about Nancy made me realise that there had been something else she’d mentioned on Friday that was relevant. She had said that Amelia had told her that Joe had conspired together with the estate agent. How had Amelia known? Had she simply assumed it was true, or had she been in contact with the agent directly?
With a jug in my hand as the pretext, even though it was true, I walked across the road and pushed the bell on the Fadeley front door.
From deep within, I heard a raised male voice ask, ‘Who the bloody hell is that at this ungodly time on a Sunday morning?’
Oops.
‘Dave, be quiet,’ said a female voice from much closer. Nancy.
She opened the door, wearing a thin housecoat.
I glanced past her.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘He can be a real pain when he’s been drinking. Got a thumping hangover too, but it’s no more than he deserves.’
‘Tell whoever it is to get lost,’ Dave shouted from somewhere out of sight upstairs.
‘Shut up, Dave,’ Nancy shouted back. ‘It’s Bill.’
A head with tousled brown hair appeared around a door frame, and bleary eyes finally focused on me.
‘Bit bloody early for a Sunday.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Dave. My fault entirely. Couldn’t sleep.’
The head disappeared.
‘What did you want?’ Nancy asked sweetly.
I held up the jug. ‘Do you have any spare milk?’
‘Of course.’
I remained at the door as she went to the kitchen and returned with an unopened carton.
‘Have this,’ she said. ‘We have plenty.’
‘Thanks.’ I took the carton from her.
‘Just one other thing,’ I said. ‘You mentioned on Friday that Amelia told you that her brother had conspired with the estate agent who sold her mother’s house. Did she say how she knew that?’
‘She phoned the agent and he told her. Something about it being common practice to reduce the tax or something. Apparently he was quite open and brazen about how he had talked the buyer into the scheme to save him some money.’
Perhaps the agent was unaware that the amount raised from the inflated sale of ‘chattels’ had been paid to Joe, and not to Mary.
‘Did Amelia say anything else to you about it, anything at all?’
‘She said that she really hoped the estate agent wouldn’t tell Joe she’d called. She was worried that Joe would kill her if he knew.’
She left the last statement hanging in the air like a dense fog.
‘Now that is something we should tell the police.’
*
Nancy and I called and made an appointment to go and see DS Dowdeswell first thing on Monday morning.
Then we spent a couple of hours in my dining room on Sunday afternoon going through everything again to make sure we had the chronology correct.
Dave came over as well, to listen.
Nancy made a written record of everything she could remember that Amelia had told her, and I also put down on paper all I had been able to glean from Jim and Gladys Wilson, from the lawyer’s financial statement of the house sale in the desk drawer, and from Mary Bradbury’s online banking system.
At one point, Dave s
tood up and went over to the French windows, looking out at the garden beyond, as if thinking.
‘You know,’ he said without turning round, ‘it’s not the stealing of the hundred grand that is the real story here. That’s just peanuts.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Who stands to inherit when Mary Bradbury dies?’
‘I think her will states that everything was to be split equally between Amelia and Joe.’
He nodded. ‘And, after them, to their issue, meaning their children. That’s the usual way that wills are written. But Amelia doesn’t have any issue.’
He stopped and turned back to stare at me.
‘Good God,’ I said, finally understanding what he was on about. ‘So Joe will inherit everything.’
‘He sure will,’ Dave agreed. ‘Unless there is a specific clause leaving Amelia’s half to you, and I would severely doubt that.’
‘Well, we won’t have long to wait to find out,’ I said. ‘Mary Bradbury has been given only a few months to live, at most. She told me she thought she might have only a few days.’
‘All the more reason for Joe to have killed Amelia quickly, before their mother died. If he’d done it after Mary was gone, even a minute later, Amelia’s half of her mother’s estate would have then come to you via her will.’
*
Nancy and I arrived at Banbury Police Station at nine o’clock as instructed and we were graced with the presence not only of Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell but also of Detective Chief Inspector Priestly.
I took that to be a good sign.
Shown back into the same interview room once again, I wondered if I should have arranged for Simon Bassett or Harriet Clark to be with us, especially as I was again cautioned before the interview started.
Douglas would have insisted on it.
But it was too late now. It would take hours for them to get here, even if one of them was free.
‘How can we help?’ asked the DCI politely, which I took to be another positive step. Seemingly gone was his belligerent style and his blinkered certainty that I was the killer.
‘This is Mrs Nancy Fadeley,’ I said, indicating my companion. ‘She and her husband live across the road from me in Hanwell.’
He smiled and nodded in her direction.
‘Nancy was my wife’s best friend and we have some things to discuss with you.’
‘Yes?’ he said.
Nancy took out her piece of paper from her pocket and went through in detail every aspect of her conversation with Amelia on the night before she died. Nancy told them about Amelia having listened to her mother’s former neighbours from Weybridge, how she had then spoken to the estate agent about the plan to lower the reported sale price, and how she was convinced that her brother had stolen the money, finishing with the bit about Amelia being worried that Joe would kill her if he knew that she was aware of it.
Then I had my turn, outlining to the detectives about the trip to see the Wilsons and what they had told me about the £100,000 cheque given to Joe Bradbury, and how I had accessed my mother-in-law’s bank account to look for a deposit of that amount and had failed to do so.
The chief inspector raised his eyebrows at that.
‘How did you access the accounts?’
‘Online,’ I said. ‘Amelia has always had the login details in order to assist her mother with payments and such. Mary doesn’t understand computers and couldn’t cope with online banking.’ In truth, she could no longer cope with much. ‘I simply used the numbers and passwords that my wife had recorded in a notebook.’
‘I’m not sure that’s legal,’ said the DCI.
‘Arrest me then,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘I remind you, Mr Russell, that you have only been released under investigation. You are subject to re-arrest at any time.’
Mr Russell? Not Mr Gordon-Russell. Things were definitely on the way up.
‘I know it doesn’t prove that Joe Bradbury stole the money,’ I said. ‘He might have paid it back to his mother in another way or she might have even given it to him, but I would doubt that, as she would have then given the same to Amelia. But surely we’ve given you enough evidence to make it worth you investigating, or at least asking him.’
The DCI rubbed his chin in thought. ‘One person describing what another person has said, even if it was said to them directly, is considered by the courts to be hearsay, and is only acceptable as evidence in certain very limited circumstances as laid down in part eleven, chapter two of the Criminal Justice Act 2003.’
Oh, for goodness’ sake! How is it that all policemen are able to quote the law like that off the top of their heads? But, I suppose, I could quote almost all the 625 provisions of the Rules of Racing off mine, plus the 64 schedules and appendices.
But the DCI hadn’t finished. ‘However, even though a defence barrister wouldn’t like it, I believe that this may be one of those circumstances, as the declarant is unavailable to be called in person as a witness. And it may not be necessary to introduce it as evidence anyway, not if other inquiries determine that what the declarant is purported to have said is indeed true.’
I hoped he knew what he was on about, because I didn’t.
‘And how about me?’ I said. ‘Isn’t it also about time you officially stopped treating me as a suspect for my wife’s murder?’
‘We will consider our position on that as well, and we will let you know in due course.’
The DCI stood up as if to go.
Nancy nudged me. ‘Aren’t you going to tell him what Dave said?’
‘Who is Dave?’ asked the DCI.
‘My husband,’ Nancy said. ‘And he said something very important.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged the detective.
‘It’s only a theory,’ I said. ‘And there’s no actual evidence for it as there is for the other things we’ve just told you. But, it is a motive and I know from experience how keen you are on motives.’
The DCI sat down again. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Two weeks ago, just before Amelia was killed, Mary Bradbury learned that she has pancreatic cancer and it had already spread to her liver. The doctors have given her a few months at most, but she told me she could go at any time. And Joe knew that too.’
‘Yes?’ said the DCI.
‘Well, I believe that Mary’s last will and testament states that her estate should be split equally between her two children, that’s Amelia and Joe, and, if they predecease her, then their share goes to their further issue.’
The DCI nodded. It was normal.
‘But Amelia and I don’t have any children. There is no further issue on her side, so Joe Bradbury now stands to inherit the estate in its entirety. If Amelia had lived for just a few months longer, so that she had outlived her mother, then Joe would have been looking at only half.’
‘And how big is the estate?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know exactly but Mary Bradbury’s house in Weybridge was sold for more than three million.’
25
In Wednesday morning’s post I received a formal letter from Thames Valley Police, signed by the chief constable no less, stating that, unless new evidence against me were to come to light in the future, I would face no further action over my arrest on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Jane Gordon-Russell.
I didn’t celebrate.
There was nothing to be joyous about. Indeed, I was angry.
I should never have been arrested in the first place.
The letter didn’t exactly state that I was innocent of the crime but it was probably the best I could expect in the circumstances. My true innocence would only be confirmed when someone else, i.e. Joe Bradbury, was convicted.
It was too much to hope for that Thames Valley Police had sent copies of the letter to all the national daily newspapers and the broadcast media, so I wondered if I should send them copies myself. But the press are never particularly interested in innocence, only in guilt, and I didn’t rea
lly want to remind them of the whole sorry saga again anyway. At last, after two long weeks, their interest in the gory details of Amelia’s death had begun to wane as new sensational events took over the front pages and the news bulletins.
However, I did take a photo of the letter with my phone and then sent copies of that by email to all my contacts at the insurance companies, those firms for whom I had regularly done freelance work over the past two years, inviting them to again make use of my services.
I also sent a copy to the chairman of the British Horseracing Authority, and cc’d it to the chairman of the Honorary Stewards Appointment Board. Only time would tell if they responded favourably or not.
Probably not.
I thought fleetingly about sending a copy to Joe Bradbury but decided that it would be a bad idea, a very bad idea indeed. He’d go apeshit, and he was deranged enough already, especially as far as dealing with me was concerned. The letter would be like pouring petrol onto an already smouldering fuse – at best incendiary, at worst explosive.
He would find out soon enough when he was arrested. Not that there had been any word of that yet. It had been two days since Nancy and I had provided our signed statements to the police and I was becoming impatient.
I called DS Dowdeswell.
‘Any news of an arrest?’ I asked when he answered.
‘All in good time, Mr Gordon-Russell. We like to get all our ducks in a row first.’
But the ducks had hardly been in a row before they’d arrested me, and I noticed we were back to Mr Gordon-Russell.
‘So are you making any headway?’ I asked ironically.
‘Slow and steady,’ he assured me, without giving me any specifics.
‘I received a letter this morning from your chief constable.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was aware that one had been drafted.’
I wanted to ask the DS if he now felt rather foolish for having gone all the way to North Wales to arrest me so dramatically when he’d had no evidence. But I resisted the temptation, just.
‘How about your inquiries into the carving knife incident at Mary Bradbury’s place?’ I asked.
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