Blazing Obsession

by Dai Henley

  What the bloody hell were the police doing? I called Southampton police station every other day and spoke to PC Williamson. She always expressed her sympathy and empathised with my feelings. But regarding the investigation, her response remained the same.

  “We’re following up a couple of leads at the moment, Mr Hamilton. Rest assured we’ll be in touch as soon as we have something to report.” They could have employed a parrot.

  Life for the rest of the world carried on as if nothing had happened. I found that difficult to accept. The sun still rose, night followed day and offices were packed with workers who commuted daily. Restaurants, pubs and cafes were full of happy, smiling people.

  They still went to the cinema, to football matches or drove down to the coast at weekends with their kids giggling and shouting in the back seat.

  I told Alisha, “Don’t they know about Lynne and the children? Don’t they care that someone amongst us is a killer?”

  I wanted to scream at them. Sometimes I got as far as opening my mouth to do so.

  I thought my pain might go away more quickly if I stopped constantly thinking about Lynne, Georgie and Emily. But I could never, ever forget them.

  I went back to work and immersed myself in the business, becoming obsessed in every detail, more than I did before I met Lynne.

  Some days it worked, some days it didn’t. Pat and Peter understood my mood swings.

  I met RP several times at his office to discuss progress. I noticed that he now swore and cussed a great deal, expressing his frustration. He didn’t like to lose at anything. He was as convinced as me about Burrows’ involvement. But the police had been down that road and closed the book on him.

  I visited Lynne’s mum regularly too. She acted as if her life had ended. She’d aged significantly; she looked as if someone had beaten her with a stick. I never saw her smile again.

  Margaret sought solace in the church. Alisha and I were atheists. When the pain got to be too much, I wished I could have had something I could believe in.

  Alisha nearly always came with me when we visited her. Margaret and I wallowed in the unfairness of it all, but Alisha would have none of it after the first few meetings.

  “This is doing us no good. Let’s try another approach.”

  She forced us to look at photos of Lynne, Georgie and Emily as cathartic therapy. “Let’s concentrate on the good memories we have, shall we? It’s what Lynne would have wanted.”

  The photos brought back joyful memories of Emily. She’d inherited her mother’s penetrating blue eyes, blonde hair and beaming smile. Friends teased me by saying they couldn’t see anything resembling me in her features. I usually retorted, “That’s a blessing.”

  I told them, “I loved taking her out in the pushchair to the local shops. It always took an age. Everyone was smitten with her. She’d reduce grown-ups to drooling idiots. All that goo-gooing, pulling faces and waving furiously in order to get a happy response. She always obliged.”

  I told Margaret and Alisha how, no matter how busy I was at work, I always got home in time for Emily’s bath-time ritual.

  “I’d turn the key in the lock of the front door and step inside. This energetic blonde bundle always rushed towards me with her arms stretched out in front of her, yelling ‘Daddeee!’ one of the first words she uttered. I’d whoosh her up in my arms and kiss her all over.”

  We all shed a tear…

  But one question still dominated our thoughts.

  Why would anyone want to kill my family if it wasn’t Nick Burrows?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  December 1998 – July 1999

  We were dreading Christmas. We wanted to cancel it. Seeing jolly people drinking and eating themselves silly, wearing reindeer antler headbands and setting off party poppers didn’t match our mood. And the ads on TV promoting kids’ toys touched a particular nerve.

  A week before Christmas Eve, I received a phone call from DI Flood.

  “I’ve got good news, Mr Hamilton.” He sounded upbeat for the first time.

  “We’ve arrested someone we believe is responsible for the arson attack on your family.”

  “What! Who? Do we know him?”

  “His name’s Leroy Johnson. The Met arrested him last week for a drugs offence in Southwark, near Borough Market on London’s South Bank. Although he hasn’t been charged yet, we took his DNA as a matter of course and ran it through the National Computer. Early signs are that it looks like it matches the DNA found on the disposable lighter found at the crime scene.”

  Breathlessly, I spluttered, “Are you sure this is the man? Do we know why he did it?”

  “No, not yet. We’re waiting for confirmation from the forensic bods, but I’m told if it’s a complete match, the odds on misidentification are around seventeen million to one. We’re bringing him down to Southampton nick and we’ll question him this evening. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I had so many other questions I wanted to ask. Did he know my family? Did he have a grudge against me? Did Nick employ him or did he act alone? I wanted to drive down to Southampton immediately, see what Johnson looked like. I fantasised about what I’d do to him to make him tell me the truth.

  *

  I spent that evening with Alisha at her flat in South Quay, near Canary Wharf, drinking and chatting about Johnson’s arrest.

  An eclectic mix of styles, mostly contemporary, adorned her living room. Ornaments and objets’d’art more suitable in a junk shop filled every corner.

  We felt cautiously optimistic, but far from being in a mood to celebrate. Like my home, there were no decorations in the flat, not even a Christmas tree.

  I didn’t get any sleep that night; my mind raced, continuously examining the motive for the arson attack. At 9am the next morning, I received the promised call from DI Flood.

  “We spent most of last night interviewing Leroy Johnson. There’s no doubt now about the DNA evidence. It’s a clear match. We’re sure he did it. But the thing we’re unhappy about is his apparent lack of motive. He’s gone ‘no comment’ on us.”

  “He must be working for Nick Burrows, surely.”

  “If he is, he’s not saying. As you know, we checked Burrows out thoroughly. Actually, we’ve eliminated him from the enquiry.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I think it might be helpful if you came to Greenwich police station this afternoon, say three o’clock, for another chat. I’ll be driving up later this morning. You can then tell us everything you know about Johnson. We can collect you or you can come in voluntarily.”

  “I’ll be there. Although I know nothing about him.”

  My paranoia took hold. How would I know anything about Leroy Johnson? And Flood sounded convinced that Nick Burrows had nothing to do with the fatal arson attack.

  I got to the police station in good time, and as he walked into the interview room with another detective, I yelled at him before he had a chance to speak.

  “What exactly are you insinuating? I’ve never met Johnson. I wouldn’t know him from the man in the moon.”

  “Let’s sit down and discuss it shall we?”

  Reluctantly I did.

  “I’m sure you’d want us to follow up every possibility in order to get to the bottom of this case. So far, we can’t find any link between Johnson and your family. So it’s entirely credible that he worked on behalf of a third party. And I’m convinced it’s not Burrows.”

  “Well, who else could it be, then?”

  “We don’t know yet. But let’s start with you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Let’s deal in the facts, shall we? According to your statement, you told us that the night of the arson was the only time out of about twenty visits since you bought the cottage over a year ago that you didn’t travel down to Lymington with your family. Your business meeting appears… convenient.”

  “Not convenient, as you put it. Just very important.”

  Ignoring me, he continue
d, “We checked your wife’s computer, there’s not much on it. You told us you’d replaced it shortly before the arson attack.”

  Before I could respond, he flipped over his notebook and, reading from it said, “You told us you took the old one to the dump. Maybe there’s incriminating evidence on the hard drive.”

  “That’s absolutely crazy. I suppose you’ll tell me next I paid Johnson or whatever his name is in used notes.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  Both detectives remained silent.

  “You’d have to provide a paper trail wouldn’t you? You can check my bank account all day long if you want. You’ll find nothing.”

  I realised I’d been trapped into appearing over-defensive on a theoretical point.

  Flood carried on, “In the motor trade, as you well know, cash changes hands regularly, doesn’t it? It would have been easy for you to get your hands on folding money. Petty cash to you, isn’t it?”

  “Are you seriously saying I paid Johnson in cash to murder my family?”

  “Why not?”

  “You cannot be serious!”

  “I think there’s a case to answer. The only thing missing is your motive. We’re digging as deep as we can to discover what it might be.”

  “Dig as deep as you like. I can’t believe you’re pointing the finger at me. Are you going to arrest me?”

  DI Flood stood and said, “Not at the moment. We’ll carry on with our investigation. We’ll be in touch when we get more information. You’re free to go… for now.”

  I stumbled out of the police station in a daze. The police had obviously missed something − Nick desperately wanted revenge; he’d probably planned for me to be in the cottage as well on that fateful night.

  *

  Two days later, Flood called again.

  “You’ll be pleased to know that we’ve charged Leroy Johnson with murder and arson with intent to endanger life. He’ll appear at Southampton Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning, 23rd of December, at 10am for the charge to be officially read to him.”

  “And what about me? I assume you’ve finally come to your senses?”

  “We’ve taken advice about charging from the CPS. They think we have an excellent chance of getting a guilty verdict against Johnson. As far as you’re concerned, we’re keeping your file open pending further investigation.”

  “Not much I can do then, is there?”

  “No.”

  I told him I wanted to attend the magistrates’ court and sit in the public gallery.

  “It’s your call. It’ll only last a few minutes. The case’ll be adjourned and Johnson will appear at a Crown Court, probably Winchester, for a preliminary hearing after Christmas. After that there’ll be a plea and case management hearing and he’ll be given a trial date.”

  Nothing would stop me going. I wanted to see what he looked like, judge his demeanour, anything that might help me understand why he did it.

  *

  On the morning of the trial, a cold, blustery day, I caught the 7.39am train from Waterloo for the hour-and-a-half’s journey to Southampton Central. I wore a thick overcoat with a high collar, which I turned up against the wind chill.

  Unsmiling commuters scurried to their offices within the metropolis of London from the station. I negotiated my way to the train against this oncoming tide of human life and found a seat in an empty first-class carriage.

  In the cab from the station to the Magistrates’ Court, I felt the tension rising in my body; my mouth felt dry and my stomach had a knot in it.

  The southerly gusts of wind from the Solent chilled the air more so than in London. As I arrived outside the court, a couple of men had gathered outside, braving the elements. I assumed they were reporters. The photographers were easier to spot with the tools of their trade swinging loosely around their necks.

  I half-ran inside the modern steel and concrete building. I checked with the receptionist, who told me to go to Court Four upstairs. Panelled floor to ceiling in light brown wood and stylishly complemented by blue cloth seats, the courtroom appeared surprisingly light and airy.

  Sitting in the public gallery at the back of the courtroom, facing the bench, by 9.45am, I watch the visitors taking their seats for the first case of the day. Half were taken by the time the magistrates filed in behind the bench. DI Flood entered with a colleague and offered me the faintest nod of acknowledgement.

  I felt a surge of anticipation. I’d soon see the killer of my family. I forced myself to keep cool.

  Without ceremony, Leroy Johnson appeared from a side door, handcuffed to a security guard, who led him to the dock.

  Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting, faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt covering his black, scrawny body, Johnson looked in need of a good meal. He couldn’t have weighed much more than ten or eleven stone. His sharply angular face and closely shaven dark head emphasised his large sticking-out ears and furtive eyes, which initially scanned the courtroom. I guessed his age at around twenty-five.

  The magistrates, two middle-aged men and an older woman, each shuffled their papers in front of them. The Madam Chairman, addressing the defendant as Mr Johnson, asked him to sit down.

  As she read out the charges, Johnson stared down at his feet in total disinterest. She asked him to confirm his name and date of birth. He answered in a thin, reedy voice. My guess had been spot-on.

  Madam Chairman announced a date for the preliminary hearing at Winchester Crown Court in a week’s time.

  She remanded Johnson in custody and the security guard took him down. The whole scenario lasted under four minutes. I sat silently in the courtroom after Johnson had left the dock. As another defendant entered to face a charge of driving whilst disqualified, I stood up and filed out of the courtroom.

  At last, I’d seen the man who’d created such a monumental difference in my life. Getting justice for Lynne, Georgie and Emily had finally begun.

  Outside on the concourse, I asked Flood how long he thought it would take to get to trial. He told me curtly that with the current workload it should be around next July or August. A lot would depend on whether Johnson pleaded guilty or not.

  He also said there was little point in me attending the preliminary hearing at Winchester, since they’d only be dealing with administrative matters and court management. And most likely, Johnson would appear in court via a video link from Winchester prison.

  I asked him where I stood. He said, “We always keep an open mind until the result of the trial.”

  A week later, PC Williamson called to say that Johnson’s arraignment hearing had been set for the 3rd March 1999.

  *

  Johnson’s murder charge made little difference to my emotional well-being. I still wouldn’t have any idea why he did it until the main trial.

  But at least someone was in the frame.

  I called RP. I wanted him to find out everything he could about Leroy Johnson. I assumed the police and the CPS would be checking him out too, but I’m sure they wouldn’t include me on their circulation list. Especially as Flood hadn’t ruled out my involvement.

  I explained to RP Flood’s insinuation that I’d been involved in the arson attack. “He really gets under my skin, you know?”

  RP shook his head. “Sometimes, I wonder about our wonderful police force. Officers like him should investigate what’s under their bloody noses, not go off on a hypothetical thesis.

  “Do you want me to get background info on him too?”

  “Can’t do any harm, can it?”

  *

  Reminders of my loss were never far away. The whole of London appeared full of happy families looking forward to the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d stay at home, get a takeaway, try to read or immerse myself in business planning, wishing the night away. Instead, at Alisha’s insistence, we visited Margaret.

  She cooked us a meal, glad of something to do, I suspect, and I f
illed her in on the latest information regarding Johnson.

  She said, “How could anybody do such an evil thing? It’s beyond me.” She grew close to tears as she shook her head.

  As the witching hour struck, we watched Big Ben chiming twelve o’clock on TV and I proposed a tearful toast to the belief that justice would prevail.

  Getting home in the early hours, I felt particularly mawkish, something that regularly happened. I looked through Lynne’s dressing table drawers and our sideboards, containing all kinds of knick-knacks and photos, through fogged-up eyes.

  I stumbled across a stopwatch Lynne had given me for my forty-first birthday. The inscription read, To James. There’s a time for everything. Love, Lynne. November 1996.

  The context then was keeping a record of my running times. Now the words had greater significance to me. Time to grieve? Time to get justice? Time to move on?

  I thought ‘moving on’, as well-meaning friends had suggested, would constitute a gross act of betrayal. Even if I got the justice we craved, ‘moving on’ still didn’t feel the right thing to do.

  I often talked to Lynne, Georgie and Emily when I spent time alone at home. Ridiculous, I know, but it consoled me.

  I particularly longed to hold Emily in my arms once again, imagining I could see her, smell her, hear her.

  The thought of Johnson getting a significant prison sentence kept me sane. And there had to be a way of discovering Nick’s involvement. He’d pay for it too.

  *

  A few weeks later, I visited RP’s palatial office to go through what he’d discovered about Johnson and DI Flood. He reached inside a drawer and pulled out two files.

  “Flood’s got an interesting past. Here’s a copy of his file you can keep.”

  I quickly scanned the neatly typewritten notes. Flood’s CV showed him to be an ambitious model police officer, working his way through the ranks after joining as a probationer straight after leaving school. Along the way, he’d received several Commissioners’ Commendations for outstanding commitment, courage and dedication.