by Dai Henley
The latest Commendation referred in glowing terms to Flood’s role in dismantling a prolific south coast drugs network, resulting in lengthy prison sentences for the gang’s leader.
RP had hand-written a lengthy note in the margin, I assumed because of the further enquiries he’d made. It referred to Flood’s wife being the victim of a hit and run ‘accident’ a month after the gang leader’s imprisonment.
As she cycled home from work one evening, a witness reported that a black BMW, complete with darkened windows, drove straight into her. She ended up in a coma in an intensive care ward for a month before Flood had the daunting task of turning off her life support machine. She never had a chance.
RP, noticing that I’d stopped flicking over the pages of the report at this point, said, “Poor bugger. To make matters worse, he’s got two children, both girls, aged three and five at the time.
“The police are convinced that the gang were responsible. As you’d expect, they threw every available resource at the case for two years without success. Then the investigation ceased, due to government cuts in police funding. After that, my source tells me that Flood devotes every moment of his spare time trying to track down the perpetrators.”
“That explains a lot,” I said.
RP handed me another smartly bound folder. “Here’s Johnson’s file. He’s certainly not had the best that life can offer, that’s for sure.” Considering it had only taken him a few weeks to put together, the exceptionally detailed dossier covered Johnson’s entire life story.
“You can take this with you for more bedtime reading, but in essence he’s been on the wrong side of the tracks most of his life.”
As I flicked through the dossier, RP explained that Johnson was expelled from school and ended up, aged sixteen, in Feltham Young Offenders’ Institute, renowned for its appalling treatment of inmates. He’d ‘graduated’ with little education and learnt no employment skills, despite the opportunities the Institute offered.
He’d drifted into ever-increasing levels of crime; burglary, drug dealing and had served three years from 1991 to 1994 at Pentonville for setting light to a warehouse. He claimed the owner had put him up to it, needing the insurance money to bail out his failing business. Fortunately, he’d harmed no one. The local police in the Elephant and Castle area in South London knew him well.
Shortly before Christmas 1998, nearly five months after the fatal arson attack on my cottage, the police arrested him on suspicion of drug dealing, but they didn’t charge him.
Waving the folder in his direction, I asked RP, “Does any of this explain why he set fire to the cottage?”
“No. Except, obviously, he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else but himself. I get the impression he’d do anything for money. You’ll see the psychiatric report suggests Johnson felt empowered by the original arson attack; felt in control.”
“That’s sick.”
“You’re not kidding. It’s obvious to me that, somehow, Burrows approached Johnson to be his hit man via a third party. No other scenario presents itself so clearly.”
“Yes, I know. But Flood told me he’d followed up that line of enquiry. He’s interviewed Nick several times and checked out possible links with Johnson, but none showed up. There appears to be no connection.”
“Mm…” RP said. “Well I hope he tried hard enough. It wouldn’t be the first time the police had screwed up.”
*
I spent the evening going through Johnson’s dossier in minute detail, looking for any clues that RP may have missed. Goodness knows how he got this stuff. He must have contacts everywhere in all sorts of places. I suspected he had one inside the Metropolitan Police Force with access to the National Computer.
The report made compelling reading. Johnson was born whilst his drug-addicted mother was on remand at Holloway prison. She’d bludgeoned another woman to death in a jealous rage whilst high on steroids and heroin. The jury found her guilty and the judge sentenced her to life imprisonment. A photocopy of Johnson’s birth certificate read ‘father unknown’, although from Johnson’s colouring, he was black. Johnson ended up in a care home, the first of many.
He’d suffered an unhappy, neglectful childhood. He got into drug dealing at ten years old, the same age as Georgie when he died.
How differently their lives had turned out. Through no fault of his own, Georgie, who had the possibility of doing something worthwhile with his life, was dead, and this scumbag, offering nothing to humanity, still lived.
The psychiatric report concluded that Johnson had difficulty empathising with people. He also possessed a craving for power, prestige and financial reward and possessed an inability to express remorse.
Motivated by a desire to feel important, he craved being the centre of attention. He wanted people to think of him as clever and useful.
When I finished reading the dossier, I threw it down hard onto the floor and kicked it to the other side of the room shouting, “Fuck you!” How could this apology for a man take the lives of three vulnerable, beautiful human beings without giving it a second thought?
I wanted to get into his prison cell and beat him up with a club until he turned to pulp, and when he couldn’t take any more, I’d set fire to him.
Then he would be the centre of attention.
*
There wasn’t much more we could do, except wait until Johnson’s arraignment hearing on 3rd of March 1999. Despite the evidence against him, he pleaded not guilty and a trial date was set for later in the year, 28th July, at Winchester Crown Court.
If I couldn’t get hold of PC Williamson, sympathetic as always, I called DI Flood at least weekly during the next two months, ever mindful of his wife’s tragic demise.
I tried to dredge up sympathy for him but without success. His fixation on finding a way for me to be involved in the arson attack beggared belief. I asked him every time we spoke if I was still under suspicion.
“I like to keep an open book, that’s all. There’s no further evidence I’ve discovered that warrants anything more than that… at the moment.”
When I asked him about progress on the Johnson case, he told me more than I thought he might. Maybe he reasoned if he told me stuff, it would make me open up too.
He said, “The CPS are focussing on three issues: the DNA on Johnson’s lighter found at the crime scene, his whereabouts at the time and the complete lack of motivation, other than something to do with his personality problems.
“Before going ‘no comment’ on us, Johnson said he’d mislaid his lighter and that someone else must have used it to start the fire. But he couldn’t explain how it got from London to Lymington.
“He said at the time of the arson attack he’d been drinking in a pub near where he lived in Bermondsey but I’m not convinced by his alibi.”
“That’s good stuff, isn’t it? Has he said anything about Nick Burrows being involved?”
“No. He hasn’t. This is what’s troubling the CPS. There’s a total lack of motive for the killing. It’s the missing link.”
I fervently hoped the prosecution at Johnson’s trial would apply enough pressure under cross-examination to make Johnson reveal Nick as the instigator. Then Flood would have to accept my innocence.
*
We tried to get on with our lives and dealt with it in different ways. I poured more energy into my business. Peter, still keen to atone for Hartley’s embezzlement, suggested that now we knew Hartley resided in Belmarsh, we should visit him – try to recover the funds, if they hadn’t been spent already.
I liked the idea. I didn’t want to go down the route of informing the police, go through an endless investigation proving the fraud and it becoming general knowledge in the trade.
However, Hartley refused to see us. We estimated that with time off for good behaviour, he’d be released on parole around August 1999. We made a diary note to follow him up then.
Margaret was still a mess. Nothing would ever get her back to her usual
sunny self. Alisha spent a lot of her time worrying about me.
I hoped that once Johnson was banged up and Nick’s involvement confirmed, we could say justice had prevailed.
CHAPTER NINE
July – August 1999
Alisha badly wanted to come with me to Johnson’s trial, but her boss insisted on taking his annual leave that week and she had to stand in for him.
“I want to go to see what the bastard looks like.” Her anger matched mine.
I didn’t trust myself to contain my emotions. I asked Pat if she’d come down to Winchester with me.
“Of course, James. I’d be happy to.”
On Sunday, 27th July, we drove down to the beautiful medieval city, looking resplendent and majestic in the summer evening sun, and checked into the Hotel Du Vin boutique hotel at 7pm. The trial began the next day at 10am at Winchester Crown Court, with Judge Julian Carter QC presiding. Two weeks had been set aside for the hearing.
Lynne’s mother couldn’t face the ordeal of seeing her daughter’s killer. We left her at home in the care of a next door neighbour.
Waking to another fine, sunny, cloudless day, we walked the four hundred yards to the Law Courts at the top of the city via an attractive cobbled courtyard. A sense of anticipation came close to overwhelming me.
Climbing the twenty steps to the imposing entrance of the brick and flint four-storey building, I turned to Pat and said, “At last we’ll hear why he did it.”
“I hope so, James.”
A cameraman and several photographers thrust their equipment in our faces as we reached the entrance. We pushed our way through them.
We checked the board, which confirmed the case was being heard in courtroom three on the second floor. A receptionist directed us to the public entrance and the fifty-seat gallery on the third floor which looked down onto the courtroom, directly facing the bench where the judge presided.
The first hour of the morning proved to be a non-event. Most of the time the lawyers spent empanelling the jury; selecting the twelve members from the twenty who’d been standing-by.
Reluctantly, we took the opportunity to sit outside, feeling the sun on our faces. I preferred to crack on. But at least we avoided milling about in the concourse with other people attending different trials. I climbed the stairs on more than one occasion to check with the court usher when the trial would start. I needed something to do.
By 11.15, we were sitting in the visitors’ gallery, full to bursting point for the trial of Leroy Johnson for murder and arson with intent to endanger life. There’d been a great deal of media coverage, which I’d studiously ignored. Others were obviously intrigued.
The court official finally swore in the jury and Johnson, accompanied by a prison officer, whose bulk emphasised the defendant’s gaunt body, sat in the dock.
He wore an ill-fitting dark suit and black tie, designed to add a modicum of respectability to the proceedings. He still looked in need of a good meal. As the court official read out the charges, Johnson wore the same expression and projected the same air of disinterest he’d shown at his first hearing in the magistrates’ court.
I’d never attended a Crown Court case before. I’d watched the dramatic cases portrayed in Kavanah QC on TV. Everything was sorted within an hour. How different to the real world. The legal process, slow and laborious, examining every minute detail of the case, wasn’t remotely like the TV programme. I almost screamed, ‘Get on with it!’
The amount of paperwork involved staggered me. Each team of barristers had on their desks numerous Lever-Arch files with yellow Post-It stickers marking particular pages.
Judge Carter, every inch the stereotype of a High Court judge, bespectacled and resplendent in his red robe and parchment-coloured wig, peered at his laptop, occasionally prodding the keyboard with a single finger.
He invited the chief prosecutor to make his opening speech.
Mr Nigel Smithson QC, urbane, tall, elegant, in his late forties, with a shock of grey hair sticking out from under his wig, struck an imposing figure. He spoke with a public-school accent, conveying immense confidence.
Making eye contact with the jury directly, he said, “The prosecution case is straightforward. You will hear compelling evidence that will prove conclusively that the defendant is guilty of the sickening, pre-meditated murder of three people, including a two-year-old little girl.
“There are three key elements to this case which lead directly to this conclusion. Firstly, the evidence the prosecution will present will show that he knew a defenceless family lay sleeping at the cottage in Lymington on that fateful night.”
He paused before continuing.
“Secondly, DNA on a cigarette lighter found at the crime scene has subsequently been directly matched to the defendant. An expert will inform us that the odds on misidentification are around seventeen million to one.
“And finally, the defendant has been given every opportunity to provide an alibi regarding his whereabouts on the evening in question. It is the prosecution’s view that this alibi is not watertight.
“Putting these points together suggests there is only one suspect in this case. The defendant in the dock.”
He expanded on each of these points for over an hour. His succinct, matchless performance significantly raised my confidence in getting a result. I couldn’t possibly see how any jury could fail to convict Johnson. But we still were no nearer to finding out why he did it.
The defence barrister, Mr Quentin Renfrew QC, short, balding and paunchy with an arrogant manner, looked the complete opposite of the prosecutor. He stood and faced the jury, grabbing the lapels on his robe with both hands as he did so.
“I would take issue with my learned friend over his description of the evidence about to be presented as ‘compelling’. We’ll present a witness who will tell us that at the time of the arson, the defendant had been drinking in a pub in London.
“Another weakness in the prosecution’s case is the defendant’s complete lack of motivation. It defies belief that he’d commit this act for fun.
“Despite a great deal of investigation by the police, they cannot establish any connection whatsoever between Leroy Johnson and the Hamilton family.
“The police have also investigated whether the defendant worked on behalf of a third party, but once again, they have produced no evidence of this whatsoever.”
I wanted to yell out, ‘It’s obvious he worked for Nick Burrows. They haven’t looked hard enough’.
Mr Renfrew continued, “The only real evidence the prosecution have is the DNA on the lighter and this brings me to the circumstances of how it came to be matched to the defendant’s DNA. The defence maintain this evidence should not form part of the prosecution case.”
Judge Carter intervened. “Mr Renfrew, do I understand you correctly? Are you making the point that you don’t think this evidence should be presented to the jury?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“Then I’ll hear your argument about the admissibility of the DNA evidence in their absence.” Turning to the jury he said, “Please go to your room until you are asked to return by the usher.”
To the gallery, he said, “The public and the press may remain, but I would remind you there can be no reporting of any argument in the absence of the jury.”
As they shuffled out to the sound of murmuring from the gallery, I turned to Pat and whispered, “What’s going on? This is ridiculous.”
She held my arm. I think she thought I’d make a scene.
Mr Renfrew stood and spoke directly to the judge.
Speaking carefully and deliberately, he said, “Your honour, the defence believes the DNA evidence is inadmissible in this case. The current legislation states that the Forensic Science Service can retain only the DNA of people convicted of a recordable offence, not simply arrested. This is precisely the case with the defendant. His arrest never led to a charge for the alleged drug dealing offence five months after the arson attack. The
DNA should therefore have been destroyed. It wasn’t.
“Unfortunately, human error caused it to be left on the Police computer’s hard-drive and, not unsurprisingly, Mr Johnson’s DNA matched it.” He paused, then emphasised, “Illegally.”
Mr Renfrew made this final point with a dramatic flourish, stabbing a finger several times at a file on his desk. The courtroom fell completely silent awaiting the judge’s comment.
Before he had time to consider, Mr Nigel Smithson jumped to his feet and asked the judge for a brief adjournment to give his team time to respond. The judge agreed, stood, bowed and made his way to his chambers.
Clenching and unclenching my fists, I said to Pat under my breath, “I can’t believe this. It’s a complete joke.”
The prosecution team animatedly discussed this latest development whilst we filed outside the courtroom in silence, wondering where this latest development would lead us.
Half an hour later, at 3.30, the clerk ushered us back into court.
Judge Carter asked for the chief prosecutor’s response.
“Your honour, as I said in my opening speech, the evidence we shall present is absolutely clear, compelling and incontrovertible. However, I accept the law is also clear on this issue. May I request that you consider using your discretion in this case and admit the evidence? We are talking about an extremely serious crime with the loss of three lives, including a two-year-old. If this evidence is not admissible the case against the defendant will collapse and we don’t believe that justice will be served.”
The judge gathered his thoughts and spoke equally slowly and emphatically.
“Mr Smithson, I will ensure that justice is served in my court. I will adjourn now and make a ruling in the morning.” He stood and bowed as the clerk shouted, “All rise.”
The journalists rushed out of the court to file their copy – even with reporting restrictions in place, I speculated what dramatic headlines they’d conjure up.
