Blazing Obsession

by Dai Henley

  “Well, that was a fucking nightmare!” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Alisha. I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay here for as long as you want me to. Why don’t you take your brandy and go to bed? I’ll doss down on the couch.”

  “Yes, I think I will.”

  Five minutes later, I put my head around her door to make sure she was OK. She sat on the bed with her arms wrapped around her legs, still holding the empty brandy glass in one hand. She had a vague expression on her face but, smiled as she said, “You’re so good to me, James. Come here.” She waggled her finger at me and as I leant closer to her face, she kissed me fully on the lips.

  “Why don’t you sleep in my bed tonight?”

  She’d brushed her hair and her dark brown eyes locked onto mine as she continued smiling. I wasn’t sure where this was leading, but I found myself drawn to her.

  Since Lynne’s death fifteen months earlier, I’d missed the intimacy of feeling naked, warm flesh nuzzling into me in bed. And the way her curves melted into mine – a perfect fit.

  I knew this wasn’t the right time or place, but as I glimpsed Alisha’s toned shoulders and arms and the revealing transparent nightdress, I lost the battle…

  *

  When I woke, it took me a while to realise where I was. The sun streamed through the windows and I smelt coffee brewing. Sitting up in the bed, an overwhelming guilty feeling washed over me.

  During the night, we’d become unbelievably aroused and excited as we abandoned our inhibitions and eagerly committed ourselves to sexual gratification. But the first pangs of guilt had kicked in when we’d finished.

  Now the guilt turned into shame. What had I done?

  I fought back my tears. I felt I’d let Lynne down.

  Alisha entered the bedroom wearing her dressing gown. She carried a cup of coffee in each hand. I turned my face away from her.

  “What’s wrong, James?”

  “Er… nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, yeah? Come on, what’s really the matter?” She put the cups down on the bedside table and placed an arm around my shoulder.

  I tried to explain how I felt, but the words wouldn’t come.

  She sympathised. “I know how much you loved Lynne and how much she loved you. I can feel your pain. Really, I can. I feel pain too. Lynne was my best friend. More than a sister to me. I wouldn’t do anything to upset her.”

  She stroked the back of my head, at the same time gazing into my eyes. “But last night, we both needed comforting, don’t you see? In a funny kind of way, I think Lynne would have approved. We’re both still grieving for her.”

  I looked away, breaking eye contact.

  Alisha continued, “The fact is you met each other and fell in love. You were two sides of the same coin. But now, she’s gone. Nothing will bring her back.”

  “Yes, I know, I know.”

  I slid off the bed and made for the bathroom, fighting back the tears once again.

  *

  Later that Saturday morning, after I’d showered and shaved with Alisha’s lightweight woman’s razor, I dressed and popped down to the newsagents to see if the papers had any more news on the Greenland murder.

  The Daily Mail covered the story.

  MAN FOUND STABBED IN VICTORIA PARK

  In the early hours of yesterday morning, a man was found stabbed to death in a copse in Victoria Park close to Hackney Marsh. He has been named as Colin Greenland, aged 47 and a well-known drug dealer. Police are following up a number of leads in this direction. They haven’t ruled out a possible connection with the apparent gangland killing of Leroy Johnson, aged 26, whose body was dragged from the River Thames near Tower Bridge five days ago. If anyone has any information on either of these incidents please call Crimestoppers 0800555111 or Southwark Police Station 0207177666.

  The references to Victoria Park near Hackney Marsh, close to the location where Alisha had escaped from the boot of Hartley’s car, sent a shiver down my spine. Now the Metropolitan police had linked these murders, presumably from the messages and conversations on Hartley’s mobile, we needed them to tie in the arson attack and pin it on Hartley – except he’d gone missing.

  I called RP at home from Alisha’s landline, told him about the Daily Mail article and updated him on last night’s events. He sounded genuinely concerned and relieved Alisha had survived her ordeal.

  I asked him, “Do you think Alisha should go to the police, tell them about this abduction attempt and mention Hartley’s car?”

  After a moment’s pause, he replied, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It could look like Alisha’s setting up Hartley. It’s too obvious. On the other hand, it’ll appear strange if she doesn’t inform the police. Someone may have witnessed the incident and already reported it for all we know. I’d say get her to go to her local station, make a statement but don’t mention the car’s details.”

  I told Alisha RP’s thoughts, to which she agreed.

  I added, “You know, I think it would be a good idea if you moved into my place whilst Hartley’s still at large. He obviously knows where you live and I wouldn’t forgive myself if he sent someone else to abduct you.”

  “You’re assuming he’s behind it, are you?”

  “Who else had a motive?”

  “You’re right. Well, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  “OK. I think you’re right. I’ll pack a case. Won’t be long.”

  As she left the room I shouted after her, “I’ll run you over to my place as soon as you’re ready and then, if you like, I’ll drop you off at the police station.”

  When we got to my house, I carried her bag and took it upstairs to the second bedroom. She followed.

  “Look, Alisha, I know it sounds silly after last night, but I don’t think I’m quite ready yet to… you know −”

  “No… no… that’s fine, James. I understand. I do.” She sighed as she added, “This whole business is surreal.”

  I left her to sort out her things and when she finished, we drove over to the police station after lunch. I dropped her off, wished her luck, pecked her on the cheek and told her to call me when she’d finished.

  The police station in Canary wharf was close to my BMW showroom and office. I decided to go in. Being a Saturday, the showroom was busy. I walked through, acknowledged a couple of my salesmen and went to my office.

  With only eight weeks to go, there’d been a great deal of media attention to the possibility that at midnight on the last day of the twentieth century, the world’s computers would crash. The media called it the Millennium Bug or the Y2K problem.

  It was about how the programmers had written their codes. Many had taken a shortcut to save memory by only using the last two digits of the year. This had the effect that as the year rolled over into 2000, the computer system would think it was 1900. Many experts forecast an epic meltdown on the scale of Armageddon.

  As if I didn’t have enough on my plate.

  Like every other business, we were setting up contingency plans in case this ‘Doomsday’ prophecy became reality. I went into the office and read the latest reports from our consultants who were working on the problem.

  Two hours after dropping her off, Alisha called and I collected her from the police station. I asked how the interview went.

  “Fine. I made a statement. I think it went OK. Pretty straightforward, actually.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Late October 1999

  The following morning, a loud knocking on my front door around 7am made me start. I’d only just got up and made coffee whilst still wearing my boxers and T-shirt. I threw on my dressing gown and answered the door.

  Two burly men were standing on the threshold. I immediately recognised one as DI Flood.

  “Mr Hamilton. Remember me?”

  “How could I forget? Yes, of course I do.”

  “I’ve been transferred to the Met. I’m now a Detective Chief Inspector wor
king for the Major Crime Team. This is Detective Sergeant Lyle.” They both flashed their warrant cards as a matter of course. “May we come in?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  RP’s warning rang loudly in my ears.

  I showed them into the sitting room. Drizzly rain patted against the windows. I waved an arm at two armchairs and offered them coffee. They both refused.

  I recalled DCI Flood’s gaunt and serious expression, exhibiting every inch the hard-bitten police officer. DS Lyle, younger, around thirtyish, wasn’t in as good a shape as his boss, a slight paunch poking out of the top of his trousers as he sat down.

  “Should I get dressed?”

  The newly promoted Detective Chief Inspector replied in his usual brusque manner. A darkness shrouded him and he had an unerring knack of putting me on edge.

  “That won’t be necessary for now. We’re investigating a possible link between two recent unexplained deaths in London with the arson attack on your family in August 1998. As you know, I was the SIO on that case. The powers-that-be decided I should follow up these developments. It’s possible you may be able to help us with our enquiries.”

  I wasn’t overly excited that Flood was still on my case. But at last the police had made the connections we wanted.

  “If I can be of any help, of course I’ll give you any information I can.”

  DCI Flood glanced down at his notebook and flicked back a few pages before saying, “Good. I suspect it’s a bit painful, but can you tell me everything you know about the arson attack on your cottage in Lymington?”

  Trying not to sound too defensive, I fought back the temptation to react strongly.

  “I’ve been through all this with you before. As I recall, you implied then that, somehow, I might have been involved. You’ve never confirmed otherwise, incidentally.”

  “Just answer my questions, Mr Hamilton. It’s all new to DS Lyle.” He stared at me, forcing me to blink first, clearly laying down a challenge.

  Trying to recall precisely what I’d said previously proved difficult. At the time, I couldn’t function properly in the midst of disbelief, then grief and anger.

  “And explain to us again why, for the first time ever, you didn’t accompany your family down to the cottage on that Thursday evening?”

  “How many times have you asked me that? Check the notes you made at the time.”

  “Oh, I have. I want to hear your reason again. Maybe it’s changed?”

  I told him about the important business meeting, which, as I repeated it, now sounded like a lame excuse.

  When I finished, Flood said, “When did you realise your wife was having an affair at the same time you were seeing her?”

  The question took me completely by surprise. How the hell did he know about that? I assumed the police had found something when they searched Hartley’s flat. Or maybe Hartley had confided in someone else other than Greenland.

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard anything so crazy! We were very happy. Ask anyone.”

  I didn’t even convince myself. The back of my neck grew sticky with sweat.

  Whilst DS Lyle scribbled something in his notebook, Flood pressed on.

  Inspecting his notes again, he said, “How did you feel about Leroy Johnson’s acquittal on a technicality despite the overwhelming DNA evidence against him?” He’d touched a raw nerve, no doubt intentionally. I found it impossible not to rise to the bait.

  I yelled, “You know damn well how I felt. You were in the court when that dumb apology for a judge let him go. You’ll recall that, apparently, Johnson’s human rights trumped mine.”

  “That was unfortunate, yes.”

  “Unfortunate? Is that the best you can do? How the bloody hell would you feel? You’ve not been in that position. Nor, I suspect, has he!” I nodded aggressively in the direction of DS Lyle. “I wish to God I’d never been in that position either, but through no fault of mine, I was.”

  As soon as I’d said it, I recollected Flood’s wife being the victim of a fatal revenge hit and run a few years previously by a criminal gang. She’d died after spending months in a coma. They’d never found the perpetrators.

  Flood’s face showed not a shred of emotion as he replied, “It’s not our feelings we’re concerned about. I can see you’re still incensed. I need to know where that anger would lead you.”

  I recognised his now familiar interviewing techniques: asking intensely provocative questions designed to goad me into an emotional response and then changing the subject back and forth frequently.

  I spat out the words, “That’s the whole point. It hasn’t led me anywhere. I’m just trying to get on with my life.”

  “Did you know that Leroy Johnson was found, murdered, in the River Thames a few days ago?”

  “Yes, I do read the papers, you know.”

  “Can you tell me where you were between the hours of 10pm and 2am on Thursday 9th of October?”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting I had anything to do with that, are you?”

  “Just tell me where you were.”

  I gave him the alibi I’d rehearsed with Alisha. The DS carefully made a note.

  Flood continued, “You may also have read recently that another person, Colin Greenland, was discovered in Victoria Park stabbed to death. He appears to have had connections with Johnson and your wife’s lover, a certain John Hartley. Do you know Colin Greenland?”

  “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. And no, I don’t know a… whatever his name is… Greenland. And how dare you insinuate that my wife had an affair. I suggest that unless you have hard evidence, you shut up!”

  For a fraction of a second, I’d caught him off-guard.

  Eventually, he said, “I think you should calm down, Mr Hamilton. I’m simply attempting to put all the pieces together here.” Scanning his notebook once more, he said, “Ah, yes. There’s another link between you and John Hartley, isn’t there? He used to work for you. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, he did. He left my business years ago. I’ve not seen him since.”

  “Well, the way I see it, there appears to be a definite link between Johnson, Greenland, you and Hartley. Someone’s murdered Johnson and Greenland. The only way to get to the bottom of this is to talk to you and John Hartley. Unfortunately, he’s gone missing. Are we likely to find him murdered too?”

  “What am I supposed to say to that? That’s an outrageous thing to say. I’m not even going to answer you.”

  Flood sat back in the sofa. Closing his notebook, he said, “OK. Let me tell you where we are. It appears to me that you undoubtedly have strong motives to cause harm to Johnson, Greenland… and Hartley.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I don’t think I’m being ridiculous. Your motives are especially strong in wanting to harm Leroy Johnson. I’d like you to get dressed and come down to the police station. We’ll need to check out your alibis and pursue other lines of enquiry with you under caution.”

  “This is crazy!”

  “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Leroy Johnson. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  As he finished the caution, Alisha walked into the room.

  Glancing at the detectives, she said, “What’s going on, James? I heard voices and – ”

  “Do you believe this? They’re arresting me on suspicion of murder! They want me to go down to the station for further interrogation.”

  “What? That’s ludicrous!”

  “I know, I know.”

  Flood frowned and stared at Alisha trying to work out our precise relationship. I’d just given her name as my alibi.

  Before he could say anything, I said, “Alisha’s a good friend of mine. She was a very good friend of my wife’s too.”

  *

  DS Lyle
drove through the early morning rush hour traffic with the windscreen wipers clearing the spitting rain. Flood occupied the passenger seat and I sat in the rear. I broke the silence and spoke to the back of Flood’s head. “Can I phone someone?”

  He half-turned to me and said, “You have the right to make one phone call and to have a solicitor present at the interview. You can make the call once we get to the station.”

  The rest of the journey continued in silence.

  I mentally went through the plan we’d hatched with RP. Most of it had worked, but Greenland’s murder, Alisha’s abduction and Hartley’s disappearance were things we couldn’t possibly have foreseen.

  And I hadn’t anticipated my arrest on suspicion of murder. Our plan had turned into a nightmare.

  When we got to Southwark Police Station, the custody officer, a bulky veteran with greying hair and a square jaw, took over. He was ideally suited to the role of banging up offenders, positively enjoying the process.

  DS Lyle gave him details of my arrest. Then a PC searched me, took my mobile phone, and placed it in a brown envelope. I signed a receipt thrust in front of me.

  The custody officer said he needed to take a DNA swab, my fingerprints, a blood sample and a photo.

  “Why the hell do you want all that? This is ridiculous.”

  He sighed and said, “We can do this with or without your help. It’s the law.”

  I had no choice. “When I’m released without charge, make sure my DNA samples are destroyed. It’s the law.”

  He grunted and muttered, “Smart arse,” under his breath.

  The constable said, “You have the right to consult a solicitor and to make one phone call to let someone know your whereabouts.”

  I called RP. Alisha had already contacted him after I’d been taken away. He’d expected my call.

  “Well I did warn you about the possibility. Be keen to know what evidence they have, though. Could be the search of Hartley’s flat revealed something other than the obvious.”

  Not the most helpful thing to say, I thought.