by Dai Henley
“Roger, look, how long can they keep me here?”
“Twenty-four hours. A police superintendant can authorise a further twelve, based on the evidence. They’ll have to go to court to get an extension. After that, they’ll have to charge you or release you. You need to sit tight for the next day and a half. You’ll be fine.”
I mentioned Flood’s view on my motive for wanting Johnson murdered.
“Christ, if they banged up everyone who had a motive we’d have to build thirty more prisons!”
He calmed down and said, “I’ll get my lawyer, Simon Brotherton, down to you right away. He’s bloody brilliant. Expensive, but the best in the business.”
When I’d finished, another uniformed constable led me down the corridor to a stark interview room with utilitarian grey-green painted walls. The only furniture was a wooden table with an audiocassette recorder on top of it and two chairs either side. Neon strip lighting reflected off every surface. A whiff of stale air caught in my throat.
The PC returned and I told him my solicitor would arrive shortly. He said, “When he arrives, we’ll explain the circumstances of your arrest and then you’ll be allowed time to brief him. After that, the detectives will want to get started.” He slammed the door shut.
Mulling over the day’s events, I sensed someone observing me. Probably my paranoia kicking in again.
About an hour and a half later, the door opened again and Simon Brotherton entered. Aged sixtyish with balding grey hair and a large girth, he wore a pinstriped suit and stylish glasses shielding bright, darting eyes. He handed me his card and took out a large notebook from his black leather attaché case.
He said in a refined, measured tone, “I’ve spoken to RP and he’s filled me in on the background to you ending up here. He’s told me everything.” He stared at me for a moment. There could be no mistaking what he meant.
“OK, let’s go over the details from your point of view.”
We spent half-an-hour together, with Simon asking question after question. He made copious notes, which he added to those he’d already made during his chat with RP.
When Simon was satisfied with my answers, he poked his head outside the room and said something to the PC standing outside. A few minutes later DCI Flood and DS Lyle entered the room and sat opposite us.
The detective sergeant unwrapped a pack of tapes. He loaded two of them into the cassette recorder. He switched it on and recorded our names, the date and time. Flood faced me and said, “I would remind you that you are being interviewed under caution.”
The interrogation begun with detailed questioning of my knowledge of Hartley. I repeated that he’d once worked for me. Flood mentioned the embezzlement but didn’t say how they’d discovered it. We’d never made it public knowledge.
Flood said, “It’s a lot of money he got away with. Why didn’t you pursue a criminal case against him?”
“I thought that trying to trace Hartley, getting the evidence and going to court would be exhausting and frustrating. I considered my time would be better spent developing the business. So did my other shareholder, who is also my business partner.”
“You weren’t tempted to take retribution then? Especially if you discovered his affair with your future wife?”
Simon butted in. “You don’t need to answer that, James.”
“No comment,” I said.
Flood pressed on.
“Do you know anything about Hartley’s claim to being Emily’s father?”
“No, of course I don’t. That’s rubbish.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because, if I can prove you knew about the affair and his claim, together with the embezzlement, you’d be highly motivated to want to harm your family and especially Hartley, wouldn’t you?”
He kept up this interrogation, often rephrasing the questions, trying to catch me out. I repeatedly told him I had no idea about any of this nonsense. Simon challenged him on more than one occasion to provide hard evidence.
Flood responded, “We’re close. Once it’s confirmed, we’ll present it to you, be sure of that.”
Simon butted in again. “You’ve made your point. My client has told you on several occasions that he had no knowledge of the affair or Hartley’s claim.”
Flood ignored him. He leaned forward, putting his sneering face close to mine, said, “Do you know where Hartley is?”
“Of course I don’t! How many more times must I tell you! I haven’t seen him in years, not since he left my business.”
Flood changed the subject abruptly yet again, deliberately upsetting the rhythm of the interview. “Let’s go through your alibis for the Johnson murder once more, shall we?”
Simon interjected again. “I should have thought by now, you’d have this aspect sorted. Either you accept my client’s alibis or you don’t. From what I’ve heard so far, all you’ve got is a cloud of suspicion. There’s precious little other evidence being offered to substantiate the arrest of my client other than motivation. And as you know well enough, motivation to commit a crime is not evidence.”
I wanted to say, ‘Good point, Simon’ but thought better of it.
Flood responded. “I want to be absolutely sure in my mind that your client’s alibi for his whereabouts when Leroy Johnson was murdered still stacks up now he’s being interviewed under caution.”
Flood turned to me. “Well?”
I trotted out the alibi once again.
“I see. And where were you at the time of Greenland’s demise?”
I sensed a trap. I said, “I’ve already told you. I don’t know a Greenland.”
Flicking over a page of his notes, he said, “Where were you between 10pm and midnight on the 12th October?” I had a job to remember.
Finally, I recalled I’d also spent that evening at Alisha’s flat. Given what Flood might have deduced about my relationship with Alisha, I couldn’t blame him for thinking there may be collusion between us. But it happened to be the truth.
“Are you in a relationship with her? Is she your girlfriend?”
“Well, no… not exactly. I told you before; she was a very close friend of my wife. She’s helped me come to terms with my loss.”
“Close enough to be staying at your house?”
“It was just for the night. Spending time with my late wife’s best friend isn’t a crime, is it?”
“No, but under the circumstances, your alibi can hardly be classed as impartial, can it?”
DS Lyle and Flood nodded to each other and Flood declared the interview over. Turning off the cassette recorder, he said, “That’s it for now. We’re going to check on the progress of the forensic tests we’re expecting. Back shortly.”
When they’d left the room, Simon leant forward and said, “They’re struggling here to find any hard evidence against you. They’re relying heavily on the fact you have strong motives for wanting Johnson and Greenland out of the way. Suggesting you had anything to do with Hartley being missing is ludicrous. As far as I can see, they have nothing else.”
“I hope you’re right.” Simon must have noticed the apprehension in my eyes.
He shook his head wearily. “I’ve seen all this before. If the police don’t have enough evidence, they pile on as much pressure as they can, hoping to get an admission of guilt. It’s the easier option for them.”
Half an hour later, the detectives returned to the interview room. Flood said, “We believe we’re getting closer to obtaining the evidence we require to charge you with the murder of Leroy Johnson −”
I spluttered, “You… you must be joking −”
“I’ll get a warrant to search your house as part of that process.”
“You’ve already searched it once, straight after the arson attack,” I yelled.
“I know, but that was over a year ago. We’d like to take another look. Oh, and I’m assured the forensic results should be available soon.”
“Good,” Simon re
sponded. “Then on that basis I assume my client will be allowed police bail?”
“Not at this time,” Flood said. “It would be very remiss of me to release your client so that he can agree his alibis with his girlfriend, don’t you think?” A smirk creased his pocked face. I held back the temptation to smash my fist into it.
He continued, “You’ll be detained here until we complete our enquiries. Unless there’s something you’d like to get off your chest?”
I shook my head in disbelief as Simon hit back. “Well, I hope your enquiries are concluded swiftly. You don’t need me to remind you of your time constraints. And you’ll need to produce a lot more evidence if you wish to retain my client any longer than twenty-four hours.”
My confidence in him grew. But RP would never employ an amateur.
When they left the interview room, I turned to Simon.
“God, he pisses me off!”
“I’m sure that’s his intention. I’ll come back tomorrow morning. We’ll see what further evidence they’ve dug up.”
The uniformed constable led me back to the custody sergeant, who referred to a clipboard on his desk, ticked a box and said to the constable, “Cell Three.”
Before going to the cells, the PC told me to take off and hand over my shoes and my belt. There didn’t seem any point in arguing.
The windowless, brightly lit cell measured no more than eight feet by six feet with a stark stainless-steel toilet and sink. A single blanket lay on top of a low secured bench and a plastic-covered mattress.
As the door clunked behind me, the sound reverberating inside the confines of the cell, my claustrophobia kicked in big time. I breathed in slowly and deliberately several times, despite the air being far from fresh. I felt like a criminal.
I convinced myself this was still part of the game Flood was playing, upping the tension, giving me time to reflect and possibly confess.
I fought my irrational terror of confinement by concentrating on every aspect of Johnson’s murder. But all it did was raise more questions.
What did Flood mean when he mentioned getting closer to having evidence against me for Johnson’s murder? Did someone witness us dumping his body in the Thames? Did someone see us go in and out of the railway arches? Or was it a bluff?
Clever bugger, Flood. Expert at applying pressure.
As my concentration lapsed, the thought of being banged up in this confined space for twenty years or more drove me nuts. I kicked out at the white-tiled wall with the soles of my feet until they throbbed. Then I beat it with the heel of my clenched fists until they ached. Exhausted, I slumped down on the mattress, my stomach churning, fearing my life may be over.
During the night, the duty PC slid the spy hole back in the door every hour. Occasionally I heard a commotion outside my cell. New residents yelled obscenities. It didn’t make much difference. My anxiety and general feeling of foreboding made sleeping impossible anyway.
What the hell was I doing in here?
Apart from being offered breakfast, which I refused − I’d have thrown it up immediately − I had no contact with any police officers or the detectives until mid-morning the following day. I’d been held for just under twenty-four hours.
A PC escorted me back to the interview room. Simon had arrived earlier.
“Any more developments, Simon?”
“No. Roger’s been briefed. He’s up to speed. We’ve got to wait to see what further evidence the police have dug up.”
Flood entered the room. He didn’t look happy.
“We’ve checked out your alibis. They appear to be genuine.” His facial expression implied it pained him to say so.
“We’ve still got work to do. The forensic team are taking more time than we’d like. We’re still obtaining evidence. You are free to leave on conditional police bail. We’ll need to speak to you again.”
I resisted saying ‘I told you so’. I just wanted to get out of there.
“What are the conditions?” Simon enquired.
You’ll need to check in with us at Southwark Police Station every morning at 10am until further notice. In addition, we’ll need your passport. Bring it to the station tomorrow morning.”
“Is that it? No other restrictions?”
“No, not at the moment.”
After collecting my mobile, belt and shoes, we left. Outside the police station, charcoal-coloured clouds scudded across the sky. It had stopped raining and there were large puddles everywhere. The cars speeding up and down Borough High Street swished more rainwater onto the pavement. I breathed in fresh, moist air lustily, expelling the fetid version I’d sampled earlier.
I hugged Simon enthusiastically. “Thanks a lot. I’m grateful for your help.”
“That’s OK. Listen, we’re not out of the woods yet. I’d like to know if a search of your home reveals anything. Call me if or when Flood gets in touch.”
I felt dirty. When I arrived home, I immediately stripped off and took a shower. I spent half-an-hour under it, scrubbing away the clinging odour of the prison cell. I was amazed at how good I felt after a squirt of deodorant and a change into fresh clothes.
I called Alisha at her office. She was delighted to hear that I’d been released. I arranged to meet her when she finished work.
Over a bottle of Merlot and linguini and meatballs at my house, she told me Flood had relentlessly interrogated her about my alibis, particularly for the night of Johnson’s murder.
“He pointed out the seriousness of perverting the course of justice if I didn’t tell him the truth. Pompous bastard.” She spat out the last two words. “He wanted to know which TV programmes we’d watched and what time they were on.”
“He asked me the same question. What did you say?”
“I told him, we watched Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Do you remember? RP insisted we spent time on getting that accurate.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did he ask you anything else?”
“Yes, about how much one of the contestants had won.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that despite sharing a bottle of wine with you, I remembered that a school teacher won two hundred and fifty grand. He’d used up all his lifelines but guessed correctly the name of the county cricket team who played at Chester-le-Street. The answer was Durham.”
“Good. I said the same. I supposed he also asked you which wine we’d drunk?”
“Oh, I told him. A bottle of Montipulciano.”
“Right again. Excellent.”
Although we got our stories spot on about our whereabouts at the time of the Johnson murder, a couple of things she told me she’d also said at the interview disturbed me.
“Oh, James, I don’t know whether I’ve done the right thing. He asked me whether I ever had a relationship with Johnson. I didn’t want to lie. And that phone call between Hartley and Greenland referred to it anyway.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I saw him from time to time. Not so much a relationship, just a few dates, that’s all. It didn’t help when those detectives saw me at your house. ”
I told her not to worry and that she’d done the right thing. “There isn’t a law against who you see or don’t see, is there?”
“No, I suppose not.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“He also asked me if I knew about Lynne’s affair with Hartley. He boxed me into a corner. I admitted that I did know. But I stressed it happened years ago and he disappeared shortly after you appeared on the scene.”
“Good. You said the right thing.”
“He asked whether you knew about it. I told him I’d never mentioned it but I couldn’t vouch for Lynne. I’m not sure he believed me.”
Our plan appeared to be creaking under the pressure DCI Flood exerted.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
November 1999
I’d become an unwilling minor celebrity. There’d been a small piece in the London papers about a forty-three-year
-old man being arrested on suspicion of murdering Leroy Johnson, who’d been discovered drowned in suspicious circumstances in the River Thames.
I thought it best if I stayed away from work. Although my name hadn’t been released, most of my senior executives were aware of Johnson’s trial debacle and my connection to him. I couldn’t face the allusions or inferences that were sure to be made.
I kept in touch regularly, though. Pat couldn’t believe I’d been arrested and released on bail. She told me not to worry. “Everything’s under control, James. Peter’s doing a great job and the business is going well.”
I desperately wanted to talk to RP, but he’d flown up to Scotland for a couple of days, investigating another case. He’d told me he’d be happy to talk on the phone, but I needed to spend time with him face-to-face.
The following evening, a thirty-second breaking news item on my local London TV station had me leaping out of my chair. They reported a car fire on wasteland close to the port of Dover. It had only made the news because this was the fifth such car torching in the area within the past fortnight.
When they mentioned a Toyota Avensis, I shouted at Alisha, who was making coffee in the kitchen. By the time she responded, the newsreader had moved on, reporting on the state of the rubbish collections in Lewisham.
It had to be Hartley’s car. If so, the forensic evidence from both Johnson and Alisha would probably have been destroyed.
I relayed this thought to Alisha.
“That’s a bugger!”
“You’re dead right it is. We’ll have to hope traces of Johnson’s DNA survived.”
“But why would Hartley burn his car and go on the run? In a way, that’s good for us isn’t it?”
“Only if he did it, yes. It’s possible he’s panicked. Maybe he read about Johnson and Greenland’s deaths in the papers and realised he’s been set up.”
Alisha slumped down into the sofa and sighed.
“How the fuck is this going to end?”
*
Next morning, I left a message with Lucy, RP’s secretary, who confirmed he’d be back in the office at lunchtime. He’d call me then.
At 3pm, my landline rang. An excited RP spoke rapidly.
