Blazing Obsession

by Dai Henley

  “That may be true, but if they don’t convict Hartley, Simon told me Alisha and I are number one suspects. It’s a bloody disaster!”

  “I understand how you feel.”

  “No you bloody don’t! It’s all right for you. You always believe you’re so fucking infallible. We’re talking about my life. And Alisha’s.”

  I slammed the phone down. I didn’t want to hear any more of RP’s assurances that everything would be all right. It wasn’t.

  I feared that if the police charged me for Johnson’s murder, the CPS would want to resurrect Flood’s assertion that I had something to do with my family’s murder. He’d dig even deeper to prove that I knew about Lynne’s affair with Hartley and Emily being his daughter.

  Flood had once suggested that Greenland’s murder also could be down to me. After all, he’d been the go-between, putting Johnson and Hartley together. It surprised me that he never suggested I could have employed Lafayette. He must have believed his story.

  I called Alisha and explained the substance of my latest calls to Simon and RP.

  “James, you are getting paranoid. I know it seems a mess, but there’s nothing we can do to influence things, is there? We’ve got to hope that if there’s any justice to be had, then we’ll be OK. Do you want to come over to my place? You sound stressed.”

  “OK. Yes. I’ll drive over now. Could be this’ll be the last night we’ll spend together.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll be fine.”

  We spent the evening going through every aspect of the case, yet again. After an hour intensely considering what we could or should have done better, we exhausted ourselves. I drove home, my mind frazzled. Although it had been good to share my fears with her.

  *

  The media’s coverage of the case resembled bloodhounds sensing a kill. They’d covered the trial meticulously every day for four weeks.

  Ubiquitous TV cameras whirred as I arrived at the court at 9.45am the next morning. I brushed past them with help from my minder.

  It proved to be an anti-climax. Many of the courts were busy with other cases but Court 16 remained empty. The jury had spent the night at their homes the previous night, after failing to reach a verdict. They’d only just reconvened.

  I wished like hell that I could spend time with them.

  I’d explain what Hartley, Johnson and Greenland were really like; evil scum only interested in ploughing their own path through life, not giving a fuck about anyone else. Compare them to Lynne, Georgie and Emily, I’d say. They were angels. But they’re dead and Hartley’s still alive.

  At midday, the jury still hadn’t reached a verdict. I shielded my face and went across the road to a Greek cafe for a coffee. A notice on the door suggested that, for a small fee, they’d look after your mobile phone. They weren’t allowed inside the court building even if they were switched off. I left mine at home each day of the trial.

  I busied myself reading car magazines, studiously avoiding the newspapers.

  I checked back with the court reception every hour in the afternoon until it became obvious the jury still couldn’t agree.

  Finally, at 3.45pm, they indicated they needed advice from the judge.

  Despite the lateness of the day, the visitors’ gallery quickly filled up, people appearing from nowhere. The foreman of the jury, a grey-haired, urbane, sixty-year-old man looking like a GP explained, apologetically, that despite discussing the case at length they were having difficulty in reaching a unanimous verdict.

  The judge listened intently and told the foreman he’d accept a majority verdict of ten to two and asked the jury to go back to their room to reconsider. He also pointed out that it would be impractical to reconvene the court later that day but hoped the jury would be in a position to declare their verdict tomorrow morning.

  I couldn’t decide whether their difficulty in reaching a decision denoted good news or bad. I found it too difficult to call. I gave up trying.

  When I got back home, although my stomach felt bloated, as if I’d eaten a bag of air, I felt I should eat something. I prepared one of my favourite pasta dishes, mushroom ravioli with a tomato and pesto sauce. After two mouthfuls, I pushed the plate away. I couldn’t face it. I poured a good measure of brandy instead.

  I updated Alisha, Simon and RP before watching TV to take my mind off things, but my head span like a top, going over and over the trial proceedings.

  I concluded that our plan had failed to pass the legal process.

  *

  Arriving at the Old Bailey early the next morning and running the usual gauntlet of journalists, I learned that the court would be sitting at 11am. The jury had reached a majority verdict.

  When I’d updated Simon, he suggested it might be a good idea if he attended the final day to support me, whichever way the verdict went. I gratefully accepted his offer.

  At Johnson’s trial, the air of expectancy in the packed court had been electric whilst we anxiously awaited the judge’s decision on whether he’d allow the incriminating DNA evidence to be presented to the jury.

  This time, the tension notched up a few degrees; not surprising given that my freedom was at stake… and possibly Alisha’s. A stranger entering the court for the first time would grasp how momentous the next few minutes would be by the drawn, intense expressions on the faces of the barristers and the jury.

  Simon sat next to me and when everyone had settled in their places, the judge asked the foreman if they had reached a majority verdict.

  “Yes, your honour.” He sounded more confident now.

  The court official stood and asked, “On the count of conspiracy to murder Lynne Julia Hamilton, Georgie Iain Burrows and Emily Stephanie Hamilton, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  The consequences of either a one-word reply or a two-word reply could hardly have been greater… for Hartley or me.

  “Guilty.”

  I closed my eyes, placed a finger and thumb on the bridge of my nose, and uttered under my breath, “Thank God!”

  The extreme tenseness in my shoulders loosened significantly.

  “On the count of the murder of Leroy Johnson, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  Before I could react, the court clerk asked, “On the count of conspiracy to murder Colin Allan Greenland, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  Simon’s clenched fist tapped up and down on my thigh, signalling huge relief. Nothing compared to mine. It had taken over two years to get justice.

  Voices from the visitors’ gallery shouted out, “Rot in hell, Hartley!” and “You scum!” I couldn’t have joined in if I wanted to. I felt numb. I stared down at Hartley. Shocked, his face contorted into a scowl. He said nothing. Just glared at the judge and the defence team.

  Our plan had worked after all, albeit with major hiccups along the way. But I didn’t feel triumphant. I’d have given anything to unwind the events of the last few years, have my family back again, not having to resort to taking matters into my own hands.

  As the clamour from the gallery subsided, Judge Winter asked the barristers to make their closing statements before sentencing.

  The court learnt from the prosecution about Hartley’s previous criminal record. RP had already researched it and told me.

  It still shocked me on hearing it read out.

  He had several police cautions for beating up a previous wife. He’d spent a year in prison in 1988 for grievous bodily harm when he’d dragged her out into the street and slapped and kicked her in front of the neighbours.

  He’d also been involved in a road rage incident, which led to him spending another six months in jail in 1991. The pattern became clear. He grew used to achieving his goals by using his intelligence, charm and charisma – ideal components for a con man. However, although he came across as a paragon of virtue, if he didn’t get his own way, he lost it and reacted physically.

 
; Mr Winn emphasised the seriousness of Hartley’s latest crimes; his ruthless drive to cover his tracks resulting in the unnecessary deaths of two men, quite apart from conspiring to murder his ex-mistress and two completely innocent children, one, his own flesh and blood.

  The defence made a plea for mitigation before sentencing. There wasn’t a lot Anthony Jones QC could say.

  “Crimes of passion are always difficult to judge. One never truly knows what goes on behind closed doors.

  “It’s entirely plausible that the defendant had been led on by Lynne Hamilton. After she met another man, she denied that the defendant could be the father of the baby and dropped him like a stone.”

  His contrite tone continued. “I suggest that under these circumstances, any man, especially one as obsessed as the defendant, would find this situation difficult to deal with.”

  When Mr Jones had finished, Judge Winter, who’d listened intently to both closing statements, addressed Hartley and said, “Please stand.”

  Hartley did so, shaking his head from side to side, still not believing the verdict.

  “These crimes are amongst the worst I have had the misfortune to deal with. You callously conspired with Leroy Johnson to set fire to a house which you knew was inhabited by three people, one your own daughter, killed a man because he blackmailed you and conspired to have another man stabbed to death because he knew too much about your exploits, fearing he’d go to the police. You are manipulative, devious and ruthless, in short, an evil man. You have shown no remorse or accepted any blame whatsoever, and had no regard for the victims of your crimes.”

  Hartley couldn’t contain himself. He yelled at the judge. “Why should I? Someone set me up! This whole trial’s a joke.” Pointing at the jury, he ranted, “And they’re no fucking better!”

  Judge Winter glared at him severely.

  “You will serve a minimum period of thirty years before you will be eligible for parole. If you die in jail, nobody will shed a tear for you. Take him down.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  September/October 2000

  I didn’t feel ecstatic. I didn’t show any sign of victory in the courtroom. More a feeling of grim satisfaction, relieved that the plan had eventually worked. We’d ensured justice prevailed and we weren’t implicated.

  Before we left the Old Bailey, Simon said, “I think the press are expecting a statement from you, otherwise they’ll be on your back for ages. I’ll scribble something out if you like.”

  A few minutes later, he passed it over to me and asked if I agreed with it. I nodded.

  A barrage of photographers and reporters thrust microphones in front of me, urging me to say something as I left the Old Bailey. I bottled it and asked Simon to read out the statement.

  As the flashbulbs fizzed, he said:

  “My client, Mr Hamilton, is delighted that at last, justice has been served for his family. This is a very significant day for him. He has lived with the tragic circumstances of the murder of his wife, his stepson and a baby he believed to be his for over two years. He would like to thank the jury for their verdict, which will help him come to terms with his devastating loss. He also requests that the media now allow him to get on with his life and to respect his privacy. Thank you.”

  Reporters yelled out questions and the photographers’ flash bulbs continued to light up the overcast late morning. My minder ushered Simon and me to my waiting car and we sped off, leaving a phalanx of paparazzi in our wake.

  I sat back in the car seat and let out a sigh. I called Alisha and told her the news.

  I heard her gasp before she said, “That’s great news! Thank God we got there at last.” I heard her sob. She had a soft side after all.

  I asked Simon about the possibility of Hartley appealing against either the verdicts or his sentence.

  “He could appeal, yes, on a point of law or if there is fresh evidence. He’d have to get permission from a high court judge. Frankly, I think that’s unlikely.”

  Over the following days, weeks and months, I realised just how close we’d come to being charged. I couldn’t believe we’d taken such risks.

  And I also couldn’t believe how profoundly I’d reacted to Johnson’s acquittal fifteen months earlier. It unearthed an overwhelming, deep-seated sense of unfairness within me I never realised I’d had.

  I concluded that I’d never have gone ahead with murdering Johnson and framing Hartley without Roger Pendleton. He’d become a powerful influence. Full of anger, I felt vulnerable back then, determined to seek retribution.

  RP had been as pissed off as Alisha and I with the unfairness and injustice. He’d always been on my side, albeit handsomely paid in the process. He became the ‘fixer’, with the resources to deal with the problem. And I took advantage.

  It’s something I’d have to live with.

  However, on other days, it felt perfectly reasonable to me that those responsible for perpetrating such heinous crimes against my family, and never brought to justice, got their just deserts.

  We’d righted a wrong.

  I realised that if the jury had found Johnson guilty at his trial in Winchester Crown Court and he’d been sentenced to twenty-five years, we’d never have discovered Hartley’s affair with Lynne and the subsequent trail of events. Perhaps it would have been better that way. But then Hartley would have got away scot-free. Justice would have only been partly served.

  I imagined what thirty years in prison would do to Hartley, a killer with a reputation for losing his temper if he didn’t get his own way. Spending the rest of his life in jail would be bad enough, but only the inmates would decide how tough it would be.

  I reflected deeply about the motive of revenge. It drove people to do things they’d never normally consider. I proved to be a classic example.

  Settling of scores is a powerful driver.

  Revenge drove Hartley, too, which he took in a most horrific way.

  I thought about Nick, due out on parole in less than two years’ time. After festering in jail, much as Hartley had done, there was no doubt in my mind he’d be seeking revenge too.

  I parked that thought at the back of my mind for now.

  I realised all three of the men involved in relationships with Lynne were shaped by their attitude to revenge.

  I made my peace with RP. Graciously, he told me he completely understood that I’d endured a great deal of pressure. Annoyingly, he sounded as infallible as ever.

  Shortly after Hartley’s trial, a judge sentenced Desmond Lafayette to fifteen years for his part in the murder of Colin Greenland. The police dropped the abduction charge against him, presumably in return for shopping Hartley.

  Two days after the trial, Alisha and I visited Lynne’s mother, Margaret. We’d called her or popped in once or twice a month since Lynne’s death, to see how she was coping. I could tell by the dead look in her eyes that she wasn’t particularly interested in the outcome of Hartley’s trial. She’d never recovered from the loss of her only daughter and grandchildren.

  *

  Something still bothered me about my current relationship with Alisha. I thought that, after the trial, I’d spend the rest of my life with her. She understood me, knew what I’d been through, and supported me when I needed it. She’d put herself at the mercy of Johnson in the cause of justice.

  She once told me, “Every time I see him, I want to vomit. I’ve got to show him affection… all that touching and kissing… it’s unbearable!” I worried she might be traumatised for years.

  We’d been thrown together by grief and revenge. It didn’t seem the ideal basis for a long-term relationship. I realised we needed each other at the time. But I never loved her. Not like Lynne and me.

  It wasn’t Alisha’s fault, but every time we met after the trial, her presence reminded me of the terrible things we’d done. And I could never forgive her for lying to me about Lynne’s quest to discover the truth about Emily’s father. And at one point, thinking I might have been responsi
ble for the arson attack.

  I wanted to put it all behind me, find a way to live with myself. I needed time away from her. We both had issues we had to deal with.

  I thought I might fly to the United States, hire a Mustang Convertible and spend three months driving across the country from New York to California, something I’d always wanted to do.

  After that, perhaps we could work something out.

  I told her how I felt.

  “If that’s what you want to do, I can’t stop you, can I?”

  “Sorry Alisha. Look, I’m eternally grateful for what you did, really I am. It’s just that I think we both need time and space …”

  “I thought we had something special going on, that’s all. Of course, I know I could never match up to Lynne, but who could?”

  “I know. Let me get this whole thing out of my system for a few months. See how it goes, OK?”

  “OK,”Alisha said, close to tears.

  My conscience stuck in my throat.

  *

  One evening, a few days after the trial, the headlights of a Ford Focus flashed into my living room as it drew up onto my drive. I wasn’t expecting visitors. I went to the window.

  My heart lurched when I saw DCI Flood get out and zap the remote locking.

  I’d last seen him when he gave his evidence at the trial, but I hadn’t spoken to him since my interrogation at the police station, where I’d spent three nights in custody. I fervently hoped I’d never set eyes on him again.

  “Can I come in and have a chat?” he said as I opened the door.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. The pulse in my neck raced. I loathed my guilty conscience.

  I offered to take his coat and suggested a cup of coffee. He declined on both counts, saying, “This won’t take long. I’m fine.”

  He sat opposite me on my sofa and crossed his legs.

  “Now that Hartley’s trial is over, I thought I’d put you in the picture about what we believe really happened on the night of Leroy Johnson’s murder. What I’m about to say is in complete confidence. You must not breathe a word of what I’m about to say. Is that understood?”