“And is there a stock exchange regulation requiring that such explanations should take place in bed?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd,” said Jeremy. “I spent the night at the Queen’s Hotel. Call the manager,” he added, picking up the telephone and offering it to me. “He’ll confirm that I was booked into my usual room.”
“I’m sure he will,” I said. “But he’ll also confirm that it was I who spent the night in your usual bed.”
In the silence that followed I removed the hotel bedroom key from my jacket pocket and dangled it in front of him. Jeremy immediately jumped to his feet.
I rose from my chair, rather more slowly, and faced him, wondering what his next line could possibly be.
“It’s your own fault, you bloody fool,” he eventually stammered out. “You should have taken more interest in Rosemary in the first place, and not gone off gallivanting around Europe all the time. It’s no wonder you’re in danger of losing the company.”
Funny, it wasn’t the fact that Jeremy had been sleeping with my wife that caused me to snap, but that he had the arrogance to think he could take over my company as well. I didn’t reply, but just took a pace forward and threw a punch at his clean-shaven jaw. I may have been a couple of inches shorter than he was, but after twenty years of hanging around with lorry drivers, I could still land a decent blow. Jeremy staggered first backwards and then forwards, before crumpling in front of me. As he fell, he cracked his right temple on the corner of the glass table, knocking his brandy all over the floor. He lay motionless in front of me, blood dripping onto the carpet.
I must admit I felt rather pleased with myself, especially when Rosemary rushed to his side and started screaming obscenities at me.
“Save your breath for the ex-deputy chairman,” I told her. “And when he comes to, tell him not to bother with the Queen’s Hotel, because I’ll be sleeping in his bed again tonight.”
I strode out of the house and drove back into the city center, leaving my Jaguar in the hotel parking lot. When I walked into the Queen’s the lobby was deserted, and I took the elevator straight up to Jeremy’s room. I lay on the bed, but was far too agitated to sleep.
I was just dozing off when four policemen burst into the room and pulled me off the bed. One of them told me that I was under arrest and read me my rights. Without further explanation I was marched out of the hotel and driven to Millgarth Police Station. A few minutes after 5 A.M., I was signed in by the custody officer and my personal possessions were taken from me and dropped into a bulky brown envelope. I was told that I had the right to make one telephone call, so I rang Joe Ramsbottom, woke his wife, and asked if Joe could join me at the station as quickly as possible. Then I was locked in a small cell and left alone.
I sat on the wooden bench and tried to fathom why I had been arrested. I couldn’t believe that Jeremy would have been foolish enough to charge me with assault. When Joe arrived about forty minutes later I told him exactly what had taken place earlier in the evening. He listened gravely, but didn’t offer an opinion. When I had finished, he said he would try to find out what the police intended to charge me with.
After Joe left, I began to fear that Jeremy might have had a heart attack, or even that the blow to his head from the corner of the table might have killed him. My imagination ran riot as I considered all the worst possibilities, and I was becoming more and more desperate to learn what had happened when the cell door swung open and two plainclothes detectives walked in. Joe was a pace behind them.
“I’m Chief Inspector Bainbridge,” said the taller of the two. “And this is my colleague, Sergeant Harris.” Their eyes were tired and their suits crumpled. They looked as if they had been on duty all night, as both of them could have used a shave. I felt my chin, and realized I needed one as well.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about what took place at your home earlier this evening,” said the chief inspector. I looked at Joe, who shook his head. “It would help our inquiries, Mr. Cooper, if you cooperated with us,” the chief inspector continued. “Would you be prepared to give us a statement either in writing or as a tape recording?”
“I’m afraid my client has nothing to say at the moment, Chief Inspector,” said Joe. “And he will have nothing to say until I have taken further instructions.”
I was rather impressed. I’d never seen Joe that firm with anyone other than his children.
“We would simply like to take a statement, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Chief Inspector Bainbridge said to Joe, as if I didn’t exist. “We are quite happy for you to be present throughout.”
“No,” said Joe firmly. “You either charge my client, or you leave us—and leave us immediately.”
The chief inspector hesitated for a moment, and then nodded to his colleague. They departed without another word.
“Charge me?” I said, once the cell door had been locked behind them. “What with, for God’s sake?”
“Murder, I suspect,” said Joe. “After what Rosemary has been telling them.”
“Murder?” I said, almost unable to mouth the word. “But …” I listened in disbelief as Joe told me what he’d been able to discover about the details of the statement my wife had given to the police during the early hours of the morning.
“But that’s not what happened,” I protested. “Surely no one would believe such an outrageous story.”
“They might when they learn the police have found a trail of blood leading from the sitting room to the spot where your car was parked in the drive,” said Joe.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “When I left Jeremy, he was still lying unconscious on the floor.”
“The police also found traces of blood in the trunk of your car. They seem quite confident that it will match with Jeremy’s.”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “He’s clever. He’s very clever. Can’t you see what they’ve been up to?”
“No, to be honest, I can’t,” Joe admitted. “This isn’t exactly all in a day’s work for a company solicitor like me. But I managed to catch Sir Matthew Roberts, QC, on the phone before he left home this morning. He’s the most eminent criminal silk on the northeastern circuit. He’s appearing in the York Crown Court today, and he’s agreed to join us as soon as the court has risen. If you’re innocent, Richard,” Joe said, “with Sir Matthew defending you, there will be nothing to fear. Of that you can be certain.”
Later that afternoon I was charged with the murder of Jeremy Anatole Alexander; the police admitted to my solicitor that they still hadn’t found the body, but they were confident that they would do so within a few hours. I knew they wouldn’t. Joe told me the following day that they had done more digging in my garden during the past twenty-four hours than I had attempted in the past twenty-four years.
Around seven that evening the door of my cell swung open once again and Joe walked in, accompanied by a heavily built, distinguished-looking man. Sir Matthew Roberts was about my height, but at least thirty pounds heavier. From his rubicund cheeks and warm smile he looked as if he regularly enjoyed a good bottle of wine and the company of amusing people. He had a full head of dark hair that remained modeled on the old Denis Compton Brylcreem advertisements, and he was attired in the garb of his profession, a dark three-piece suit and a silver gray tie. I liked him from the moment he introduced himself. His first words were to express the wish that we had met in more pleasant circumstances.
I spent the rest of the evening with Sir Matthew, going over my story again and again. I could tell he didn’t believe a word I was saying, but he still seemed quite happy to represent me. He and Joe left a few minutes after eleven, and I settled down to spend my first night behind bars.
I was remanded in custody until the police had processed and submitted all their evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions. The following day a magistrate committed me to trial at Leeds Crown Court, and despite an eloquent plea from Sir Matthew, I was not granted bail.
Forty minutes later I was trans
ferred to Armley Jail.
The hours turned into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks into months. I almost tired of telling anyone who would listen that they would never find Jeremy’s body, because there was no body to find.
When the case finally reached Leeds Crown Court nine months later, the crime reporters turned up in their hordes, and followed every word of the trial with relish. A multimillionaire, a possible adulterous affair, and a missing body were too much for them to resist. The tabloids excelled themselves, describing Jeremy as the Lord Lucan of Leeds and me as an oversexed truck driver. I would have enjoyed every last syllable of it, if I hadn’t been the accused.
In his opening address, Sir Matthew put up a magnificent fight on my behalf. Without a body, how could his client possibly be charged with murder? And how could I have disposed of the body, when I had spent the entire night in a bedroom at the Queen’s Hotel? How I regretted not checking in the second time, but simply going straight up to Jeremy’s room. It didn’t help that the police had found me lying on the bed fully dressed.
I watched the faces of the jury at the end of the prosecution’s opening speech. They were perplexed, and obviously in some doubt about my guilt. That doubt remained until Rosemary entered the witness box. I couldn’t bear to look at her, and diverted my eyes to a striking blond who had been sitting in the front row of the public gallery on every day of the trial.
For an hour the counsel for the prosecution guided my wife gently through what had taken place that evening, up to the point when I had struck Jeremy. Until that moment, I couldn’t have quarrelled with a word she had spoken.
“And then what happened, Mrs. Cooper?” prodded counsel for the Crown.
“My husband bent down and checked Mr. Alexander’s pulse,” Rosemary whispered. “Then he turned white, and all he said was, ‘He’s dead. I’ve killed him.’”
“And what did Mr. Cooper do next?”
“He picked up the body, threw it over his shoulder, and began walking toward the door. I shouted after him, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Richard?’”
“And how did he respond?”
“He told me he intended to dispose of the body while it was still dark, and that I was to make sure that there was no sign that Jeremy had visited the house. As no one else had been in the office when they left, everyone would assume that Jeremy had returned to London earlier in the evening. ‘Be certain there are absolutely no traces of blood,’ were the last words I remember my husband saying as he left the room carrying Jeremy’s body over his shoulder. That must have been when I fainted.”
Sir Matthew glanced quizzically up at me in the dock. I shook my head vigorously. He looked grim as counsel for the prosecution resumed his seat.
“Do you wish to question this witness, Sir Matthew?” the judge asked.
Sir Matthew rose slowly to his feet. “I most certainly do, M’Lud,” he replied. He drew himself up to his full height, tugged at his gown, and stared across at his adversary.
“Mrs. Cooper, would you describe yourself as a friend of Mr. Alexander?”
“Yes, but only in the sense that he was a colleague of my husband’s,” replied Rosemary calmly.
“So you didn’t ever see each other when your husband was away from Leeds, or even out of the country, on business?”
“Only at social events, when I was accompanied by my husband, or if I dropped into the office to pick up his mail.”
“Are you certain that those were the only times you saw him, Mrs. Cooper? Were there not other occasions when you spent a considerable amount of time alone with Mr. Alexander? For example, on the night of September 17, 1989, before your husband returned unexpectedly from a European trip: Did Mr. Alexander not visit you then for several hours while you were alone in the house?”
“No. He dropped by after work to leave a document for my husband, but he didn’t even have time to stay for a drink.”
“But your husband says—” began Sir Matthew.
“I know what my husband says,” Rosemary replied, as if she had rehearsed the line a hundred times.
“I see,” said Sir Matthew. “Let’s get to the point, shall we, Mrs. Cooper? Were you having an affair with Jeremy Alexander at the time of his disappearance?”
“Is this relevant, Sir Matthew?” interrupted the judge.
“It most assuredly is, M’Lud. It goes to the very core of the case,” replied my QC in a quiet even tone.
Everyone’s gaze was now fixed on Rosemary. I willed her to tell the truth.
She didn’t hesitate. “Certainly not,” she replied, “although it wasn’t the first time my husband had accused me unjustly.”
“I see,” said Sir Matthew. He paused. “Do you love your husband, Mrs. Cooper?”
“Really, Sir Matthew!” The judge was unable to disguise his irritation. “I must ask once again if this is relevant?”
Sir Matthew exploded. “Relevant? It’s absolutely vital, M’Lud, and I am not being assisted by Your Lordship’s thinly veiled attempts to intervene on behalf of this witness.”
The judge was beginning to splutter with indignation when Rosemary said quietly, “I have always been a good and faithful wife, but I cannot under any circumstances condone murder.”
The jury turned their eyes on me. Most of them looked as if they would be happy to bring back the death penalty.
“If that is the case, I am bound to ask why you waited two and a half hours to contact the police?” said Sir Matthew. “Especially if, as you claim, you believed your husband had committed murder and was about to dispose of the body.”
“As I explained, I fainted soon after he left the room. I phoned the police the moment I came to.”
“How convenient,” said Sir Matthew. “Or perhaps the truth is that you made use of that time to set a trap for your husband, while allowing your lover to get clean away.” A murmur ran through the courtroom.
“Sir Matthew,” the judge said, jumping in once again. “You are going too far.”
“Not so, M’Lud, with respect. In fact, not far enough.” He swung back round and faced my wife again.
“I put it to you, Mrs. Cooper, that Jeremy Alexander was your lover, and still is, that you are perfectly aware he is alive and well, and that if you wished to, you could tell us exactly where he is now.”
Despite the judge’s spluttering and the uproar in the court, Rosemary had her reply ready.
“I only wish he were,” she said, “so that he could stand in this court and confirm that I am telling the truth.” Her voice was soft and gentle.
“But you already know the truth, Mrs. Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, his voice gradually rising. “The truth is that your husband left the house on his own. He then drove to the Queen’s Hotel, where he spent the rest of the night, while you and your lover used that time to leave clues across the city of Leeds—clues, I might add, that were intended to incriminate your husband. But the one thing you couldn’t leave was a body, because, as you well know, Mr. Jeremy Alexander is still alive, and the two of you have together fabricated this entire bogus story simply to further your own ends. Isn’t that the truth, Mrs. Cooper?”
“No, no!” Rosemary shouted, her voice cracking before she finally burst into tears.
“Oh, come, come, Mrs. Cooper. Those are counterfeit tears, are they not?” said Sir Matthew quietly. “Now you’ve been found out, the jury will decide if your distress is genuine.”
I glanced across at the jury. Not only had they fallen for Rosemary’s performance, but they now despised me for allowing my insensitive bully of a counsel to attack such a gentle, long-suffering woman. To every one of Sir Matthew’s probing questions, Rosemary proved well capable of delivering a riposte that revealed to me all the hallmarks of Jeremy Alexander’s expert tuition.
When it was my turn to enter the witness box, and Sir Matthew began questioning me, I felt that my story sounded far less convincing than Rosemary’s, despite its being the truth.
The c
losing speech for the Crown was deadly dull, but nevertheless deadly. Sir Matthew’s was subtle and dramatic, but I feared less convincing.
After another night in Armley Jail I returned to the dock for the judge’s summing up. It was clear that he was in no doubt as to my guilt. His selection of the evidence he chose to review was unbalanced and unfair, and when he ended by reminding the jury that his opinion of the evidence should ultimately carry no weight, he only added hypocrisy to bias.
After their first full day’s deliberations, the jury had to be put up overnight in a hotel—ironically, the Queen’s—and when the jolly little fat man in the bow tie was finally asked: “Members of the jury, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty as charged?” I wasn’t surprised when he said clearly for all to hear, “Guilty, My Lord.”
In fact I was amazed that the jury had failed to reach a unanimous decision. I have often wondered which two members felt convinced enough to declare my innocence. I would have liked to thank them.
The judge stared down at me. “Richard Wilfred Cooper, you have been found guilty of the murder of Jeremy Anatole Alexander …”
“I did not kill him, My Lord,” I interrupted in a calm voice. “In fact, he is not dead. I can only hope that you will live long enough to realize the truth.” Sir Matthew looked up anxiously as uproar broke out in the court.
The judge called for silence, and his voice became even more harsh as he pronounced, “You will go to prison for life. That is the sentence prescribed by law. Take him down.”
Two prison officers stepped forward, gripped me firmly by the arms, and led me down the steps at the back of the dock into the cell I had occupied every morning for the eighteen days of the trial.
“Sorry, old chum,” said the policeman who had been in charge of my welfare since the case had begun. “It was that bitch of a wife who tipped the scales against you.” He slammed the cell door closed and turned the key in the lock before I had a chance to agree with him. A few moments later the door was unlocked again, and Sir Matthew strode in.
Collected Short Stories Page 47
