Blazing Obsession (17 page)

I had an overwhelming urge to go the kitchen drawer, select the biggest knife and thrust it into Hartley's chest. I regretted that wasn't part of the plan.

Earlier that evening, Bruno had gained access to Hartley's flat and blagged his way in, taking Hartley by surprise using his seemingly well-practised chloroform routine. That's when he'd taken Hartley's clothes and trainers and stuffed them in his holdall.

I found a cupboard housing a central heating boiler, took off Hartley's ‘borrowed' clothes and stuffed the damp jacket, trousers, baseball hat, trainers and the bottle of chloroform behind the boiler, making them difficult to spot.

I removed the paper overalls and socks and stuffed them into my bag. I planned to burn them once I returned home. I retrieved my own clothes from the plastic bag and put them on.

I hung the car keys back on the hook behind the front door. I put the railway arch keys in a sideboard drawer. Removing the latex gloves and placing them in my bag, I silently went out of the door, down the steps onto the street.

The rain had finally stopped and I walked for over an hour though the puddles to clear my head. Crossing a deserted London Bridge, I paused for a while and stared down at the Thames, glossy from the lights on the embankment.

I swear I saw Johnson's body floating downriver carried by the current. I knew it wasn't possible with a 5kg weight attached.

Nonetheless, I bawled, “Good riddance, you fucker!”

*

Now 1.30am, too late to talk to Alisha or RP, I hailed a cab near St Thomas's Street. The last thing I wanted was to have a conversation with the driver. I pretended to sleep. Arriving home twenty-five minutes later, I poured myself a large brandy, which I downed in one gulp.

Once I'd downed the second glass, my satisfaction with the plan slowly turned to remorse. Had I actually conspired to murder Leroy Johnson? I realised I'd have nightmares about it for a long time.

I prided myself that I could always instinctively separate right from wrong in life. But now, the needle on my moral compass had unswervingly swung in the direction of getting justice for Lynne, Georgie and Emily. I reasoned that if I hadn't dealt with Johnson, I'd have failed them.

I reminded myself of his callous and heartless actions. This, plus the calming affect of the brandy, brought a modicum of relief.

I couldn't sleep, my mind going over every detail of the evening's events. The sound of Johnson's body splashing into the Thames continuously replayed in my mind.

Next morning, I called RP on his office landline soon after nine o'clock. He said it was safer than using a mobile – less chance of being traced. He'd already heard from Bruno, who'd brought him up to speed. He asked me if the rest of the plan had gone as we'd agreed.

“Yes… yes, very well. Everything's been returned to its rightful owner. Thanks for your input.”

“That's OK. Now leave it at least twenty-four hours. Then make the phone call.”

I called Alisha at her office and gave her the same cryptic message.

“Good!” she grunted.

The phone call RP had reminded me to make was to Crimestoppers. I thought it was a risk and remained sceptical. However, RP assured me that Crimestoppers' promise of anonymity had never been broken in over eleven years since it started.

“Think about it,” he said. “Their reputation lives or dies on this single promise. If just one caller's name is discovered, that's it. No-one will trust them.”

However, I couldn't help thinking it a bizarre thing for me to do. I'd just helped to murder a man. Now I planned to tell them about it.

I went to a payphone box a mile from home to make the call. Despite RP's assurance, I didn't want Crimestoppers to trace it.

I'd written down the key points I needed to get across and checked them again and again. I picked up the phone and returned it to the cradle at least half a dozen times.

Finally, I dialled the number and held on. The call handler, a volunteer called Sue, introduced herself with a kind, soft voice and listened without interruption whilst I read from my brief notes. I told her the precise location where we'd thrown Johnson over the river wall and gave Hartley's name as the likely suspect, together with his address.

She read back the notes she'd taken and asked me to confirm them.

“Did you witness the crime?”

“No, I overheard a conversation in a pub earlier tonight.”

“Do you know the person you suspect threw this person into the river?”

“No, I don't.”

“How do you know his address, then?”

“Oh… I… er…
used
to know him. I heard his name mentioned. I'm sure it's the same man.”

I wanted to hang up.

Before I did, she said, “OK. I'll pass on a report to the Metropolitan Police. They'll want to consider what you've told me and decide what to do.”

“Yes, OK.”

“You know, this is a serious allegation you've made. If you have any more information to impart please call us again.” She gave me a reference number. “Thank you for calling Crimestoppers.”

It didn't feel like such a good idea phoning them after all. Could be the police would treat it as a hoax call and not take any action.

We'd have to wait and see.

*

The next few days dawned crisp, bright and sunny and the high temperature for the time of the year lifted my mood marginally.

I chastened myself continuously about my inadequate call to Crimestoppers. Every day, I avidly scanned the local and national newspapers to see if the press had picked up any news of our exploits.

Three days later, several papers ran a story following a statement from the Metropolitan Police. On page six of the
London Evening Standard
, I read the report with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

BODY RECOVERED FROM THAMES

I phoned RP and told him the news. “Good… that's good. Let's get together for a review tomorrow, the three of us. Can you make 10ish?”

*

RP, dressed in his usual immaculate style, sporting a bright yellow handkerchief flowing out of the top pocket of his navy-blue blazer, appeared in good spirits. He got down to business once Lucy had brought in the coffee and biscuits.

He took a mobile phone from his drawer.

“Exhibit number one,” he announced, waving it in the air. “This is Hartley's. Bruno ‘borrowed' it from Hartley's flat at the same time as the other items.”

“Has it still got all his messages and voicemails on it?” I said.

“Too right. The police would find this useful. It's possible they may not be able to use this as evidence, but it'll point them in the right direction. Give them an excuse to search his flat, find the stuff we left there.”

“How do we get the mobile to the police?” I said.

“I'll get one of my contacts to take it in, say they found it in a cafe close to Hartley's flat.”

“And how will they know it's Hartley's?”

It's standard procedure for them to check the serial number printed on the sim card tray, phone the service provider and get the name and address.”

“That's neat,” I said.

“It gets better. Any half-decent detective will check the name given to them by the phone company on the Police National Computer and discover Hartley's criminal past. Then they'll check his mobile and see the messages.”

“Suppose the police don't?” I said.

“I'm confident they will but if not, we can play our ace card.”

“Which is?”

“Greenland. He'd be the prosecution's star witness. He knows so much about Hartley. And, from what you've told me, he's shitting himself about being charged in connection with the arson attack. Contrary to popular belief, there is no honour amongst criminals, believe me. And the police could do a deal with him, unofficially, of course.”

Alisha had remained quiet ever since we entered RP's office. Although she'd approved of the plan to dispose of Johnson, I don't think she believed we'd actually carry it out. She broke her silence.

“What if Hartley comes up with an alibi for the Johnson murder?”

RP responded, “Well, that's neat too. Hartley would have been out cold for at least four or five hours. He won't remember a thing. All he can tell the police is that he spent the evening at home.”

“Couldn't he pay someone to vouch for him?”

“Well, he could, but it would have to be a damn good alibi. I don't believe that with this evidence, he'll be able to wriggle out of either the arson or the Johnson murder. That's what we want, isn't it?”

RP poured more coffee as a police siren wailed, rushing up St James's Street.

Waiting for the noise to subside, I sipped my coffee and said, “The police press release said they were following up several lines of enquiry. But the longer the police take to get to his flat, surely the more time Hartley has to discover the clothes and chloroform bottle.”

“Yes…?” RP motioned with his hand for me to continue.

“Well, if he finds them, won't that signal that he's been set up by us for the Johnson murder? He already knows about Alisha's involvement with Johnson… and Greenland.”

RP, without hesitation, said, “You're right. That's why we need Hartley off the streets… quickly.” He glanced at both of us in turn. “We don't want him doing anything silly, do we?”

“We certainly, don't,” I said.

“I'll make sure the police have Hartley's mobile as soon as possible. I'll make a few calls later today; try to find out where the investigation's heading.”

RP eyeballed me and said, “But, of course, there's someone else with a motive for killing Johnson, isn't there?”

“Who?”

“I expect the police will want to interview you, James.”

“I bloody hope not!”

“Well, someone may have remembered your outburst at Winchester Crown Court after Johnson got off. You were understandably upset. It's possible the senior investigating officer on the case will want a chat. DI Flood wasn't it?”

“Er… yes. He appeared in court that day. He was as upset as me about Johnson getting off.”

RP, slowly stroking his chin once more, said, “Being upset isn't a crime. Doesn't automatically follow you'd kill someone as a result. I think it might be a good idea to have an alibi in case things turn nasty. Alisha, I'm not sure you'll want to agree to this, but are you prepared to say that James spent the night at your flat?”

“You know me. I'd do anything to get Hartley banged up.”

“Well you two should work on getting your stories absolutely straight. OK?”

We both nodded.

“Bloody hell, Roger, I'm not looking forward to being interviewed by Flood, of all people. He's a miserable sod.”

“It may not come to that. I'm sure you'll be fine. Just make sure your alibi's foolproof. And remember, Hartley's clothes will be brimming with forensics, proving him to be Johnson's killer. You'll just have to keep your nerve.”

I wasn't convinced I could.

“Right, let's leave it there then shall we? If I get any more information I'll let you know.” RP stood and shook hands with each of us.

Hartley's arrest couldn't come soon enough.

*

Alisha and I walked up to Green Park and found a bench away from the many tree-lined paths, full of kids kicking the late autumn leaves in the bright sunlight.

We spent an hour rehearsing our alibis, especially the time I'd arrived in the evening and left the next morning. This implied that I'd slept with her, although we never had. It added substance to the alibi.

RP's influence had prompted me to ask Alisha about CCTV cameras, but she assured me there were none covering her flat in Canary Wharf.

Late the next morning, RP called me on my landline at home. He sounded excited.

“Right, there have been several interesting developments. I got Hartley's phone sent to the nearest police station to his flat yesterday. The conversations with Greenland and Johnson led to the police visiting Hartley. Problem is that he's gone AWOL. They got a search warrant and this morning, they took away a lot of stuff which I'm told is
of interest
. I'm hoping that means what I think it means.”

RP's connections were proving invaluable.

“Great,” I said. “At last something's happening.”

“It is. The forensic service is testing the stuff as a matter of urgency. It'll take a few days, I'm afraid.”

“Oh no! I hope they find the bastard quickly.”

“I'm told they're treating this case as a priority. I'll be in touch if I hear anything else.”

I tried to get inside Hartley's mind, imagining what his next move might be. I was turning into RP by the minute.

He called me at home that evening. I was working on the budgets for next year's business plans.

“Have you seen the nine o'clock news on TV?”

“No. I don't have the TV on. What's happened?”

“Greenland's been found stabbed to death in the early hours of this morning.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“BBC News just reported it. Not many details yet. It'll be in the papers tomorrow. They haven't given any indications as to the perpetrator, but I can guess, can't you?”

*

Channel hopping every news bulletin for the next half-an-hour, I realised the implications of Greenland's demise. Our fallback plan of using him as a star prosecution witness had crashed.

I called Alisha to warn her she may be in danger. I planned to go over and stay with her if she felt vulnerable. I tried both her landline and mobile and got her messaging service each time. I waited ten minutes and called again − same message. A knot grew in my stomach. It was 10.30pm.

I remembered that RP had placed a tracking device on the mobile he'd given her. I called him, explained the situation and asked him to investigate. He checked in with one of his techies at his computer room, staffed around the clock, and called me back. He confirmed the stats showed the mobile's location as Piccadilly.

“But that's where she works, Roger. She wouldn't be there now, surely. And if she is, why isn't she answering?”

“Sorry, James. Can't answer that. Keep trying to contact her. If there's any change in the location, I'll call you.”

I picked up my car keys from the table, ran out to the garage and leapt into my Mercedes. On a frosty, cloudless evening, a full moon lit up the sky. Emerging from the Blackwall Tunnel, I felt on edge. As well as concerned about Alisha's absence, I became aware of the glittering River Thames and the events that had taken place there several nights ago.

This happened every time I got close to the river. The adrenaline rushes I'd experienced then were now replaced by gnawing, anxious feelings that ate up my insides.

In light traffic, I arrived at her apartment within twenty minutes.

I parked outside her block, ran up the stairs two at a time to the second floor and pressed the buzzer. No reply. I rang again. Still no reply. I ran back down the stairs and gazed up at her window. It was in darkness.

I walked the half-mile back towards South Quay DLR station and checked a couple of restaurants and bars nearby that I knew she used.

No joy.

I walked back to her flat and decided to stay in my car until she returned. Another half-hour passed. I checked with RP the location of her mobile again – no change. I tried to convince myself that she must have gone out with a girlfriend and forgotten to tell me.

I continuously called her mobile and landline alternately.

Nothing.

Her repetitive message irritated me. I struck the steering wheel with the heels of my hands and shouted, “Bugger!”

A few minutes later, around 1am, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I spotted Alisha in my rear view mirror. I recognised her confident gait. Now seventy or eighty yards away, she strolled slowly towards my car and the safety of her flat.

What happened next resembled a scene from a movie.

A tall, well-built, hooded figure emerged from the shadows, swiftly approached her from behind and thrust a canvas bag over her head. He put one hand over her covered mouth and dragged her backwards, as she kicked and struggled, towards a nearby car facing the opposite direction to mine. He opened the boot with a remote and bundled her in, slamming it shut. The whole scene lasted less than twenty seconds.