Blazing Obsession (21 page)

He checked his notes yet again. “And from what Simon's told me, Flood appears determined to find hard evidence, especially against you, James.”

“I know. That guy really winds me up!”

“I'm hoping you didn't leave any clues at Hartley's flat. We can't deny your motivation and your actions at the Johnson trial. All perfectly understandable, but added to any forensic evidence they come up with, that could prove fatal.”

Simon spoke again. “And the police have already arrested you for this specific offence.”

I glared at both of them in turn. “In other words, it's looking fucking awful for me. Is that what you're saying? I might as well hand myself in and confess to all the murders!”

“Don't be silly, James!” Alisha laid a hand on my arm.

RP was stuck for an answer. I'd never seen that before.

Eventually, he said, “OK, I'll try to get more information about the evidence they have on you. At least Hartley's under arrest for the arson attack. We've got to hope that Flood can pin Johnson's murder on Hartley too.”

I stood and shouted, “So that's it, is it? My life depends on the
hope
that that cynical bastard, Flood, buys our plan.”

Alisha tugged at my sleeve, trying to get me to sit down. I pushed her aside and walked around the room.

Simon remained seated, but turned round in his chair and addressed me directly. “Actually, it's not like that. The police will have to present a file to the CPS. There are a few hoops they've go to go through. Then they'll decide whether there's enough evidence to prosecute. It's extremely thorough.”

“Simon's correct,” RP said. “And the CPS is paranoid these days about what the public think. They won't want to waste money on a trial if there isn't a realistic chance of a guilty verdict.”

I stood with my back to them, gazing down St James's Street, watching the endless trail of headlights heading for Piccadilly in the fast-fading light.

RP said, “I'll see if I can find out how Hartley's interview with Flood is progressing. I can't promise anything. We'll have to wait for the police to make the next move.”

I felt like the first prize in an arm-wrestling match between RP and DCI Flood.

*

When I got home at 5.30pm, the red light on my answer phone flashed continuously. My gut wrenched when I played back the only message. Flood wanted to see me urgently. He said it couldn't wait until the next morning, when I was due to sign in as a condition of my bail.

I called him back immediately, hoping there had been positive developments in my favour.

There weren't.

The phone magnified Flood's brusque tone.

“I've more questions for you. You need to get down here as soon as possible. You should bring your solicitor with you.”

My insides churned. I called Simon, who said he'd be at the police station within the hour.

The Christmas lights had been switched on in central London. They got earlier every year. Westminster City Council had made a special effort because of the Millennium celebrations. As the traffic would be more of a nightmare than usual, I took a minicab for the six-mile trip from my home in Blackheath to North Greenwich tube station and boarded the recently opened rapid Jubilee line to Southwark. A short walk later, I arrived at the police station at 6.30pm.

A PC escorted me to the same interview room. Simon joined me shortly afterwards.

Flood and the monosyllabic DS Lyle swaggered into the room, the latter clutching a large file, which he dumped on the desk.

Flood said, “We have more questions we'd like you to answer,
mainly
in connection with the murder of Leroy Johnson.”

Why ‘mainly', I thought? Did he have something else on me?

I guessed it might be as a result of his interrogation of Hartley in a similar interview room in the same building.

“We're applying to Tower Bridge Magistrates' Court at 10am tomorrow for an extension of the time we can detain you.”

“On what grounds?” Simon shot back.

“We believe we can convince the magistrates we need more time for further questioning that will yield additional evidence. Also, we'll have the forensic reports available soon. You will, of course, be given the opportunity to make representation against this detention.”

Simon responded. “We most certainly will object.”

“Your client will be detained tonight and we'll see what the magistrates have to say in the morning.” He left the room with the DS in his wake.

That was it. Interview over. If Flood wanted to unnerve me, he'd succeeded – yet again.

Simon and I held a quick debrief before a PC escorted me to the cells once again. Simon felt sure Flood had applied to the magistrates' court for an extension of time for Hartley too.

Neat.

Flood would have us both in the same building for a further three days' questioning. The forensic details would be flying in thick and fast; time enough to put a case to the CPS against
either
of us.

*

The thought of two more nights in the cells didn't thrill me. And I wasn't looking forward to three more days answering questions either. Flood's cynical goading and contemptuous manner was out of order and there was litttle I could do about it.

I focussed on the fact that at least, with Alisha, RP and Bruno's help, I'd dealt with Johnson. They'd helped ensure partial justice for Lynne, Georgie and Emily. Whatever happened to me, it represented a result… of sorts.

Lying on the blue plastic covering of the firm mattress, amongst countless other thoughts, I replayed in my mind a conversation I'd had with Alisha previously.

I'd said, “The more I think about Hartley's ludicrous claim to being Emily's father, the more I hate him. If it's true, what sick father would pay someone to burn down the cottage where
his
daughter slept?”

“I know,” she said. “I don't understand. Some men are born evil.”

Shaking my head, I responded. “The man's deranged.”

The following morning, a squad car, driven by a uniformed police officer, accompanied by another sitting next to me in the rear passenger seats, delivered me to the magistrates' court in Tooley Street, a short distance from Southwark Police Station. Simon had already arrived.

I got the distinct impression my detention was already a done deal. The chief magistrate listened to both arguments intently, but asked few questions.

Simon put up a stirring argument, saying the police had already had enough time to decide whether to charge me or release me, but I sensed even he didn't believe he'd win them over.

After briefly conferring with his colleagues, the chief magistrate granted the police the extra time.

Back at the interview room, Flood and Lyle spent the rest of the day going over much the same ground we'd covered earlier, obviously trying to spot any discrepancies. Simon's exasperation reached boiling point.

“Do we really have to go over this same stuff again?”

“Let us do our job and you can concentrate on yours.”

I knew it was pointless. Simon had told me he'd known detectives go over the same questions six or seven times. “Even the most skilled liars slip up under such intense interrogation,” he'd said.

Flood turned his attention back to me and said, “You might like to know that we're interviewing John Hartley in the next room. We're discovering a great deal more about his relationship with your family. He's also informed us about his links with Leroy Johnson and Colin Greenland. Hartley claims he's been set up by you and your
girlfriend
for Johnson's murder. What do you say to that?”

My pulse quickened.

Desperately trying to remain calm, but failing, I said, “He would say that wouldn't he? I've never heard of anything quite so laughable. I think you should be charging
him
for all the murders.”

Simon patted my arm as a way to make me shut up, and turning to Flood said, “I assume he's got evidence of this… allegation?”

“We're putting a case together to see if it fits. Actually, one thing he said is puzzling us. On the night of Johnson's murder, Hartley told us he'd spent it watching TV at home. He claims someone knocked at his door and the visitor stepped inside, forcibly held him and covered his face with a rag smothered in chloroform. He says he passed out and can't remember anything until the next morning.”

Simon queried, “So?”

“The autopsy on Johnson showed chloroform burns on his face. Looks like he received the same treatment.”

We'd been rumbled. My confidence in Roger Pendleton and Simon Brotherton plummeted. I resigned myself to a twenty-year prison term, minimum.

Simon interrupted again, “What's any of this got to do with my client?”

“You can't go online or into a pharmacy and buy chloroform, just like that. You need a prescription. Doctors aren't keen to supply one. We wondered how the perpetrator got it. Then I remembered; your
girlfriend
works for a pharmaceutical company doesn't she? Maybe she got hold of it for you.”

Simon interjected. “You're stretching a point aren't you? You'll need to prove a complete evidence trail to make that stick.”

“That we intend to do, be sure of that.” Flood looked pleased with himself
.

He didn't realise how close he'd got to the truth.

When we'd discussed our plans, Alisha had said that the chloroform should be used sparingly.

She'd warned, “If the cloth is held over their nose and mouth for too long, it'll produce blisters and red blotches lasting several days.”

I also remembered that once Hartley lost consciousness, Bruno had injected him with Rohypnol. I'd asked him about it in the car on the way back to Hartley's flat after dumping Johnson in the Thames.

“Isn't that the date rape drug?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn't it a tablet dropped in people's drinks?”

“Yeah. You have to crush the tablets, make a powder and mix it with a saline solution. Then you can inject it.”

“And how long will the effects last?”

“Chloroform only lasts a couple of hours, max. I hit him with enough Rohypnol to drop him into a coma for about six to eight hours.”

He went on to explain that one of the side effects was that the user had zero recollection of anything that may have happened to them in that time. It was also untraceable in blood, urine and saliva after twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

A highly effective drug for anyone with criminal intent.

*

Lying on the bed in my cell that second night, I realised my resolve the previous evening not to let Flood get to me was proving a severe challenge.

Next morning, my body felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. I'd had little sleep and my eyes stung every time I blinked. Usually a dose of ice-cold water splashed on my face would kick-start me into action, but not this time. I willed myself to get through the next two days, no matter how uncomfortable it became.

Simon said to Flood when he entered the room, “I'm sure you don't need me to remind you that you'll either have to charge my client or release him by 7pm tomorrow.”

“Yes, we're quite aware of that. We've already spoken to the CPS and we'll be adding to the file during the day and seeking pre-charge advice later. Now, let's put Johnson to one side for a moment. I want to talk to you about Colin Greenland.”

“I've already told you, I've never heard of him.”

“Let me remind you that Colin Greenland and Hartley spent a great deal of time together on remand. They remained in touch when they were released. And we have evidence connecting both of them to Leroy Johnson.”

Simon interjected. “And your point is?”

“My
point
is, from the evidence we have, it appears Greenland introduced Hartley to Johnson. It's highly likely but not yet certain that it was Hartley who paid him to burn down your cottage. We're not at the stage to charge him… yet. Hartley emphatically denies this, of course, but if he did pay Johnson, this means Greenland was part of a conspiracy to murder the Hamilton family.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning your client would have a motive for killing Greenland.”

I dropped my head towards my knees and shook it vigorously. “I can't believe what you're saying!”

“You'll need more than just a motive,” Simon added.

“Oh, yes. I know.”

Flood turned to me and said, “For the week before Greenland's murder, we trawled through CCTV footage taken outside the precinct where Greenland lived. We ran your mug shot through the system and found a remarkable likeness to one of the people in the footage just two days before Greenland's death. We also showed your photo to the shopkeepers in the precinct and one claims to have seen you visiting Greenland's flat. Can you explain that?”

I'd loitered outside the shopping precinct for an hour before going up to the flat to ensure he didn't have any visitors. How could I be so thick?

Despite feeling a physical adrenaline rush pass through me, I bluffed as positively as I could, “Your eyewitness is mistaken. I've no idea who Greenland is or where he lives.”

“So you won't mind taking part in an identity parade?”

Too true I'd mind, but before I could respond, Simon came to my rescue.

“As far as CCTV is concerned, even if there is a likeness to my client, it proves nothing. He's entitled to shop wherever he wants. And you will know that eyewitness testimony is notoriously unsafe.”

“Well, let's cross that bridge later, shall we?”

A detective knocked and entered the room and without a word passed a note to DS Lyle, who read it and passed it over to Flood.

After scanning it, he stared at me and said, “Now let's talk about the arson attack. We've turned up another piece of evidence we believe to be of great significance.”

I disliked Flood more and more, despite feeling sad at what had happened to his wife every time I saw him.

I didn't think my already elevated pulse rate could increase much further, but it did.

“I wanted to discover whether Hartley's claim to be Emily's father had any substance. I thought your
cheating
wife might have wanted to know for sure as well.”

Flood licked his thin lips as he continued his offensive provocation. He knew which of my buttons to push.

“We browsed through every one of the London-based DNA paternity websites and contacted them. A clinic in Hammersmith confirmed that your wife had indeed sent off a sample of your DNA and Emily's for comparison. Emily was about six months old.”

“You're joking?”

Flood relished unsettling me.

“I've had the result for a week, but to make absolutely sure there'd be no doubt about it, we checked the DNA samples taken from Hartley and compared them to a sample from Emily's clothes, which we found at your house. The results have just come in. Would you like to know what they say?”

We stared at each other, unblinking. What a bastard. I couldn't speak.

Eventually he said, “These results prove conclusively that John Hartley
was
Emily's biological father.”

A combination of this revelation and Flood's sneering face made me react badly. I stood and attempted to go around the desk to attack him. Simon physically restrained me, pulling me back into my seat.

“You're lying! You're just winding me up!” I bellowed.

Flood stood and held his ground.

“Sit down!” he commanded.

Simon pulled me back into the chair. Flood sat down too and leant towards me.

“Bit of a temper you've got there, haven't you?”

“I don't think you need to antagonise my client, detective.”

Flood ignored Simon's comment. “Did you and your wife ever discuss this?”

“Of course we didn't!”

“When did you find out about it?”

“I didn't find out. I know I can't prove it but you've got to believe me.”

“If you
had
discovered this, it would add considerably to your motivation for murdering your ‘family', wouldn't it? It's the missing link I've been looking for.”

“What do you mean, missing link?” Simon asked.

“After the fire, it concerned me that your client, for the first time ever, didn't go down to the cottage with them. He said he had a business appointment. Then he said that shortly before the fire he'd dumped Lynne's computer. Probably buried under six feet of rubbish and mud in a landfill site by now. Is that because there's evidence of the paternity test on it? Or something else showing that your client had a motive?”