Blazing Obsession (23 page)

“Well, for all I know, perhaps you
did
know about it.”

I turned on her sharply. “God, you sound just like Flood.”

“Well, you told me that's what he thought. What would you have done if you
had
known? Would you have been upset enough to do something foolish?”

She remained seated at the table as I leaned over her and said, “I can't believe you're suggesting I'd murder my family.”

Her eyes blazed back at mine. “I don't know what to believe any more.”

“Oh, thanks for your support. Anything else I should know?” I moved closer, my face now inches away from hers.

She held her ground and glowered. “No… there's nothing else.”

“You really should have told me, you know. I've had enough of this.” I turned away and stomped to my study, slamming the living room door behind me.

She shouted out after me, “So have I!”

Later, I saw her carrying a suitcase as she headed out to her car and then drive away.

The next day, despite my concern about going into the office, I met up with Peter. We were still nervous about the Millennium Bug issue and after discussing it with a software consultant, we finalised our contingency plans. I appreciated the opportunity to forget the events of the last few days.

On the way home, I picked up a late edition of the
London Evening Standard
and threw it onto the back seat of my Mercedes. After parking in the drive, I retrieved the paper and entered the house.

I poured a glass of
Merlot
and settled down to read the paper before preparing dinner.

On page five, I read the headline I'd dreamt about for so long.

LONDONER CHARGED WITH FIVE MURDERS

I read the piece several times as feelings of elation and relief coursed through my body.

“Yesss!” I shouted, punching a hand in the air. I almost knocked over my wine glass. I felt I'd just scored the winning goal at Wembley.

I called RP and read him the press report. His calmness countered my excitement. I sensed his pleasure though, despite the plan threatening to unravel on several occasions.

He warned me the tabloid press would pounce on this. “This case has all the ingredients of a melodrama. They'll suck every last juicy detail out of it. Mind you, until the court case, their reporting will have to be restrained.”

“I think I'll do what I did before, Roger. Just not read it or get involved.”

“Very wise.”

Next, I called Alisha at home. Although still pissed off with her, I felt she ought to know the facts.

We exchanged half-hearted ‘Hi's' and I asked, “Have you seen tonight's
Evening Standard
?”

“No, I've only just got in,” she replied in a monotone voice.

I read out the press report. “This is a result, isn't it?” she said.

“Yes, it is, but we thought that when Johnson was charged. Remember?”

“Well, let's hope we don't get a feeble judge this time.”

After an awkward silence, I said, “Listen, I think we should talk.”

“There's nothing else to say, is there?”

“Don't be like that. I want to know if you really meant what you said last night. I'll pop over to your place now, OK?”

“If you must.”

I felt uneasy about Alisha and me not being on the same side. It wouldn't do either of us any good. We both knew too much about each other.

Although her comment that I may have had something to do with the arson attack upset me, I realised how important to my life she'd become. We'd fused together, sharing our grief and anger whilst working hard to get justice. This dark secret bound us. And she'd been fantastic, helping me handle my grief.

But holding back her knowledge of Lynne's search for a paternity test was unforgivable. It bugged me. I didn't know what I truly felt for her anymore. I needed to clarify the situation.

As she opened the door to her flat, she said, “Hi,” without even offering an air kiss.

“Glass of wine, cup of coffee?”

“Coffee's fine.” I wanted to maintain a clear head.

As she put her cup on the table, I came straight to the point.

“Alisha, what did you mean when you implied that if I'd known about Hartley and Emily, I might have done something silly?”

“You've changed, James. I've seen it first hand; how angry you got when, first Johnson got off and then when the truth came out about little Emily's parentage. I felt you'd stop at nothing to get revenge. You became irrational.”

“Don't you think I bloody well had every right to be? Hartley destroyed my life. Once I found out about what he'd done, of course I wanted my revenge. But I'd never in a million years want to hurt Lynne, Georgie and especially Emily.”

She stared at me.

“Alisha, you've got to believe me. I didn't know anything about Hartley and Lynne until Greenland told me, I swear. It shocked me more than I can say. And as for Johnson, of course I was bloody upset about him getting off. Who wouldn't be?”

“It upset me, too. That's why I agreed to help you.”

“Yes, you did. So we're in this together, aren't we?”

“Yes, we are.”

“The thing is, it's no good us falling out.”

She took a sip of coffee and said, “I know. Listen, it really concerned me when you said Flood insinuated you were involved in the arson attack. I thought you were just like all the other chauvinist pigs I've known. What is it with men? They
must
be in control, win
every
contest.”

“Do you really think I'm like that? Do you?”

She couldn't face me, just fiddled with her cup.

After another short silence, I said, “Look, I can't say anymore. I'm fed up with defending myself. You either believe me or you don't.”

I turned to look out of the window and said, “So… where do we go from here?”

“It's up to you.”

I turned back to face her. “Well, let's at least remain friends, OK?”

“OK. Look, I'm sorry, James. You know me. I can't help it. I have to say what I think.”

“You certainly do.”

We carried on talking. She reminded me how happy Lynne had been when we married. She'd told Alisha that meeting me had been by far the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

“I
know
Lynne desperately wanted you to be Emily's father. She was unbelievably distraught when she found out you weren't. I was upset too. And didn't want to burst your bubble.”

I believed her.

*

RP's assessment of the media proved correct; the tabloids devoted whole pages to the saga over the next couple of days. My curiosity got the better of me and I read a few of the articles.

The reports were understandably sympathetic for my loss. I don't know how they'd got the photos they'd published. One, a favourite of mine, showed the four of us smiling contentedly on a beach with Lynne holding Emily in her arms. A couple more showed just Lynne with her stunning trademark smile – the one that first hooked me. I stared at the photos for ages, my mind drifting over the gloriously happy times we'd spent together.

I know I should have felt angry with her, but she now appeared to me as a vulnerable, tragic figure. As well as suffering long-term abuse and emotional damage from the men in her life, she also carried the burden of knowing the truth about Emily's father and the guilt about not telling me. I felt sorry for her. I still loved her.

There were also unflattering photos of Hartley, Greenland and Johnson, presumably taken when they were in prison.

Sorrow was the last emotion I sensed for them.

*

Life slowly began to get back to normal. I spent more time in my business. At least, I felt confident and assured there.

I kept in touch with Alisha, calling her once a week and having the occasional dinner. Neither of us brought up the issue that led to us falling out; we both tucked it away to the back of our minds.

In January, we learnt that Hartley had pleaded not guilty to all five murders and the date of the trial had been set for Monday, September 15th 2000.

We had nearly nine months to wait before we could, hopefully, celebrate getting justice for my family. I recalled this familiar vacuum of unfinished business had also existed just before Johnson's trial.

Back then, deeply shocked and confused, with mixed feelings of anger, grief and sorrow, I became an emotional wreck. Alisha had seen me through.

I wished I could speed up the process, but I had no control over the matter. The CPS needed time to build a cast-iron case, robust enough to ensure a successful outcome for the Crown against Hartley.

I still harboured a gnawing concern about him getting off on a spurious technicality. I'd read somewhere that lightning has struck in the same place twice.

I fell back on my usual remedies of working hard and going on long runs. Both failed to lift the cloud of apprehension hanging over me as the trial date got nearer.

The World's IT population, including Peter and I, held collective breaths and crossed fingers as midnight approached on December 31
^st
1999.

Fortunately, the Millennium Bug proved to be benign − one less problem to worry about.

*

By the end of July, six weeks before Hartley's trial, the media built up a head of steam speculating about our back stories. The intensity became so great that Alisha and I discussed getting away for a week or two, somewhere quiet, sunny and relaxing. We'd both agreed, no strings. Separate bedrooms.

Shortly after Hartley had been charged, the police returned my passport and I no longer had to report to them daily. I was free to go where I wanted.

One of my golf club mates owned a villa in Grenada in the Caribbean. We rented it from him.

I dreaded the second anniversary of the murder of my family on 3rd August. Another reason why we didn't want to be in London.

Going away with Alisha would be a good test of our true feelings for each other. I still hadn't worked out what mine were.

The glossy travel brochures described Grenada as the prettiest island in the Caribbean; they weren't wrong. White sandy beaches, turquoise sea and purple Bougainvillea flowers climbing almost every building supported their view. The breeze carried a heady mix of nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger, completing the exotic effect.

The villa sat right on the beach. Each night we listened to the waves gently lapping the shore accompanied by the clinking of the halyards against the masts of the dozen yachts moored in the bay.

Drinking
Carib
beers and rum punches with lunch and having dinner
al fresco,
prepared by a visiting cook, proved to be the ultimate in relaxation. However, thoughts of the impending trial hovered in the background.

We rarely left the villa. We lazed on the beach under the parasol, read, swam and sometimes took out a rowing boat into the calm Caribbean Sea.

We sometimes kissed but hugged a great deal, not in a sexual way, more like brother and sister.

On the anniversary of the fatal attack, we decided to hold a vigil on the beach in front of the beach house. After dinner, we lit three candles in memory of Lynne, Georgie and Emily. We remained silent for ages, holding hands and concentrating on our respective memories. We devoted the rest of the evening to comparing our time with Lynne. Sometimes we laughed, sometimes we cried.

She remained an integral part of us.

Alisha was the only person in the world with whom I could share this cathartic experience.

Two weeks after we returned to London, the trial of John William Hartley began at the Old Bailey. As the start date grew nearer, the ethereal experience of Grenada dissipated. The spectre of a repeat of Johnson's acquittal stuck stubbornly in my mind.

Media interest in the case grew even more frenetic. One newspaper described it as being potentially one of the most dramatic trials of the last few years.

I wouldn't miss a day. Alisha had received a letter from the CPS requiring her appearance as a witness for the prosecution. RP had warned her about this being a possibility, since we knew the police held information linking her to Lynne, Johnson, Greenland and Hartley. I hoped she'd cope well, but typically, she had no doubts.

Although she could attend court and sit in the visitors' gallery
after
her evidence had been heard, RP had advised that it wasn't a good idea.

“The less contact you are seen to have, the better. We don't want the defence to use your relationship with James as fodder for a set-up.”

The CPS had set aside four weeks for the trial. I arranged for two drivers from my business to be on hand for the entire case, one to act as my ‘minder', protecting me from the media scrum.

On the first day of the trial, newspaper reporters, photographers and TV cameramen surrounded the entrance to the Old Bailey. As my car drew up outside the court, they engulfed us. My minder helped me negotiate my way into the building. This happened every day of the trial.

Court 16 bore an uncanny resemblance to the courtroom in Winchester Crown Court where the judge had screwed up Johnson's trial. I looked down on proceedings with a clear view of the dock, the jury, the bench and the barristers from the packed visitors' gallery.

Hartley sat in the dock flanked by two security men. I had a good view of him from the front row. He'd have to turn his head up to the gallery to see me. The judge, Mr Justice Winter, sat high on his bench, overseeing the well of barristers and clerks.

The jury, comprising eight women and four men, looked sombre, their eyes flicking from Hartley to the barristers and to the judge.

Dressed smartly with a white open-necked shirt beneath a black jacket, Hartley appeared thinner, especially so in the face. The last time I'd seen him was when he lay comatose, drugged-up with chloroform and Rohypnol, on his bed when I returned his clothes after dumping Johnson. He wore a hard-done-by expression as if questioning the travesty of being in the dock on trial for five murders.

Seeing him in the flesh brought home to me how much he'd affected my life. The fact he was Emily's father filled me with revulsion.

I worried I might have another meltdown in the courtroom. Not a good idea. I didn't want the judge barring me from the proceedings. I bit my lip until it almost bled.

The court clerk read out the charges: conspiracy to murder with another, Lynne, Georgie and Emily; conspiracy to murder with another, Colin Bruce Greenland and the murder of Leroy Gibson Johnson.

Simon Brotherton had previously confirmed that the sentences for conspiracy to murder and murder are the same.

I'd been counting the days to the trial, anxious to hear the evidence against Hartley. It would surely, finally reveal why the CPS had charged him and not me, especially for the Johnson murder.

The chief prosecutor, Michael Winn QC, a diminutive, handsome man in his late forties, put forward a powerful argument linking all three charges.

I'd googled him. He enjoyed a reputation for successful prosecutions in high-profile murder cases. I hoped he'd enhance it by the time this trial ended.

Mr Winn's opening speech outlined the deadly path Hartley had taken, first seeking revenge for his rejection by Lynne and covering his tracks by murdering his accomplices, one of whom blackmailed him and the other because he knew too much.

He described the events strictly in chronological order, placing great emphasis on the reason for Hartley being in the dock − his failed, obsessive affair with Lynne.

“This case is the climax to a dramatic and tragic tale of obsession and revenge. The prosecution will provide evidence to support the fact that the defendant couldn't handle the rejection by his mistress, Lynne Hamilton, despite his best efforts to persuade her to run away with him and set up home together with his daughter. Instead, she met and married someone else.
They
were bringing up the child together without him.

“The prosecution will prove that the defendant is manipulative and controlling and when Lynne Hamilton finally found the courage to stand up to him, he lost that control. He found that absolutely unacceptable.”

He paused, giving the jury enough time to absorb his point.

“We'll provide further evidence to suggest that the defendant employed a hit man, Leroy Johnson, to set fire to the cottage in Lymington, where the defendant's ex-mistress, her son and two-year-old daughter were sleeping. Overwhelming evidence supports the fact that Johnson committed this cold-hearted and pre-meditated act on Hartley's orders.

“When Johnson tried to blackmail the defendant by threatening to go to the police unless he paid more cash, the defendant murdered him.

“And we'll provide additional evidence to suggest that when the defendant thought that Colin Greenland, to whom he admitted his intentions and who had put the defendant and Johnson in touch, might also go to the police regarding the arson attack, the defendant paid another hit man to have Greenland eliminated too.”

This confirmed our thoughts. One more piece of the jigsaw clicked into place.

Impressed with this opening salvo, I recalled feeling the same way at Johnson's trial. However, that hadn't turned out exactly as I'd expected.

Mr Winn, keen to establish Hartley's obsession with Lynne, asked the court official to hand to the jury a dozen thick packs of documents, which he passed to each member.

When they all had a copy, Mr Winn said, “The document before you is a record of phone calls made by the defendant between 6th July and 1st August 1998, just two nights before the arson. The defendant's mobile phone supplier has provided this information.

“A highlighter marks the dates. Can you all see them?”

Every member of the jury nodded. Mr Winn put on his reading glasses and examined his copy of the document.

“These records show that in that period, Hartley rang Lynne Hamilton's mobile number no fewer than seven hundred times, an average of
fifteen
times a day. Towards the end of this period, the calls were more frequent, up to
twenty
times a day.”

He paused again whilst the jury flicked through the document.

Then he said, “Now I'm going to play a recording of some of the messages he left during this period.”

Hartley's booming voice came through loud and clear on the tape, the messages becoming increasingly threatening as the day of the arson attack loomed.

He referred to me in his messages as a wanker, a tosser or a flash bastard.

He continually implored Lynne to run away with him. He said he had the right to bring up
his
baby − “Don't let that prick Hamilton anywhere near her!”

His rage and anger increased with every message, causing him to lose control a few times. I visualised his spittle showering his mobile phone.

The jury were played the final message that I believed would surely seal his fate.

“If you refuse to come away with me, Lynne, believe me, you'll be sorry. No one else is going to bring up
my
baby. You'll all suffer, I'm not kidding.”

The court official turned off the audio cassette player and Mr Winn maintained a dramatic silence, enabling the jury to absorb the implications.

I realised the full extent of the torment Lynne must have endured. Why didn't she tell me? Probably thought if she did, she'd lose me. If only I had known, I'm sure I could have done something about it.

I remembered too, that the intense fire had destroyed her mobile phone with the incriminating messages on it. Otherwise, the police might have arrested Hartley sooner.

Mr Winn moved on to the murder of Leroy Johnson. He played the mobile messages between Greenland and Hartley and between Johnson and Hartley. They clearly signalled Johnson's intent to blackmail Hartley for the arson attack.

The judge had previously agreed the messages could be admitted as evidence.

In the final message played to the court, Hartley said to Greenland, “He's (Johnson) blackmailing me over that arson business.” A few members of the jury made a note.

Then he played the taped conversation between Hartley and Greenland, confirming Greenland's involvement and highlighting the fact that Hartley now knew about Alisha's affair with Johnson.

Mr Winn introduced the issue of the clothes, trainers and chloroform bottle found in Hartley's flat.

He called a witness from the Forensic Service who confirmed that Johnson's DNA, taken from hair and skin samples, had been found on Hartley's clothes and that the mud on his trainers matched that at the crime scene, Bermondsey Wall West on the Thames Embankment.

Mr Winn pressed home his point by presenting further evidence I hadn't heard.

“The police discovered Johnson's bloodstains and two fragments of his teeth on the concrete floor of a disused workshop underneath the arches close to Southwark Park. Footprints from a pair of Nike trainers were found there too… the same pair of Nike trainers found at the defendant's flat.”

I almost got the shakes when Mr Winn asked the court official to pass over to the jury stills of CCTV evidence showing ‘Hartley' driving his car from the railway arches to the Embankment close to the estimated time of Johnson's death.

He pointed out that, although the images were less than perfect, the driver of the car appeared to be wearing clothes similar to those the police discovered at Hartley's flat. Also, the number plate on the car was registered in Hartley's name.

“And, members of the jury, during the search of Hartley's flat, the police also discovered the key to the railway arch door in a sideboard drawer, which conveniently had the address written on the key fob.” He held up and shook for effect a transparent evidence bag containing the exhibit.

I recalled Bruno reminding me to make sure I left it there.

“And now, I'm afraid there's a piece of vital evidence which I
can't
show you. I can't show you because it's been destroyed.
Someone
set fire to the defendant's car. The same car which the prosecution believe was used to transport Leroy Johnson to his death
and
used in the abduction of a key witness, Alisha Alleyne, whom you will hear from later. Convenient, don't you think?”

At 4.30pm, Judge Winter adjourned for the day.

It had been a good one.

*

The following day, the prosecution called their first witness, Hartley's ex-wife, Katherine Kelly. She'd reverted to her maiden name after her divorce. I had never given her existence a second thought.

Slightly overweight, aged about fifty with short mousey hair, she appeared a fading beauty. She wore a jacket and skirt last seen in ten-year-old fashion magazines.

She held her head low, avoiding any eye contact whatsoever with Hartley. He constantly glared at her with contempt. She spoke in a soft voice with a hint of an Irish accent.

Mr Winn, sensing her timidity, carefully and slowly cross-examined her.

He coaxed out of her what life had been like living with Hartley.

“We met in 1989. We were both married before. It was the second time for me and the third for him. At first, he was charming and romantic. He earned plenty of money and he spoiled me. He'd give me anything I wanted. But after a few years he grew bored with me. Never spent time at home; out having affairs all over the place.” She glanced nervously at the jury.

Mr Winn encouraged her. “Please go on, Miss Kelly.”

“Whenever I tackled him about it, he'd fly into a rage, like I'd thrown a switch. He's fine until he can't get his own way. Then he's violent and controlling. He got angry if I didn't do
exactly
as he wanted. I considered leaving him, but on each occasion, he talked me round. He's good with the blarney.”

Mr Winn probed further. “Did his behaviour improve?”

“No. No. It got worse. We rowed every night. He said he wanted more excitement in his life and that I held him back. I didn't like to argue with him too much because if I did, he'd get more violent.”

“Why didn't you leave him?”

“What could I do? I had no money. He controlled the finances. I had to accept that at least he provided me with financial security. I did leave him in the end. I'd been humiliated.”

“Why, what happened?”

“I discovered one of the women he was having an affair with was Lynne Burrows. She worked in the same car dealership. I questioned him about it. Eventually, he admitted he'd been seeing her. Said he wanted to leave me and run off with her. Said she was expecting his child. Said, ‘That's it, this marriage is over'.”

“And when,
exactly
did you have this conversation?”

“I can't tell you the exact date, but around late January 1996.”

“And how did you react to this?”

Katherine Kelly suddenly came to life. Her eyes blazed and she leaned forward, gripping the front of the witness box. Her Irish accent cut in strongly as her voice level increased.

“At first, it destroyed me. Then I decided to see what she looked like, what she had that I didn't. We'd been trying for a baby, but it didn't happen. He blamed me, of course. He had an obsession about becoming a father. He'd never had kids with his previous wives either.” She glanced at the jury again.

Mr Winn prompted her, “And…”

“I found out where she lived and called on her out of the blue. I shocked her a bit, that's for sure. I told her to keep away from him. He's bad news, I said. She got herself in quite a state. Said she wanted nothing to do with him and to tell him she'd
never
go off with him. Said she had a new man in her life and was expecting
his
baby. It was all over between John and her. She pleaded with me to tell him to stop harassing her or she'd go to the police.”