Blazing Obsession (26 page)

Judge Winter nodded at the court usher who asked the court to rise as the judge stood, and returned to his chambers.

I slumped back in my seat and closed my eyes.

That was it. Full time. Except we didn't know the result.

Later that evening, I called Simon Brotherton. I explained in as much detail as I could remember the last few days' proceedings, particularly the barristers' comments and the judge's summing up. I wanted his opinion about the outcome.

He remained silent for a moment, considering what to say to me.

“Mm… James, I think you should be very clear about this. If the jury accepts Hartley had been set up, especially for the Johnson murder, the CPS will consider you and Alisha as number one suspects. I'd expect them to re-open the file immediately. You'd both be in the dock before you knew it.”

“I thought you'd say that.”

“We'd have a job on our hands to successfully defend you both. The prosecution could easily prove you and Alisha are in a relationship and therefore would examine her liaison with Johnson in much more detail.”

I thought Alisha had explained her contact with Johnson well, playing down the intensity of their relationship. Fortunately, he couldn't testify otherwise.

Simon continued, “You told me Alisha explained to the court that Johnson had told her Hartley paid him to set fire to your cottage. So the big question in the jury's mind would be this; why didn't she pass this information onto the police?”

“She told the court. She'd lost faith in the legal system.”

“It's a bit weak, isn't it? I hope the jury believed her. She's already perjured herself, which is a serious offence. Maybe you and RP made the plan
too
neat. Why don't you call him, see what he has to say?”

“I will.”

I dialled RP's number immediately and didn't give him a chance to speak.

“Roger, this is looking fucking serious. The defence questioned everything; Hartley's MO for Johnson's murder being different from the other two, the chloroform ‘coincidence' and Hartley's mobile mysteriously appearing at the police station. That's just for starters. They majored heavily on Alisha's affair with Johnson. You must admit it does appear like a set-up.”

“Calm down, James. You're getting paranoid. OK… possibly the plan wasn't perfect. But look at it from the other side's point of view. Hartley posing as a victim of a set-up for the Johnson and Greenland murders doesn't add up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hartley's made several mistakes, which point to his guilt. First, he hires a hit man to abduct Alisha in his car. Then he tries to leave the country, but not before torching his car. Why did he do all that if he had nothing to hide? Obviously, to get rid of the forensic evidence.”

“But Hartley's not dim. Maybe his car
had
been stolen by joy riders and set alight,” I shouted down the phone.

“No, sorry James. I'm convinced the jury will believe that Hartley panicked. He realised he'd lost control of the situation. And we know he's uncomfortable with that.”

“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.”

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 responsible 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?”

I feebly replied, “Yes, of course.”

“First, I had my reservations about your involvement with the arson attack, but it's clear from the evidence we presented at the trial, the jury believed Hartley to be guilty. And I couldn't prove you knew about your wife's affair and Hartley being the child's father
before
the attack which would have motivated you.”

At last, he got it.

“Second, with Desmond Lafayette's testimony, there's no doubt Hartley was responsible for Colin Greenland's murder.”

I remained silent. I tried to anticipate with trepidation where these points were leading.

“Leroy Johnson's murder is the case I've been most concerned about. The jury believed Hartley did it but I always had my doubts. I
know
Hartley's defence of being set up is true. I'll tell you why.”

I swallowed hard, trying to disguise my anxiety. I envisaged Flood putting handcuffs on me at any moment.

“John Hartley couldn't possibly have killed Leroy Johnson.” He gave me that steely glare which had become so familiar to me.

“When we interviewed him, I couldn't understand why he'd been knocked out for the
entire
evening. The effects of the chloroform he said had been administered when he opened the door to his flat would only have lasted a few hours at the most.”

He paused, expecting me to comment. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I wasn't capable of words.

“The forensic team ran a test to see if there were traces of something stronger that would substantiate his story. The urine, saliva and blood tests showed nothing, but they found traces of Rohypnol, the date rape drug, in a sample of his hair. In fact, it indicated a massive dose, enough to knock him out for anything up to eight hours.

“Most drugs can be traced this way. For some reason, they stay in your hair for anything up to three months, unlike bodily fluids, which show no traces after about forty-eight hours.”

Our plan hadn't catered for this level of detailed forensic examination.

Flood paused again.

“There is only one explanation.”

I thought if I said anything it would come out wrong. I willed myself to remain mute.

“Somebody must have injected Hartley with Rohypnol
after
he'd been knocked out by the chloroform.”

Another short silence hung in the air.

Eventually, Flood said, “I'm sure you'll agree if this evidence had been presented at court, the argument put forward by the defence that John Hartley had been set up for the murder of Leroy Johnson by other ‘interested parties', as the defence counsel called them, would have been considerably enhanced. In fact, I'm certain it would have led to a not guilty verdict.”

I couldn't hold back any longer.

“Look, I don't understand why you're telling me all this. Why wasn't this evidence used at the trial if you're so confident about Hartley being set up?”

“Well, that's it, isn't it? We had the evidence, make no mistake about that. The forensic team were certain it would stand up to scrutiny from any expert witness the prosecution could provide.”

“Why wasn't it used in court?”

“It became contaminated.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let's just say it had been tampered with. I have a pal on the forensic team. U
nfortunately
, he used an evidence bag, which someone had used before for a different sample – strictly against the rules. We informed the CPS who advised us we couldn't use it.”

The detective chief inspector sat back in the sofa.

“But you still haven't explained why you're telling me this now?”

“I see my job as getting justice. And professional pride, I suppose. I didn't want you to think we hadn't done our job properly. I investigated the crime and I solved it.”

I had a grudging respect for his honesty. He was a winner, like RP.

“The judiciary despises vigilantes. They believe the rule of law is sacrosanct. However, that's not how I feel. The judges can't have any idea how they'd react if what happened to you, happened to them.”

As he stood to leave, he shook my hand and said, “You aren't aware of it, but I do have an idea of what you've been through. I don't think the bad guys should be allowed to get away with murder, should they?”

“Of course not.”

As he walked to the door, he said, “Ironic isn't it? You felt robbed of justice the first time round with the Johnson case. Now that's been cancelled out.”

“There is a certain symmetry, I suppose, assuming your theory's correct.”

He turned sharply to face me.

“I can assure you this is not theory, it's fact. Anyway, we can both say justice has been served, can't we?”

Reaching my front door, he turned to me again and said, “This conversation never happened, right? If you mention it, I'll deny all knowledge. Is that clear?”

“Yes, of course.”

I closed the door behind him and stood with my back against it as I heard him drive off, relieved but still intrigued by what he'd said.

Flood's reference to having an idea of what I'd been through triggered my memory. I recalled the hand-written notes made by RP on the report he'd produced on Flood, regarding the tragic death of his wife in a revenge hit and run attack. The perpetrators remained at large.

I never mentioned the conversation with Flood to anyone.

Not even to Alisha or RP.