The Valley (21 page)

‘No comment,’ I finally said.

‘In which case, you do not leave me any option except to arrest you and search your property. Is that what you want?’ Davies said.

Joy moved in for the kill. ‘Just to clarify John: when we say we will search your property, we don’t just mean your flat. We’ll have to search anywhere where you could have hidden evidence including your office, your wife’s house and anywhere else you’ve been to recently. We will pull everything apart in full view of your neighbours, employees, friends and family, and tell everyone it’s because you’re being held on a charge of murder and you’re refusing to cooperate.’

‘So, are you going to help us or not?’ Davies said.

His Welsh accent had become more pronounced. He leaned back in his seat and swept his hand through his hair. I looked at Joy. Until she discovered the evidence under my bed, the most powerful weapon she could use against me was the threat of embarrassing me – and she was deploying it now. She was almost as desperate for me to talk as I was to avoid the police search.

‘John, there’s no need for this to be confrontational,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got involved in something by accident, we’ll give you a chance to explain. It’s not you we are after.’

She then listed all the ways the police could help me. But I was no longer listening to what she was saying, only how she said it, trying to pick up any trace of anxiety in her voice. The problem was that she was too good.

‘We have to know now,’ Davies said.

It would be a hell of a bet to call his bluff. If they searched my flat they would find the gun in minutes. I pretended to study the table top for a few seconds, then suddenly I looked up, catching the alarm in Davies’ eyes.

‘Okay, I’ll talk to you,’ I said, and I saw the tension drain from his face, which gave me the confidence to deliver the sting in the tail. ‘But first I want to talk to a solicitor.’

Davies opened his mouth and then shut it again.

‘That’s your right, John,’ Joy said in a steely voice. ‘And of course we can find you a solicitor, if that’s what you want. But, in the meantime, we’d like to carry on asking you some factual questions. You don’t have to answer anything but – ’

‘I don’t want any solicitor,’ I said. ‘I want this one.’

I put my hand in my trouser pocket and pulled out my wallet. I rummaged through its bulging side pocket, and extracted Nick’s business card, placing it on the table.

Joy studied the card as I took out my mobile phone.

‘That’s a City law firm,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find they don’t do criminal cases.’

‘I’m sure they don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s their litigation department I will be using to sue you for damages to property and reputation if you set one foot in my flat, or my wife’s house or my office without extremely good evidence. And in the meantime they will be able to recommend a criminal law solicitor who can give an opinion on whether there is a case for me to answer.’

I punched Nick’s telephone number into my mobile and prayed that he would answer rather than let the call go through to voicemail.

A secretary came on the line. I gave her my name and told her it was very urgent that I talk to Nick. Ten seconds later, I heard his voice.

‘Nick – it’s John Flood,’ I said loudly and clearly. ‘I’m calling you because I’ve being held in a police station and threatened with arrest on suspicion of murder, although the police won’t tell me who I’ve murdered, or how, or where or when. And they have just made a threat to tear apart Karen’s house although they clearly haven’t got any warrants or any evidence.’

The moment I said Karen’s house, I knew I had his attention. ‘Right,’ he said ‘where are you now, John?’

‘Southampton central police station,’ I said eyeing Joy. Outwardly she still looked calm. One of us had overplayed their hand and I was not yet sure who it was.

Nick said he would refer me to someone whom the firm had used in similar cases. ‘He’s quite pricey,’ he added.

‘I don’t care. Tell him to come straight away.’

When I put the phone away, Davies looked at me and then slowly clapped his hands. ‘That was quite a performance,’ he said.

I pointed to the digital recorder and the camera above my head. ‘My lawyer said I should warn you to keep all recordings of this interview, including all the threats you made, or you will face charges of destroying evidence.’

‘Bollocks,’ Davies snorted.

‘Now I would like to go unless you believe you have any reasonable grounds to detain me.’

I stood up. Davies slowly stood up too.

‘John Flood, I’m arresting you…’

I tried to remain calm.

‘…for the suspected murder of Charlie Wall on the –’

‘What!’ I yelled.

Davies droned on about a date in December when I had supposedly murdered not Edward FitzGerald but someone called Charlie Wall. For a few seconds I could not remember who Charlie Wall was, until I recalled he was the skinhead whose DNA had been found in Lucy’s home. I started to laugh: they had got it so wrong. By the end, Davies had to shout out the last part of the caution just to be heard.

‘You may find this funny now,’ he fumed, ‘but very soon you won’t. We’ll tear your fucking flat apart and find whatever you’re hiding. In the meantime, you’re going to the cells until your solicitor gets here. Interview suspended.’

He reached over to the recorder and was about to hit the off switch when I shouted, ‘Wait’.

His hand hovered above it.

‘I’d like to make a statement now, if that’s all right?’ I said.

Davies looked at Joy who nodded. I leaned towards the recorder. ‘Just for the record, I’ve never met Charlie Wall or spoken to him, and I know nothing about his life or death, except for what I’ve been told by the police. DS Clarke knows these facts and so I believe my arrest to be wrongful and illegal, and any attempt to search my flat or my – ’

‘That’s enough,’ Davies said and switched off the recorder.

Joy opened the door and I followed Davies outside. Waiting for us in the corridor were Steve and the uniformed policeman who had first taken me up to the room. There was no sign of the coffee and biscuits I had been promised.

Davies waved both of them away. It was just Joy and him who led me in silence to a lift. I noticed there were six floors: we were on level 3 and below it were 2, 1, G, -1 and -2. Davies pressed -1. I looked up and saw a camera in the lift’s ceiling.

From the lift I was taken to a large room where two other suspects were being formally charged, each surrounded by uniformed policemen. As we came in, a small wiry sergeant gestured for us to proceed to an unoccupied desk in the far corner. He followed us there and Davies introduced him to Joy.

The sergeant asked Davies to repeat what I had been arrested for and I was then cautioned all over again. I had to wait in silence with Davies and Joy standing on either side of me as the sergeant typed my charges into a computer, and printed out a form for me to sign. Next, I had to turn out my pockets. A young red-haired constable came over and put my keys, wallet, phone and money into a plastic container whilst the sergeant listed each item. Davies mumbled something to Joy and then they both walked away, leaving me with the two uniformed policemen. As the sergeant and the red-haired constable totted up my change, I lazily glanced at the arrest sheet, and for the first time I noticed the date of the murder I had supposedly committed. It was listed on the form as 17th December – a date right in the middle of the long weekend I had spent with the kids in Disneyland Paris.

Davies and Joy were already at the far end of the room, talking to each other. They seemed to be arguing.

‘Hang on a second,’ I said.

It was a noisy room. One of the other suspects who were being processed was drunkenly shouting that the police were trying to rob him. Joy and Davies kept on walking towards the door we had entered through.

The sergeant put a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘Come on now, sir.’

I suddenly had a vision of Steve and several other young detective constables, searching my flat and finding the gun. They might have been searching it for all the wrong reasons, but that was not going to save me.

‘Joy!’ I screamed.

Everyone, including the sergeant, stared first at me and then in the direction of Joy and Davies who stood motionless by the door.

‘Now don’t make a fuss,’ the sergeant said, tightening his grip on my shoulder.

From the corner of my eye I could see him beckon to another uniformed officer.

‘Joy, there’s something you need to know,’ I yelled.

But the sergeant had other ideas. He pushed my head down on the counter, jacking my arm behind my back, whilst the red haired constable grabbed my other arm. I then felt the cold metal of handcuffs bite into my wrists.

Joy, however, had broken away from Davies and was heading towards me.

‘My name is DS Clarke, not Joy,’ she said, as she approached. ’Now what is it? If it’s another threat to sue us, we’ll respond with a resisting arrest charge.’

‘Joy, I was away on holiday when this murder happened. I was at Euro Disney with my children. If you look in my wallet you’ll see the hotel receipts. Check it out before your thick Welsh friend does something stupid.’

‘That’s enough of that,’ the sergeant warned.

‘Do you have anyone who will vouch for you?’ Joy asked.

‘It was just me and the kids’ I said, ‘but you can call Eurostar if you want – they’ll have passenger records. Or check with Visa. The card’s in my wallet. I spent a fortune out there.’

She looked at me, then turned and walked away without saying another word. Once she had left the room, the sergeant and his assistant removed my shoes, replacing them with paper slippers, I was taken down to the cell block, and placed in a small double cell with a teenage joy-rider called Kev.

Kev talked incessantly in a low whiny voice about how the police had fixed him up. The nub of his story was that he liked joyriding but denied he had anything to do with the accident that had led to his arrest. I smiled sympathetically as I had the same problem. I had helped kill someone, but not the person whose murder I was accused of. I doubted whether a judge would show either of us much leniency.

I let Kev ramble on, occasionally nodding. At least, he took my mind off thinking about how at this very second a policeman could be standing over my bed, marvelling at my stupidity in preserving the only evidence that could ever convict me. And if that happened, I would be sharing cells with people like Kev for a very long time.

After about an hour, the wiry sergeant returned, asking me to come with him to sort out what he called a ‘small legal problem’.

‘Is my lawyer here?’ I asked.

He rolled his eyes. ‘You’ve got two lawyers here. And they both claim to represent you.’

I was taken to a small windowless room opposite one of the cells. It had a desk and two chairs and stank of cigarette smoke despite a prominent ‘No Smoking’ sign. Standing beside the desk were two white middle-aged men in pinstripe suits.

‘I’m Jonathan Harrison,’ said the tallest one, extending his hand for me to shake. ‘There seems to have been a mix-up. I was told by Nick Roberts at Mayspoons that you needed legal representation.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, turning to the other man. ‘And who are you?’

‘Chris Rules,’ he said, handing me a card, embossed with the logo of the London law firm that Max always used. ‘I was instructed by Ian Joseph on the advice of Mr Max Grainger. Mr Joseph said to stress to you that, should you use our services, all your legal bills will be taken care of. I don’t know whether my friend here’ – he glanced at Jonathan Harrison – ‘has a similar arrangement in place.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ said Jonathan Harrison.

I hesitated. I dreaded to think how much Jonathan Harrison would cost. But the mention of Ian Joseph frightened me.

I turned to Chris Rules. ‘Will you thank Max and Ian, but tell them I had already arranged my own lawyer.’

‘You’re sure?’ Chris Rules said.

‘Yes.’

The Sergeant led him out of the room, leaving me alone with Jonathan Harrison who barely let the door shut before saying, ‘That’s unbelievable. I’ve a good mind to report him to the Law Society.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

I sat down and quickly explained that I had never met, seen or talked to Charlie Wall; and on the day of the murder I had not been within a hundred miles of the crime scene.

‘So why have they arrested you?’ Jonathan Harrison asked.

‘They’re interested in my relationship with Max Grainger. They explicitly threatened to search my home, my ex-wife’s home and my office, unless I talk about it.’

‘They said this on camera?’

‘Yes.’

He wrote down some notes and then looked up. ‘Are there any particular reasons why you wouldn’t want a search to take place?’

‘I don’t want my neighbours, my employees, my children or my ex-wife to think I’m a murderer.’

‘And if the police offered a compromise whereby they searched only your flat, discreetly, without the neighbours knowing, would that be acceptable?’

‘No,’ I said.

He looked at me without saying anything.

‘Jonathan, there’s nothing in my flat that could possibly connect me to this crime because I didn’t commit it. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t things that might be embarrassing to me if the police got hold of them.’

He nodded. ‘If I can prove wrongful arrest, do you want compensation?’

‘I wouldn’t turn it down, if it’s offered.’

‘It won’t be. The police will do anything to avoid paying it. They’ll fight it in the courts for years if they have to. They always do.’

‘Then don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘Tell them I’ll only sue if they go ahead with the searches.’

‘There’s one more matter,’ he said. ‘My fee: I charge £850 an hour, plus VAT. Is that acceptable to you?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Yes,’ I said eventually.

He gave me some forms to sign, and then knocked on the door. A new police constable came and led me back to my cell. Kev had been sent to a remand centre, so I had it all to myself. With nothing to do except stare at white walls and fret about the gun, I rather missed his company. After about two hours, the door was unlocked and the young policeman led me back to the windowless room where Jonathan was sitting behind the small desk, with a pad of A4 paper in a calfskin folder laid out in front of him.