Maybe smashing up the debt-collector’s vehicle made them feel a little better, even if it got them into deeper water, and greater debt, in the long run.
‘The van in question has now been fully repaired and is back in service. It went straight to the body shop so there’s no chance of any forensics. But . . .’ He smiled. ‘There were ANPR records showing that, rather than being in Ealing as Joe Bradbury had claimed, the van made a journey down the M40, leaving the motorway at junction eleven.’
‘For Banbury,’ I said.
‘Indeed. And, what’s more, forensic examination of what was left of your vehicle has shown that there are traces of white paint on the back end with a chemical composition consistent with that used on Ford Transit vans of the identical type.’
‘My goodness,’ I said to the detective. ‘You have been a busy bee.’
He smiled again. ‘And, after they’d seen what we had, it took the geniuses at the CPS less than five minutes to agree that he should be charged with attempted murder.’
I thought for a moment.
‘Did you say there were traces of white paint on the Fiat?’ I asked.
‘Yes, the van was white.’
I remembered back to when I’d driven away from the Old Forge on that Wednesday afternoon. I’d been looking only for Joe’s black Nissan but I could recall seeing what I had assumed at the time was one of the many white courier vans that regularly delivered to houses in the village.
I now realised that it must have been Joe, watching and waiting for his chance.
‘But it seems incredible to me that he was able to drive that van at all after hitting the Fiat. You’d think it would have been too badly damaged.’
‘Robust things, Transit vans. Especially the long-wheelbase versions as in this case. Much stronger and much heavier than a tiny Fiat 500 runabout. But we did have difficulty in tracking it back to London. I wonder if the front number plate was too badly damaged to be read by the automatic camera system, or maybe it was missing altogether. He should have thought of ANPR beforehand and taken the plates off, or replaced them with ones nicked off another vehicle.’ He smiled at me once more. ‘I’d make a much better villain than most of them.’
‘So where is Joe Bradbury now?’
‘He’s still out on bail.’
I looked at him incredulously. ‘But—’
The DS held up his hand to stop me.
‘Bradbury doesn’t know anything about all of this yet. He’s due to return to court in Guildford tomorrow morning to answer his bail on the theft and fraud charges. He’ll be expecting to have his bail renewed and a trial date set. But little does he realise that I’ll be there waiting there for him, ready to arrest him again, this time for attempted murder.’
‘How about also arresting him for murdering Amelia?’ I said.
‘I’m still working on that.’
31
Mary Bradbury died exactly three months to the day after her daughter. So the doctors had been spot on with their prediction.
It happened four days before I was discharged from the spinal-injury centre, but I didn’t find out until after I arrived home and opened a letter from Mary’s local Chipping Norton solicitor. It informed me of her death and that, not only was I one of the beneficiaries of Mary’s estate, she had also named me in her will as her sole executor.
Joe won’t like this, I thought, and I was dead right.
Further on in the same letter, the solicitor advised me that he was aware that Mrs Bradbury’s son had already lodged a challenge to his mother’s will, claiming she had been bullied into signing it, but, subject to the outcome of the challenge, my appointment as executor would continue for the time being, and what would I like to do about organising her funeral? He hoped that I wouldn’t object that he had taken it upon himself to arrange for her body to be removed from her home by a firm of undertakers, as he wasn’t sure of my whereabouts.
He finished by offering himself as the solicitor I should appoint to obtain a grant of probate, together with a breakdown of the fees he would charge for such a service.
I sat in my wheelchair in the hall of the Old Forge reading and rereading the letter, and all I could feel was deep sorrow.
Poor Mary.
Her last few months on this earth had been pretty dreadful. Not only had she had to deal with a cancer that had eaten away her body from the inside, but her only daughter had been murdered and her only son was now on remand in prison accused of having done it.
Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell had been back to see me at Stoke Mandeville with the news that the CPS had finally agreed to charge Joe Bradbury with Amelia’s murder.
‘What’s the reason for their change of heart?’ I’d asked.
‘New evidence.’
‘Do tell.’
‘We could find no trace in either his or your wife’s phone records of any call made by her to him on the Tuesday evening. We checked all his numbers – work, home and mobile – against all of hers. Nothing.’
‘I told you there was no way Amelia would have called him.’
‘And the location devices on both mobiles showed they didn’t move the whole evening. Joe Bradbury is still maintaining that he received a call from his sister and that was the sole reason he went to your house on Wednesday morning.’
‘He’s lying.’
‘There’s something else as well. The ANPR records for the M40, plus some CCTV footage we have obtained from a petrol station near the motorway junction, indicate beyond any doubt whatsoever that Joseph Bradbury and his black Nissan were in Banbury by eight-twenty on the morning of the murder. Yet he didn’t call the police emergency line to report his sister’s death until ten-seventeen. Almost two whole hours later. Now why was that?’
Why, indeed.
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Yes, I have. I went to arrest him at Bullingdon Prison where he was already being held on remand for your attempted murder. And, with a new arrest, we had another opportunity to question him.’
‘And?’
‘He said that he had agreed to meet your wife at nine o’clock but she didn’t turn up. The traffic had been lighter than he’d expected, so he was early, but he claims that he waited for her at the chosen rendezvous point for an hour before deciding to drive to your house.’
‘And where was this mysterious rendezvous point supposed to have been?’
‘At a disused pub car park in Wroxton.’
‘The Hare and Hounds?’
‘That’s the one. The pub’s all boarded up now.’
‘But why there?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the DS had said. ‘But that’s what he told us.’
Amelia and I had enjoyed going to the Hare and Hounds in Wroxton, when it was open. The food had been very good and, in happier times, it had been where we had occasionally met Joe and his family for lunch on a Saturday. It had a nice garden with swings for their young girls to play on. But that had been back in the days when we had all been talking, rather than how things were now.
I’d sighed. Nothing ever stays the same.
‘Can Joe prove that he waited there for an hour? And, if Amelia was meant to turn up and didn’t, why didn’t he phone her?’
‘There’s no CCTV footage to prove either way if he was there or not and, because it’s in a dip, there’s no phone signal at that particular spot.’
That had been one of the reasons Amelia and I had loved the place so much. We couldn’t be interrupted by the continuous ringing of phones, both ours and other peoples.
‘He could have always driven up the hill to make a call. There’s plenty of signal there.’
‘He claims that he didn’t want to leave the car park, even for a few minutes, in case he missed Amelia.’
‘It all sounds a bit convenient to me,’ I’d said. ‘Joe knew the place, and also that it didn’t have any phone signal, so I think he’s just made it up about waiting there for an hour while he was, in fact, at my house
killing my wife.’
‘As do the big brains at the CPS. That’s why they’ve sanctioned a charge of murder against him.’
I read the letter from Mary Bradbury’s solicitor one more time.
What did I want to do about her funeral?
It didn’t seem quite right, somehow, that it was my decision, but Joe wasn’t exactly in a position to do much about it, and his wife was as far away in family terms as I was – an in-law – and it had been Amelia and I who had done most for Mary when she’d been alive, so why shouldn’t I perform the necessary final duties after she was gone?
I rang the solicitor, a Mr James Fairbrother, MA (Oxon), TEP, according to the letterhead.
‘Oh, yes, um,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell. Thank you for calling.’
‘Please call me Mr Russell,’ I said. ‘Or even, just Bill.’
‘Oh, yes, right. Okay then . . . Bill.’
‘Shall I call you James?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ There was a very small nervous chuckle. ‘James. Or Jim. I answer to both.’
‘Okay then, James,’ I said. ‘I have received your letter concerning Mrs Mary Bradbury, my mother-in-law.’
‘Oh, yes, well, thank you. Yes. Such a dear old lady. So sad, so sad.’
I feared that this telephone conversation was going to be a bit sad too.
‘In your letter, you state that she has made me her sole executor.’
‘Oh, yes, well, that’s true. But . . .’ He stopped.
This was getting painful.
‘I understand that Mr Joseph Bradbury is challenging the will,’ I said, prompting what I thought he was about to say.
‘Oh, yes, well, I understand he’s trying to. But he won’t succeed.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Quite sure. Mrs Bradbury’s last will and testament was properly made and executed. I was present myself at the signing and there were several independent witnesses.’
‘I ought to warn you that Joseph Bradbury can be quite determined.’
‘Oh, yes, well, I know. Mrs Bradbury told me. But so was she. That’s why she insisted on having everything explained to her not just by one solicitor – that was me.’ He laughed nervously again. ‘But also by the head of my firm. Very adamant, she was.’
‘Who were the witnesses?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, well. The witnesses.’ I could hear papers being shuffled. ‘A Mr Frederick Marchant and a Mrs Jillian Marchant. I believe they were her neighbours.’
Yes, I thought. The ones who had taken her to Oxford on the day she’d come to see me at the John Radcliffe.
‘They are the ones who signed the document as the two legally required witnesses. But there were others present too. I was there, as was Mr Kaplan, he’s the head of our firm. Plus there was also Mrs Bradbury’s doctor.’
‘Her doctor? What was he there for?’
‘Oh, yes, well. After we’d arrived at her house, when we were all having tea in her sitting room, Mary asked her doctor to perform some cognitive assessment tests on her.’
‘Cognitive assessment tests?’
‘Oh, yes, well, to satisfy the golden rule.’
‘The golden rule?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, well, one always has to satisfy the golden rule. It states that “the making of a will by an aged or seriously ill testator ought to be witnessed or approved by a medical practitioner who has satisfied himself of the capacity and understanding of the testator, and records and preserves his examination or findings”. So the cognitive tests proved that Mary had full testamentary capacity at the time of the signing, in accordance with sections one to four of the Mental Capacity Act 2005. She also insisted on telling us all, several times, that she knew what she was doing, that her decision to sign was being taken freely of her own volition, that she was not being coerced, nor signing against her own free will. She then made us all write witness notes to that effect, which I have kept on file. Finally the executed will was lodged at the Probate Department Registry of the Family Division at the Royal Courts of Justice.’
The canny old bird. She had known that Joe would challenge her will so she had done her best to prevent him succeeding – and it was the full belt-and-braces job by the sound of it.
‘She seems to have covered everything,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes, well, I hope so. But Mr Bradbury could always still apply to the courts and make a claim against the estate under the Inheritance (Provision for Family and Dependants) Act 1975 on the grounds that he is in need of funds to provide for his wellbeing but, from what I know of his previous conduct, I think such a claim is also unlikely to succeed.’
‘His previous conduct?’
‘Oh, yes, well, the Inheritance Act 1975 does allow for the court to consider any conduct of the claimant which the court may consider relevant. In 2014, during the case of Wright v. Waters, the High Court of England and Wales had ruled that the treatment by a daughter of her late mother had been so deplorable that it outweighed all the other compelling factors in her favour, including the fact that the daughter was in poor health, confined to a wheelchair, and in financial difficulties.’ James paused and took breath. ‘I believe that, in this case, the High Court would similarly decide that Joseph Bradbury’s despicable conduct, having allegedly stolen a hundred thousand pounds from his mother during the sale of her house, outweighs all other factors.’
How delicious, I thought. Joe was set to be undone by a ruling from his own beloved High Court.
‘Hence,’ James laughed nervously once more, ‘I am quite certain Mr Bradbury’s challenge will fail on every count.’
‘How on earth did Mary think all that up?’ I asked. ‘You know, the second solicitor, the doctor tests, the golden rule, the Mental Capacity Act, the Royal Courts of Justice thing and all that other legal stuff.’
He laughed again. This time without the nervousness. It was as if he was quite enjoying himself.
‘Oh, yes, well,’ he said. ‘That may all have been at my suggestion after she explained what she was going to do. We agreed that we should apply the three tests from the judgement in the case of Banks v. Goodfellow way back in 1870. The tests may be a hundred and fifty years old but the High Court ruled only last year that they are still relevant. First, the testator must understand the nature of the will and its effect. Second, the testator must have an understanding of the extent and value of her property, and third, the testator must be aware of the persons for whom she would usually be expected to provide, even if she chose not to, and must be free from any delusion of the mind that would cause her reason not to benefit those people.’
Now I laughed. So it was he who was the canny old bird.
‘So what does the TEP stand for?’ I asked.
‘Eh?’
‘TEP. The letters after your name on your letterhead.’
‘Oh, yes, well,’ he said. ‘It means that I’m qualified as a Trust and Estate Practitioner, so I specialise in wills and probate.’
Oh, yes, well, more like a Totally Extraordinary Person, if you asked me.
I agreed that, yes indeed, I very much did want to appoint him to assist me in obtaining probate of Mary’s estate, and I also said that I’d get back to him about her funeral.
‘Oh, yes, well, the undertakers are rather waiting on your instructions.’
He gave me their details.
‘I’ll call them.’
‘Oh, yes, well, good idea.’
32
I bowed my head as a simple oak coffin was carried past me. Then I repeated the process as a second identical coffin followed it.
I had applied to the Oxford Coroner for permission to have Amelia’s body returned to me and, having consulted both the CPS and Joe Bradbury’s defence team, he had agreed.
So here I was, living a nightmare, sitting in a wheelchair inside Hanwell village church for the double funeral of both my wife and my mother-in-law.
Mother and daughter togethe
r, and with no Joe here to come between them this time.
I had asked DS Dowdeswell if it were possible to prevent Joe from attending from prison and he had readily agreed to ensure it, citing the likelihood of a public disturbance as the official reason. And it was quite possibly a true one too.
I could clearly remember back to the day I had collected my car from the local pub car park, when Mark Thornton had told me that Amelia had been very popular in the village and that feelings were running high. At the time, their anger had been directed squarely at me as the prime suspect but now, with Joe Bradbury awaiting trial for her murder, the ire of the locals was thankfully aimed at him.
Not that many of the village folk had been round to apologise for jumping so quickly to the wrong conclusion. In fact, only Nancy and Dave of my neighbours had been to see me during the twelve long lonely days since I’d arrived home from Stoke Mandeville, and I was not sure how I would have coped without them.
I had found that living in hospital for an extended period, with its strict daily regime, was a perfect way of shutting out the real world, and the agonies that came with it.
Wake, wash, dress, eat breakfast, go to the gym for physiotherapy, have lunch, return to the gym for walking practice, have tea, watch TV, hot milk drink, undress, go to bed, sleep – every day the same. It numbed the mind. Even Christmas had come and gone without any noticeable change other than the physiotherapy stopped because the staff were off work enjoying themselves.
But I’d gone to the gym anyway, on my own.
Routine was, well . . . routine. And comforting.
Douglas had been down from London a few times to see me, and my parents had even made the long journey across the international border from Wrexham to Aylesbury but, overall, my mental life had stood still for the seven weeks I was there.
Fortunately, my physical side improved gradually such that, by the time I was discharged, I could walk a short distance with only the aid of crutches, and even climb a step or two before my legs began to shake uncontrollably and I had to sit down again. But it was enough, and I had finally convinced the doctors I was well enough to go home.
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