by Dai Henley
I chastened myself continuously about my inadequate call to Crimestoppers. Every day, I avidly scanned the local and national newspapers to see if the press had picked up any news of our exploits.
Three days later, several papers ran a story following a statement from the Metropolitan Police. On page six of the London Evening Standard, I read the report with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
BODY RECOVERED FROM THAMES
The Metropolitan Police announced yesterday that following a tip-off, police divers have recovered a body from the River Thames, downriver from Tower Bridge. They have named the man as 26-year-old Leroy Johnson. The circumstances appear suspicious and police are following up several lines of enquiry. If anybody has any further information or witnessed anything unusual in the vicinity of Bermondsey Wall West or Butlers’ Wharf on or around Thursday 9th October 1999, please call Southwark Police Station in Borough High Street, London SE 1 on 0207 177666 or call Crimestoppers anonymously on 0800 555 111.
I phoned RP and told him the news. “Good… that’s good. Let’s get together for a review tomorrow, the three of us. Can you make 10ish?”
*
RP, dressed in his usual immaculate style, sporting a bright yellow handkerchief flowing out of the top pocket of his navy-blue blazer, appeared in good spirits. He got down to business once Lucy had brought in the coffee and biscuits.
He took a mobile phone from his drawer.
“Exhibit number one,” he announced, waving it in the air. “This is Hartley’s. Bruno ‘borrowed’ it from Hartley’s flat at the same time as the other items.”
“Has it still got all his messages and voicemails on it?” I said.
“Too right. The police would find this useful. It’s possible they may not be able to use this as evidence, but it’ll point them in the right direction. Give them an excuse to search his flat, find the stuff we left there.”
“How do we get the mobile to the police?” I said.
“I’ll get one of my contacts to take it in, say they found it in a cafe close to Hartley’s flat.”
“And how will they know it’s Hartley’s?”
It’s standard procedure for them to check the serial number printed on the sim card tray, phone the service provider and get the name and address.”
“That’s neat,” I said.
“It gets better. Any half-decent detective will check the name given to them by the phone company on the Police National Computer and discover Hartley’s criminal past. Then they’ll check his mobile and see the messages.”
“Suppose the police don’t?” I said.
“I’m confident they will but if not, we can play our ace card.”
“Which is?”
“Greenland. He’d be the prosecution’s star witness. He knows so much about Hartley. And, from what you’ve told me, he’s shitting himself about being charged in connection with the arson attack. Contrary to popular belief, there is no honour amongst criminals, believe me. And the police could do a deal with him, unofficially, of course.”
Alisha had remained quiet ever since we entered RP’s office. Although she’d approved of the plan to dispose of Johnson, I don’t think she believed we’d actually carry it out. She broke her silence.
“What if Hartley comes up with an alibi for the Johnson murder?”
RP responded, “Well, that’s neat too. Hartley would have been out cold for at least four or five hours. He won’t remember a thing. All he can tell the police is that he spent the evening at home.”
“Couldn’t he pay someone to vouch for him?”
“Well, he could, but it would have to be a damn good alibi. I don’t believe that with this evidence, he’ll be able to wriggle out of either the arson or the Johnson murder. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”
RP poured more coffee as a police siren wailed, rushing up St James’s Street.
Waiting for the noise to subside, I sipped my coffee and said, “The police press release said they were following up several lines of enquiry. But the longer the police take to get to his flat, surely the more time Hartley has to discover the clothes and chloroform bottle.”
“Yes…?” RP motioned with his hand for me to continue.
“Well, if he finds them, won’t that signal that he’s been set up by us for the Johnson murder? He already knows about Alisha’s involvement with Johnson… and Greenland.”
RP, without hesitation, said, “You’re right. That’s why we need Hartley off the streets… quickly.” He glanced at both of us in turn. “We don’t want him doing anything silly, do we?”
“We certainly, don’t,” I said.
“I’ll make sure the police have Hartley’s mobile as soon as possible. I’ll make a few calls later today; try to find out where the investigation’s heading.”
RP eyeballed me and said, “But, of course, there’s someone else with a motive for killing Johnson, isn’t there?”
“Who?”
“I expect the police will want to interview you, James.”
“I bloody hope not!”
“Well, someone may have remembered your outburst at Winchester Crown Court after Johnson got off. You were understandably upset. It’s possible the senior investigating officer on the case will want a chat. DI Flood wasn’t it?”
“Er… yes. He appeared in court that day. He was as upset as me about Johnson getting off.”
RP, slowly stroking his chin once more, said, “Being upset isn’t a crime. Doesn’t automatically follow you’d kill someone as a result. I think it might be a good idea to have an alibi in case things turn nasty. Alisha, I’m not sure you’ll want to agree to this, but are you prepared to say that James spent the night at your flat?”
“You know me. I’d do anything to get Hartley banged up.”
“Well you two should work on getting your stories absolutely straight. OK?”
We both nodded.
“Bloody hell, Roger, I’m not looking forward to being interviewed by Flood, of all people. He’s a miserable sod.”
“It may not come to that. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just make sure your alibi’s foolproof. And remember, Hartley’s clothes will be brimming with forensics, proving him to be Johnson’s killer. You’ll just have to keep your nerve.”
I wasn’t convinced I could.
“Right, let’s leave it there then shall we? If I get any more information I’ll let you know.” RP stood and shook hands with each of us.
Hartley’s arrest couldn’t come soon enough.
*
Alisha and I walked up to Green Park and found a bench away from the many tree-lined paths, full of kids kicking the late autumn leaves in the bright sunlight.
We spent an hour rehearsing our alibis, especially the time I’d arrived in the evening and left the next morning. This implied that I’d slept with her, although we never had. It added substance to the alibi.
RP’s influence had prompted me to ask Alisha about CCTV cameras, but she assured me there were none covering her flat in Canary Wharf.
Late the next morning, RP called me on my landline at home. He sounded excited.
“Right, there have been several interesting developments. I got Hartley’s phone sent to the nearest police station to his flat yesterday. The conversations with Greenland and Johnson led to the police visiting Hartley. Problem is that he’s gone AWOL. They got a search warrant and this morning, they took away a lot of stuff which I’m told is of interest. I’m hoping that means what I think it means.”
RP’s connections were proving invaluable.
“Great,” I said. “At last something’s happening.”
“It is. The forensic service is testing the stuff as a matter of urgency. It’ll take a few days, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no! I hope they find the bastard quickly.”
“I’m told they’re treating this case as a priority. I’ll be in touch if I hear anything else.”
I tried to get inside Hartley’s mind, imaginin
g what his next move might be. I was turning into RP by the minute.
He called me at home that evening. I was working on the budgets for next year’s business plans.
“Have you seen the nine o’clock news on TV?”
“No. I don’t have the TV on. What’s happened?”
“Greenland’s been found stabbed to death in the early hours of this morning.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“BBC News just reported it. Not many details yet. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. They haven’t given any indications as to the perpetrator, but I can guess, can’t you?”
*
Channel hopping every news bulletin for the next half-an-hour, I realised the implications of Greenland’s demise. Our fallback plan of using him as a star prosecution witness had crashed.
I called Alisha to warn her she may be in danger. I planned to go over and stay with her if she felt vulnerable. I tried both her landline and mobile and got her messaging service each time. I waited ten minutes and called again − same message. A knot grew in my stomach. It was 10.30pm.
I remembered that RP had placed a tracking device on the mobile he’d given her. I called him, explained the situation and asked him to investigate. He checked in with one of his techies at his computer room, staffed around the clock, and called me back. He confirmed the stats showed the mobile’s location as Piccadilly.
“But that’s where she works, Roger. She wouldn’t be there now, surely. And if she is, why isn’t she answering?”
“Sorry, James. Can’t answer that. Keep trying to contact her. If there’s any change in the location, I’ll call you.”
I picked up my car keys from the table, ran out to the garage and leapt into my Mercedes. On a frosty, cloudless evening, a full moon lit up the sky. Emerging from the Blackwall Tunnel, I felt on edge. As well as concerned about Alisha’s absence, I became aware of the glittering River Thames and the events that had taken place there several nights ago.
This happened every time I got close to the river. The adrenaline rushes I’d experienced then were now replaced by gnawing, anxious feelings that ate up my insides.
In light traffic, I arrived at her apartment within twenty minutes.
I parked outside her block, ran up the stairs two at a time to the second floor and pressed the buzzer. No reply. I rang again. Still no reply. I ran back down the stairs and gazed up at her window. It was in darkness.
I walked the half-mile back towards South Quay DLR station and checked a couple of restaurants and bars nearby that I knew she used.
No joy.
I walked back to her flat and decided to stay in my car until she returned. Another half-hour passed. I checked with RP the location of her mobile again – no change. I tried to convince myself that she must have gone out with a girlfriend and forgotten to tell me.
I continuously called her mobile and landline alternately.
Nothing.
Her repetitive message irritated me. I struck the steering wheel with the heels of my hands and shouted, “Bugger!”
A few minutes later, around 1am, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I spotted Alisha in my rear view mirror. I recognised her confident gait. Now seventy or eighty yards away, she strolled slowly towards my car and the safety of her flat.
What happened next resembled a scene from a movie.
A tall, well-built, hooded figure emerged from the shadows, swiftly approached her from behind and thrust a canvas bag over her head. He put one hand over her covered mouth and dragged her backwards, as she kicked and struggled, towards a nearby car facing the opposite direction to mine. He opened the boot with a remote and bundled her in, slamming it shut. The whole scene lasted less than twenty seconds.
I lost precious time before I realised what was going on. Finally, I sprang out of my car and ran towards them, shouting at the top of my voice, “Let her go! Let her go!” I got close enough to gulp, inadvertently, a lungful of exhaust fumes as the tyres screeched, spinning the car away from me.
I immediately recognised the make, model and registration number. It was Hartley’s car. The thought that Alisha now occupied the same place as Johnson’s unconscious body a few days earlier flashed through my mind.
I sprinted back to my car, u-turned and roared off in pursuit. I took a guess which way Hartley would head. To my relief, I spotted his car turning left at Westferry Road onto Burdett Road, heading north. Surprisingly heavy traffic for this time of the morning held me back, but I finally got to within two cars of him. Despite constantly flashing my lights and sounding my horn, no one moved over. A couple of drivers actually gave me the finger in return.
Hartley, realising he was being followed, took unbelievable risks, overtaking at crossroads and once nearly mounting a pavement, trying to get past a car turning right. I shot a couple of red lights myself. Then a large supermarket truck making late-night deliveries pulled out of a store immediately in front of me and stalled his engine. He took ages to get it going again.
“Bugger! Bugger!” I yelled at the anonymous driver before I passed. I carried on heading north for a couple more miles, hoping Hartley hadn’t turned off.
I thought I’d lost him, but then I spotted the car parked in a lay-by with the boot open, less than fifty yards in front of me. Out of the gloom, Alisha appeared, waving her arms and scampering away from the car in my direction. Hartley wasn’t far behind her.
I stopped. I had to choose between getting out and challenging Hartley or rescuing Alisha. I chose the latter and swung open the passenger door from the inside. Hartley, seeing my car, stopped chasing her, turned and scrambled back into his driver’s seat. He almost struck another car as he gunned his, rejoining the main road.
As Alisha jumped in, breathlessly she said, “Oh James… I’m so relieved to see you… how the bloody hell did you know I’d been abducted?”
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s get after the bastard.”
Alisha took several deep breaths to calm herself as we chased after Hartley’s car.
He drove like a maniac. I couldn’t keep up and after a couple of miles, we gave up.
Driving back to her flat, Alisha spat out her anger.
“I can’t believe I let him get me into the boot. I tried as hard as I could to get away. He was too strong for me.” She closed her eyes at the memory.
“You must have been scared to death. How did you get out of the boot?”
“After he bundled me in, I managed to get the bag off my head, but I was still in complete darkness. I could barely breathe. I heard the rumble of tyres. He was taking me to God knows where. At first, I panicked. I hit the boot lid with my fists and kicked out at it, shouting at the top of my voice. I became hysterical but I realised I was wasting energy.”
Just listening to Alisha’s experience made me sweat. I suffered badly from claustrophobia.
“I pulled myself together, reasoned that the boot locking mechanism must be on the inside, if only I could find it in the pitch darkness. I lifted up the carpet and fumbled around the perimeter of the boot. Fortunately, I found a cable. I ran my fingers along it and traced it back to the locking mechanism.”
“Good thinking.”
“I pulled as hard as I could, praying the latch would give way. It didn’t. I tried a dozen times but it wouldn’t budge.”
“How did you get it open?”
“Thank goodness, I’d kept hold of my handbag. When he attacked me from behind, I thought someone was trying to mug me. I instinctively hung on to it for dear life. I had a small pair of nail scissors inside. I scrabbled in the dark and finally found them. I felt for the latch with my fingers again and fiddled around for a good five minutes digging about, anxious not to make any noise.
“I couldn’t believe it when suddenly, something clicked and the boot lid sprung open. It shot up before I could haul it down again. I’d never appreciated fresh air so much!”
“Thank God!”
“I hoped the driver hadn’t not
iced. But obviously he had. He slowed down, pulled over to the lay-by and stopped the car. Before I leapt out, I spat into the boot. I’d seen someone do this on Crimewatch once − important to leave my DNA.”
Impressed by her ability to think like this under pressure, I reached across to the passenger seat and squeezed her thigh. She placed a hand on top of mine.
“I grabbed my handbag and ran as fast as I could away from the car. I’ve never been so glad to see your Mercedes. How the hell did you know where I was?”
I told her how I’d witnessed the abduction taking place and followed them.
“Where do you think he planned to take me?” she said.
“I don’t know, but the lay-by where you escaped from is close to Victoria Park, not far from Hackney Marsh. I dread to think what would have happened to you when he got you there.” She gave a shudder.
“By the way, the tracker on your mobile shows it’s in Piccadilly. Is that right?”
“Didn’t I tell you? One of the girls at work is getting married. Her hen night consisted of a pub-crawl in the West End. In all the excitement, I left my mobile at work. Of all the times for me to do that!” She raised her eyes.
“And when did you realise it was Hartley who abducted you?”
“What? Oh no, it wasn’t him. Definitely not. When he put the bag over my face, whoever it was said, ‘Don’t scream.’ I’d have recognised Hartley’s voice. It’s so distinctive.”
“But it’s definitely Hartley’s car. I’ve driven it, remember. He must be involved. Oh, of course! You don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“Greenland was found stabbed to death early yesterday morning.”
Alisha, stunned, closed her eyes. “Oh, my God!” she said, as she put her hand to her mouth, and sank back deeper into the passenger seat.
*
As we reached her flat, I said, “Look, I’ll stay with you tonight. You’ve been through a lot. I’ll call RP in the morning; see what he has to say.”
Alisha, normally defiant and feisty, looked beaten.
I poured a couple of brandies, my go-to remedy in times of crises. I handed one to her after she’d flopped down on the sofa.