by Dai Henley
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. Unfortunately, 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.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing Blazing Obsession required a great deal of help from the following people to whom I’ll always be eternally grateful:
Adi Kingswell
Dave Locke
Terry Fitzjohn
Viv Wolley
Cathy Revis
Linda Hewett
Bill Mousley QC
Dee Waterman
Paul and Marion Stallard
Di Ingram
The editors at Cornerstones Literary Consultancy
Romsey Writers’ Group, especially our tutor,
Brendan McCusker.
A special mention must also go to my ever-supportive wife, Lorraine. Without her belief in me, Blazing Obsession would still be on the drawing board.