Chapter 37
It was an early sunny morning in July. John opened the door of the restaurant to let in fresh air. The night before one of the diners had been sick all over the carpet after one too many neat whiskeys. John decided to close the restaurant for lunch.
It was midday by the time the postman handed Joe a recorded letter, addressed to a Tony. Joe took it over to John.
"Who is this Tony? Shall I open it"
"No, give it to me." John’s voice sounded tense.
He shook his head as he opened the letter and said to himself, Here we go. His stomach seized up. He didn't know what this meant, but he started to fear the worst. Joe gave him a suspicious look and tried to peer over his shoulder to read the letter.
John read it again, a wave of angst surging through him as the realisation that Pedro would stop at nothing hit him. Sure enough, the letter was addressed to the FBI.
I wish to inform you of the whereabouts of Tony A Lester whom I believe is wanted for the homicide of Del Carlos on 21 March 1982. He now resides at the above address and his real name is John Scott.
Joe looked surprised as he watched his reaction.
"John, you’ve gone all white."
"Yeah, mind your own business and get on with your job.” John sounded angry now.
Joe was a funny little short Irishman, and always drunk. He took a swig of his Scotch and swallowed hard. The trouble with people like him was that it was hard to know if they were drunk or not: He would reach a certain alcoholic level and he stay at that point, simply by constantly topping himself up with more booze and never sobering up
"John, I’m sorry, let’s go out for a drink."
"No, thanks, it’s okay."
Joe wouldn’t take no for an answer, and eventually John gave in. They pulled up at the first bar and took their drinks over to an empty table. Joe said in his simple manner,"Boss I love working for you."
John stopped him there and said the drink was going to his head again.
"You don’t like me much, do you?"
The next day Joe would oversleep. His head would be banging, a harsh persistent throb that would set his teeth on edge. The only thing he would be able to think about would a large cold beer. It would be the fourth time he’d be late that month. It had only been a few drinks – he did not need much to top himself up. Joe would stand just inside the door to the restaurant, his head in his hands, waiting for John to let him come back to work again. There was no doubt in John’s mind that Joe was a liability, but he had a charm about him which was both simple and hard to resist.
John had to go back to the restaurant to collect some paperwork. It was 3 p.m., and Joe was still in the pub leaning against the bar with his eyes trained on the back bar with its display of whiskey bottles. John stopped on the way out to tell him he'd better be in work tomorrow. The barmaid squinted at Joe, her eyelids heavily lined with black mascara.
"You have a cigarette?"
"Smoking'll kill you. I've already got plenty of other options if I decide a slow death is right for me."
The barmaid rolled her eyes. "Fucking weird."
John thought to himself that the barmaid was right. Joe had a creepy way of saying things. He was wound up tight, jumpy and defensive. Joe slammed his hand down on the bar, making the barmaid jump. John almost felt sorry for him, he'd never had much luck with women. He didn’t think he'd ever had a steamy glance across the room or anything. He pulled Joe out into the street bar and told him to go home. His eyebrows raised now; he hadn’t even realised himself how angry he was.
“Get a grip.” He grabbed Joe by the scruff of the neck.
John knew it was just a matter of time before he'd get another threat from Pedro. His time was up, Pedro would hit again, and John was feeling increasingly anxious. Sure enough he got the call. Pedro simply said that it was just a matter of time before he’d give back the tape before hanging up.
John had always known that sooner or later his past would come back to haunt him. Something like that was impossible to hide, and every single word had led him closer to recovering the tape. Now escape no longer seemed an option. Just give it to him, he thought. Walking around, John could feel his heart pounding with worry. His thoughts were swirling round and round in his head. Nothing was what it appeared to be. This was all wrong. It still felt wrong to give him the tape, and yet it seemed right.
John was surprised when he didn’t hear from Pedro over the next few days. He checked with his office, and one of his staff whose voice he didn’t recognise said that Pedro had gone back to the States.
John didn't know what to think. Was this the end? Should he celebrate?
Chapter 38
Their meal at the local bistro was a nostalgic and unhurried ritual. The delicate little chocolates which came with the coffee were divine, the ambience timeless. Back at home, John turned the TV off, left the empty wine bottle on the glass table, and they headed upstairs for bed. It must have been 1.30 a.m. After a few drinks, the ticking of the clock always drove him crazy. John had just dropped off when he was woken by a loud thumping noise on the front door.
From the bottom of the stairs, he could see two shadowy figures through the glass door. He called out, "Who is it?"
"Police."
He opened the door. The taller man took his wallet from his pocket, showed him his badge and asked if he was John Scott.
"Yes, I am," he replied.
"We have reason to believe that you have committed a crime, and must ask you to accompany us to the station."
"I haven’t done anything."
"You’re under arrest for the murder of Henry O’Brian. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you."
"What are you talking about?"
Sonia came rushing down the stairs. He told her not to worry, that it was all some kind of mistake. But he knew exactly what was happening, and who was behind it. Sonia began to cry and clung to his arm. The policeman took hold of his other arm and guided him out of the door and into the unmarked police car.
At Twickenham police station, he was taken into a room and told just to sit on the bench seat for a moment. Ten minutes later, the door opened and the desk sergeant called him over to the desk. The arresting officer who’d brought him in came back into the room and told the sergeant,"J Scott is charged with murder." Later he was booked in and escorted to a cell down the corridor. He watched the officer’s face as he slammed the door shut. A feeling of emptiness hit him as if his whole world had just fallen apart.
DC Nolan turned on the recording device and stated the date, time and place.
"John Scott and his solicitor Peter Brown from Dunn & Co are present with myself, DC Nolan, and Sergeant Dower. I would like to ask you some questions regarding the death of Henry O’Brian on 27 April 1997. Do you understand?"
"Nothing to do with me."
"Please just answer yes or no. I ask you again, do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Mr Scott, let me ask you this: Did you hit Henry O’Brian?"
"No."
"Mr Scott, did you push him off the chair or stool?"
"No."
"So you never hit him or you never pushed him, which is it?"
"Both. I never done anything to hurt him, I found him lying on the floor."
"Stop. Just answer the question I ask you."
"Mr Scott, let me ask you this: In the last statement you gave us at this station on 29 April 1997 we asked you if there was anything else you wanted to tell us, and you said no. Is that still the case?"
"Yes. That's still the case."
"Mr Scott, we have reason to believe that you pushed Henry O’Brian from the stool which he was standing on, and that you then picked up the stool and removed it from the scene. Is that correct?"
"No. Well, yes, I did pick up the stool as it was lying next to him, but only to push it slightly to one side."
"Mr Scott, where exactly in the flat was the stool and where did yo
u move it to?"
"I didn't move it as such. I sort of gently pushed it to one side."
"So let me get this right, Mr Scott: Now you’re telling me you sort of pushed it, but earlier you said you picked up the stool. So which is it? Let me also put it to you that the stool was not found by the body, it was found in the kitchen, and we have your prints all over that stool."
"This is not so. Okay, you may have my prints on the stool, but I never moved it."
"Mr Scott, I have heard enough. We are charging you with the murder of Henry O’Brian."
John’s solicitor interrupted. "I need to speak to my client in private,"
Left alone with him in the interview room, Peter Brown told John that he felt they didn’t have enough evidence, and that they would try to make their case stronger by showing the judge that John was a danger to the public. They would probably try to hold him on remand. It could be weeks or even months before an application for bail would be granted.
"But I didn't do it," John protested.
“Look, as far as I know they had a tip-off, and apparently there's a blood-stained handkerchief at the crime scene. They are searching it again now as we speak. If they find something... Well let’s hope they don't. The first thing is to make a bail application and try and get you out of here."
“What about Sue? And Mrs O’Brian?” John suddenly perked up. “They’ll be able to corroborate my testimony!”
Brown shook his head sadly.
“Mrs O’Brian died of a suspected heart attack shortly after her husband’s death. And Sue West has disappeared without a trace.” He sighed. "I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, but there’s no way you’re going home today."
A wave of shock surged through John’s body as he struggled to understand the full meaning of these words. It felt as if all his blood had drained away, leaving him feeling limp and dazed. Was he going to prison?
"No! No!" He shouted. "I have a house, a family. I’ll lose everything."
“Calm down, John," his solicitor said.
"How long will I get?"
"Six years, if you behave yourself, but that's if they find you guilty."
He felt tears welling up. A door opened behind him and a security officer took hold of his arm and guided him out. He had to stop crying now and face up to the situation. He was walked to a desk where his details were given, forms filled in. His solicitor came to tell him that the room where he was to meet Sonia to say his goodbyes was out of order, so he wouldn’t be able to see her before he was taken away. Dejected, John sat alone in his cell for a couple of hours.
Around dinner time the door opened and he was led into a corridor where there were others already waiting to be escorted into a yard surrounded by high walls. There was a security van with tiny windows waiting for them. They climbed in through a low door in the back, each of them placed into one of the tight cubicles which lined both sides. The seat was hard. Although no one could see in through the windows, they could see out. Once everyone was seated, the door was locked behind them and the van made its way around London. On the way to the prison it stopped twice to pick up some more passengers. Once they arrived at Wormwood Scrubs, they were checked in. All the other prisoners were given prison uniforms of denim trousers and white T-shirts, but as the only one on remand, John was allowed to keep his own clothes on. After a shower they were escorted to B wing, where John was put in a cell with a guy who was in for arson. They exchanged a few words but he didn’t feel like talking. He had the lower bunk. The walls were bare, and the glass on the small windows was broken. They lay on their bunks, doing nothing for a few hours, until they were asked to leave the cell for exercise.
Inside a prison your nightmare begins on the first day. He woke up as the early morning light came through the window. Feeling like a hammer had been dropped on his head; he was sure he’d crack up if he stayed here too long, locked up for twenty-three hours a day. The guard would close the cell door with a smile on his face.
After a sleepless night, he heard the rattle of the keys on the door at 7.30 a.m. They got dressed and went for breakfast. They would spit in your food if they didn’t like you. There was a cell right beside the queue which held a young man who had been accused of child rape. All the inmates knew this and while queuing they would constantly yell abuse at this man: "We will kill you, you sick bastard." This would happen three times a day, at breakfast, lunch and dinner. John could hear the man crying in his cell like a child. They knew it would only be a matter of time before they would have to move him. John suspected that the prison had deliberately put this young man in this cell, so he would receive constant mental abuse from the inmates.
When they came down for breakfast one morning, John noticed no one was banging on the cell door any more and wondered whether they’d moved him to another cell. The guy in front told him that the child rapist had hung himself last night. What kind of place was this? John was horrified. If the young guy happened to have been innocent, then this was a gross injustice.
After breakfast, John was taken to see the doctor.
"Will you be getting any script?" another inmate asked as they waited their turn.
"No," John replied, thinking he meant medication.
"Tell them you’re on heroin, and they’ll give you a dose of methadone each day, and they’ll give you tablets you can use as currency."
He ignored the advice and told the doctor he was fine.
The whole prison system was corrupt. Somehow the guards, or the screws as they were commonly known, would constantly be party to bribes: They simply turned the other cheek. The whole prison system was riddled with drugs. On visiting days it was easy to spot the wives and girlfriends smuggling them in: They would kiss them and transfer a little packet of foil between the lips. If he could see this, John was sure the prison system knew this too. It was all designed to keep the peace and prevent the inmates from riots, and this in turn gave some of the guards power and respect while small groups of inmates, who each had their leaders, would push the drugs within the system. Meanwhile, the outside world was blissfully unaware of the full extent of any of this.
Anyone expecting a visit was rounded up and taken to a room with about thirty chairs around the walls. He just sat there and tried not to breathe in too much of the smoke from the cigarettes everyone else seemed to be smoking.
The door opened, a few names were read out and the prisoners who’d been called stood up and walked out. Finally, after about half an hour, his name was called. As he entered the hall, there she was: Sonia was waiting for him. She stood up and he hugged her. As he was kissing her he forced himself not to let the tears well up in his eyes. He held her hand tightly, and she said everything was okay, the children were fine and she had made arrangements to go to court again on Monday to apply for bail. When they were told that visiting was over, Sonia got upset. It felt as though both they worlds had come to an end.
* * *
Jack Dallies was one of the hard nuts on remand you would not want to cross. He reminded John of those big bouncers they had on the doors of East End London clubs. He’d been charged with GBH after attacking and almost killing another man. The whole prison system was full of people like Jack.
Once a week Jack would get his stash sent in. One day John was in Jack’s cell having a chat when Dennis, who was a few cell doors down the wing, came in and closed the door. He lowered his trousers, bent down and pulled a small packet from his asshole which he handed to Jack.
"John, give it a wash."
"Must be joking. It’s full of shit."
However, seeing as he might be in there for a while, he decided to do it.
As it turned out, Jack was actually a highly intelligent and resourceful guy. Somehow he was always able to get whiskey and other drinks brought in.
John asked Jack what had happened with his wife and how bad the guy was he’d beaten up.
"Yeah, don't mind telling you what happened."
It had bee
n 8.40 p.m. when Jack limped into the Cork and Whistle. It was raining.
"I sat down and ordered a pint of Guinness. By rights I should have been getting home but I really needed a drink first."
Jack continued to tell how he’d had a massive row with his wife which started over breakfast, and had been simmering all day. It had been over six months since Jack had made love to his wife and he was feeling angry. Nothing had been the same since he’d walked into his office and caught the two of them together. Jack had just watched and tiptoed across the hall and back downstairs. That morning over breakfast, Jack said he knew that she was still seeing Dev Stagg and if he caught them again he would kill both of them. She was a woman in her early forties, slightly plump, with dark long brown hair. Jack flapped the newspaper he was holding in her face, but she just giggled and waved him away. He left the kitchen before could do something he would later regret.
The next few weeks seemed normal and they didn’t argue. Until one night. Jack was supposed to be away in Manchester, but the trip was cancelled. It was 7.08 p.m. when he got home and opened the door to find his wife and her lover in bed together. Jack felt angry, sick, disgusted. He wanted to confront them, but his pride held him back. There was only so much humiliation a man could take.
His wife looked up at him and said simply,
"Yes, I am having an affair and I wanted you to find out."
This was when Jack lost it. He ran towards them, pulled her out of the bed and threw her against the door. Then he dragged Dev Stagg from the bed, picked up a chair and started to hit him on the head. Trying to defend himself, Stagg repeatedly punched him in the stomach, making his head spin.
“I can still see the scene now,” Jack told John. “Then I noticed he’d stopped moving.”
The Assassin's Keeper Page 28