The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [206]
“I’m afraid my client has nothing to say at the moment, Chief Inspector,” said Joe. “And he will have nothing to say until I have taken further instructions.”
I was rather impressed. I’d never seen Joe that firm with anyone other than his children.
“We would simply like to take a statement, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Chief Inspector Bainbridge said to Joe, as if I didn’t exist. “We are quite happy for you to be present throughout.”
“No,” said Joe firmly. “You either charge my client, or you leave us—and leave us immediately.”
The chief inspector hesitated for a moment, and then nodded to his colleague. They departed without another word.
“Charge me?” I said, once the cell door had been locked behind them. “What with, for God’s sake?”
“Murder, I suspect,” said Joe. “After what Rosemary has been telling them.”
“Murder?” I said, almost unable to mouth the word. “But …” I listened in disbelief as Joe told me what he’d been able to discover about the details of the statement my wife had given to the police during the early hours of the morning.
“But that’s not what happened,” I protested. “Surely no one would believe such an outrageous story.”
“They might when they learn the police have found a trail of blood leading from the sitting room to the spot where your car was parked in the drive,” said Joe.
“That’s not possible,” I said. “When I left Jeremy, he was still lying unconscious on the floor.”
“The police also found traces of blood in the trunk of your car. They seem quite confident that it will match with Jeremy’s.”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “He’s clever. He’s very clever. Can’t you see what they’ve been up to?”
“No, to be honest, I can’t,” Joe admitted. “This isn’t exactly all in a day’s work for a company solicitor like me. But I managed to catch Sir Matthew Roberts, QC, on the phone before he left home this morning. He’s the most eminent criminal silk on the northeastern circuit. He’s appearing in the York Crown Court today, and he’s agreed to join us as soon as the court has risen. If you’re innocent, Richard,” Joe said, “with Sir Matthew defending you, there will be nothing to fear. Of that you can be certain.”
Later that afternoon I was charged with the murder of Jeremy Anatole Alexander; the police admitted to my solicitor that they still hadn’t found the body, but they were confident that they would do so within a few hours. I knew they wouldn’t. Joe told me the following day that they had done more digging in my garden during the past twenty-four hours than I had attempted in the past twenty-four years.
Around seven that evening the door of my cell swung open once again and Joe walked in, accompanied by a heavily built, distinguished-looking man. Sir Matthew Roberts was about my height, but at least thirty pounds heavier. From his rubicund cheeks and warm smile he looked as if he regularly enjoyed a good bottle of wine and the company of amusing people. He had a full head of dark hair that remained modeled on the old Denis Compton Brylcreem advertisements, and he was attired in the garb of his profession, a dark three-piece suit and a silver gray tie. I liked him from the moment he introduced himself. His first words were to express the wish that we had met in more pleasant circumstances.
I spent the rest of the evening with Sir Matthew, going over my story again and again. I could tell he didn’t believe a word I was saying, but he still seemed quite happy to represent me. He and Joe left a few minutes after eleven, and I settled down to spend my first night behind bars.
I was remanded in custody until the police had processed and submitted all their evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions. The following day a magistrate committed me to trial at Leeds Crown Court, and despite an eloquent plea from Sir Matthew, I was not granted bail.
Forty minutes later I was transferred to Armley Jail.
The hours turned into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks into