Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

But it was the second letter that was the real worry.

It was from my bank, informing me that there had been an insufficient balance in my account to cover the recent direct-debit demand for my monthly mortgage payment. It further reminded me that, unless I placed more funds in the account as a matter of urgency to cover the debt, they could commence proceedings to recover the loan by foreclosing on the property.

That was all I needed.

Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?

I’d lost my wife, my job, my hobby and my reputation, and now I was in danger of losing my home as well.

No wonder I didn’t sleep well.

I woke early from a combination of cold and anxiety and I lay for a long while as darkness gave way to daylight, wrapped tight in the duvet, wondering if my father was right.

Perhaps I should start fighting back.

Did people only believe Joe Bradbury because there was no one telling them that he was lying through his teeth? Maybe I should conduct my own interviews with the newspapers, accusing him of being the murderer.

But would they listen?

Simon Bassett had claimed they would only distort what I’d say to match their own agendas. But could that really make things worse for me than they already were?

I had to be joking. Of course it could.

Still wrapped in the duvet, I lay prone on the deep window seat with my phone pressed up close to the glass — it was the only spot in the room with any signal — and downloaded my emails. There was wireless internet access in my father’s study but, with such thick walls in the castle, the waves didn’t make it into the next room let alone all the way up here.

There were only six emails in total, far fewer than I would have normally expected, and not one of them to do with any work, either past, present or future. It was as if I had fallen off the actuarial planet.

Indeed, five of the six were spam or unwanted advertising and the remaining one was from the local Hanwell village round-robin email service informing me of the dates and times of upcoming services in the parish church.

At least I hadn’t been struck off that list, not yet anyway.

I sighed. At the very time I needed the support of a loving wife, she was not here to provide it.

Even in our darkest hours, when Amelia had been hospitalised with mental health problems, she had still been there for me, understanding what I was going through as her husband, and helping me believe that she would soon be well and home again.

Now, there was no possibility of that.

I would simply have to cope on my own, one way or another.

My bedroom window faced slightly south of east and I looked out into England, across the flatness of the Cheshire and Shropshire plain, towards the Wrekin, the hill faintly visible in the far distance. Much closer, I could just make out Bangor-on-Dee Racecourse where I had once ridden two winners in a single afternoon and had been presented with a trophy for the second victory by my own father, with Amelia looking on in admiration.

Happy days.

As I watched, two cars made their way up the long driveway towards the castle and, to my dismay, one of them was a marked police car.

What the hell did they want?

My dismay deepened considerably when, having pulled up on the gravel outside the main entrance, I saw that DS Dowdeswell was one of the four men that climbed out of the vehicles. And I was sure he wasn’t here for his health or the view.

The maxim is often quoted that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Although technically a Welshman, my father’s home was indeed a castle and, if it had been down to me, I would have raised the drawbridge — that’s if we’d had one — and let the sergeant stew outside. I might even have been tempted, like that medieval garrison, to pour boiling liquids down on the invaders through the ‘murder holes’ constructed for the purpose above the entrance.

My father, however, must have let them bypass the castle fortifications and walk straight into the building as, presently, I heard him at the bottom of the stone staircase.

‘William,’ he shouted up. ‘There are some men down here to see you. They’re police.’

I felt cornered.

My heart was beating fast, with adrenalin coursing through my body. Part of me wanted to kick out the window and use knotted bedsheets as a rope to make my escape, like some swashbuckling hero of a 1950s B movie.

Instead, I dressed quickly and went down to face the music.

‘William Gordon-Russell,’ said the detective sergeant immediately I arrived at ground level, ‘I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Gordon-Russell.’

‘You must be mistaken,’ my father said loudly, just as soon as the DS had finished telling me that I had the right to remain silent but anything I did say might be used in evidence.

‘No, sir,’ the detective said firmly. ‘I am not mistaken. I have driven here from Oxfordshire this morning to arrest your son. He will come with us. I also need his belongings, and his car.’

‘But it’s preposterous,’ my father exclaimed, going a little puce in the face.

‘It’s all right, Pa,’ I said. ‘Please keep calm. And do something for me. Call Simon Bassett and ask him to meet me at Banbury Police Station.’ I turned to DS Dowdeswell. ‘I assume we are going there.’

He grunted, which I took to be confirmation.

My father, however, wasn’t finished yet.

‘I think it’s monstrous that you come in here without any appointment, force your way into my property, and arrest my son without so much as a by-your-leave. I intend to complain to the Home Secretary.’

He was going even redder in the face and I was seriously worried that his blood pressure was going through the roof and that he might easily have a seizure.

‘Pa,’ I said loudly. ‘It’s fine. Calm down. They are only doing their jobs. I’ll be back here before you know it.’

I went to make a movement towards my father and that was my error.

The two constables holding my arms must have sensed the tightening in my muscles and they clearly mistook it as an attempt to flee.

In a flash, a pair of handcuffs were out and being snapped tightly onto my wrists, which did nothing to help calm my father. Only the arrival of my mother on the scene did that. She had always been the pragmatic one in the relationship.

She took one look at the situation and went straight over to stroke my father’s arm. ‘Now, now, dear,’ she said to him. ‘We won’t help William by getting all upset, now, will we?’

My father looked down at her and smiled, the tension instantly draining out of his features. Not that my mother couldn’t also give her own acerbic opinions when she wanted to. She turned to the detective sergeant. ‘You’re going to look very foolish when you find there’s no evidence.’

The policemen ignored her and went about their business, collecting my suitcase and possessions from my bedroom and taking them out to their cars.

‘Mobile telephone?’ the DS said to me.

‘In my left trouser pocket,’ I replied.

He removed it.

‘Laptop?’

‘In my Jag.’

‘Where are the keys?’

‘In the other trouser pocket.’

He took those too. Then it was my turn to be taken to the police car.

I turned my head. ‘Pa,’ I called over my shoulder as I was taken out. ‘Don’t forget to call Simon Bassett. Look up the number on the internet. His firm is Underwood, Duffin and Wimbourne in Chancery Lane, London.’

‘I’ll do it straight away,’ my father replied, having finally regained his composure.

I took one last look at the castle as I was placed in the back seat of the marked police car and wondered, in spite of what I’d said to my father, how long it would really be until I was back here. They wouldn’t have arrested me now, and not before, unless they had found something else, something new.