Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

‘The exact time I was on my way home from Waitrose.’

‘Exactly. So if he wasn’t driving his Nissan, what was he driving?’

‘Could have been a tank if the force of the impact was anything to go by.’

‘Anyway,’ the DS said, ignoring my flippancy. ‘Next we checked if his wife had a car, but she doesn’t. So what other vehicles did he have access to? And, sure enough, the first thing we tried came up trumps.’

‘Which was?’ I asked eagerly.

‘I remembered him saying in the Coroner’s Court in Oxford that he was an officer of the High Court. And, if I recall correctly, he was rather pompous about it.’

No kidding. Ever since I’d first met him, Joe had used that phrase to anyone who’d listen, always using the same patronising, self-righteous air, as if it somehow gave him greater importance.

‘So I contacted the High Court,’ said the DS. ‘And they told me that, yes indeed, they did have someone called Joseph Bradbury registered on their books as an enforcement officer, although his registration was currently suspended because he’s been arrested for fraud.’

‘So it’s definitely him, then.’

‘No doubt about it. But he hadn’t been either arrested or suspended on the day of your acc—... incident. He’s attached to one of the west London firms that deals mostly in private rent arrears. We’ve checked the firm’s records and, guess what, he signed out one of their vans on that particular Wednesday. Not that that in itself is incriminating. He signed out a van on most days in order to do his job, which was to enforce High Court writs. Enforcement officers have the power to seize goods from debtors up to the value of the outstanding debts, so he would need a van to transport them.’

He paused and I nodded for him to go on.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It transpires that the van that Joe had that day was involved in an altercation at one of his jobs. At least, that’s what he claimed. He told his office that someone drove straight into the front of it while he was waiting outside some premises for the occupier to return. Apparently, it’s not that unusual for their vehicles to be attacked. Seems some of the debtors can turn really nasty.’

I wasn’t surprised.

When you have absolutely nothing with which to pay your rent, it must be devastating when some heartless court official arrives in a van to take away the few possessions that you actually do own. It explained why Joe Bradbury’s demeanour was so hard. Over the years, he must have developed a skin as thick as a rhinoceros against the pleading of those in desperate need.

Maybe smashing up the debt-collector’s vehicle made them feel a little better, even if it got them into deeper water, and greater debt, in the long run.

‘The van in question has now been fully repaired and is back in service. It went straight to the body shop so there’s no chance of any forensics. But...’ He smiled. ‘There were ANPR records showing that, rather than being in Ealing as Joe Bradbury had claimed, the van made a journey down the M40, leaving the motorway at junction eleven.’

‘For Banbury,’ I said.

‘Indeed. And, what’s more, forensic examination of what was left of your vehicle has shown that there are traces of white paint on the back end with a chemical composition consistent with that used on Ford Transit vans of the identical type.’

‘My goodness,’ I said to the detective. ‘You have been a busy bee.’

He smiled again. ‘And, after they’d seen what we had, it took the geniuses at the CPS less than five minutes to agree that he should be charged with attempted murder.’

I thought for a moment.

‘Did you say there were traces of white paint on the Fiat?’ I asked.

‘Yes, the van was white.’

I remembered back to when I’d driven away from the Old Forge on that Wednesday afternoon. I’d been looking only for Joe’s black Nissan but I could recall seeing what I had assumed at the time was one of the many white courier vans that regularly delivered to houses in the village.

I now realised that it must have been Joe, watching and waiting for his chance.

‘But it seems incredible to me that he was able to drive that van at all after hitting the Fiat. You’d think it would have been too badly damaged.’

‘Robust things, Transit vans. Especially the long-wheelbase versions as in this case. Much stronger and much heavier than a tiny Fiat 500 runabout. But we did have difficulty in tracking it back to London. I wonder if the front number plate was too badly damaged to be read by the automatic camera system, or maybe it was missing altogether. He should have thought of ANPR beforehand and taken the plates off, or replaced them with ones nicked off another vehicle.’ He smiled at me once more. ‘I’d make a much better villain than most of them.’

‘So where is Joe Bradbury now?’

‘He’s still out on bail.’

I looked at him incredulously. ‘But—’

The DS held up his hand to stop me.

‘Bradbury doesn’t know anything about all of this yet. He’s due to return to court in Guildford tomorrow morning to answer his bail on the theft and fraud charges. He’ll be expecting to have his bail renewed and a trial date set. But little does he realise that I’ll be there waiting there for him, ready to arrest him again, this time for attempted murder.’

‘How about also arresting him for murdering Amelia?’ I said.

‘I’m still working on that.’

Mary Bradbury died exactly three months to the day after her daughter. So the doctors had been spot on with their prediction.

It happened four days before I was discharged from the spinal-injury centre, but I didn’t find out until after I arrived home and opened a letter from Mary’s local Chipping Norton solicitor. It informed me of her death and that, not only was I one of the beneficiaries of Mary’s estate, she had also named me in her will as her sole executor.

Joe won’t like this , I thought, and I was dead right.

Further on in the same letter, the solicitor advised me that he was aware that Mrs Bradbury’s son had already lodged a challenge to his mother’s will, claiming she had been bullied into signing it, but, subject to the outcome of the challenge, my appointment as executor would continue for the time being, and what would I like to do about organising her funeral? He hoped that I wouldn’t object that he had taken it upon himself to arrange for her body to be removed from her home by a firm of undertakers, as he wasn’t sure of my whereabouts.

He finished by offering himself as the solicitor I should appoint to obtain a grant of probate, together with a breakdown of the fees he would charge for such a service.

I sat in my wheelchair in the hall of the Old Forge reading and rereading the letter, and all I could feel was deep sorrow.

Poor Mary.

Her last few months on this earth had been pretty dreadful. Not only had she had to deal with a cancer that had eaten away her body from the inside, but her only daughter had been murdered and her only son was now on remand in prison accused of having done it.

Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell had been back to see me at Stoke Mandeville with the news that the CPS had finally agreed to charge Joe Bradbury with Amelia’s murder.

‘What’s the reason for their change of heart?’ I’d asked.

‘New evidence.’

‘Do tell.’

‘We could find no trace in either his or your wife’s phone records of any call made by her to him on the Tuesday evening. We checked all his numbers — work, home and mobile — against all of hers. Nothing.’

‘I told you there was no way Amelia would have called him.’