Felix Francis: Guilty Not Guilty

I knew he’d say that. And he was right.

‘So what should I do now?’ I asked.

‘There’s not a lot you can do. The police will conduct their investigation and, undoubtedly, they’ll want to speak to you again. But make sure you have a solicitor present next time.’ He wagged his finger at me as if to emphasise the point. ‘So why do they think you did it?’

‘Because...’ I couldn’t even bring myself to say his name. ‘Amelia’s damn brother told them I’d done it. More likely it was him. What was he doing there otherwise? He hasn’t been to our house for well over two years. And neither Amelia nor I have been in contact with him for months, so why did he turn up out of the blue? And on the day Amelia died? That’s bloody fishy if you ask me.’

‘I’m sure the police will have worked that out.’

‘But shouldn’t I tell them what’s been going on? Especially before he puts his oar in with all his nonsense.’

‘He’s probably already done it,’ Douglas remarked.

‘Isn’t that all the more reason to show them the sort of man he is?’

Douglas stroked his chin as if thinking. He was always keen for me to take a ‘stand back and watch’ position rather than jumping in with both feet. But I found it was hard sometimes not to respond to my brother-in-law’s lies.

‘How about Amelia’s mother?’ Douglas said, changing the subject and not answering my question. ‘Does she know her daughter is dead?’

‘I’ve no idea. And, what’s more, I don’t really care.’

‘But I thought you had a good relationship with your mother-in-law — what’s her name?’

‘Mary Bradbury. And you’re right in so far that I had a good relationship with her, but not any more. Her damn son has turned her against us with his lies. She, of course, accepts as true every word he says. I gave the old bat more credit but Joe keeps whispering in her ear about how wonderful he is and how awful Amelia was, and eventually she believed it. God knows why after all Amelia and I have done for her, taking her on holiday with us and so on. We even took her with us on a Mediterranean cruise.’

‘How old is she now?’

‘Seventy-five. But she’s a very old seventy-five. Nothing like our dad. I’m certain she’s losing her marbles, but her doctor keeps telling her she’s fine and has still got full mental capacity. And Joe Bradbury exploits that fact to get her to sign all sorts of papers. He now controls her completely. I think he must have been jealous of how close Amelia was to her mother so he set out to drive a wedge between them, and he managed it.’

‘I suspect it wasn’t only that that made him jealous,’ Douglas said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a High Court enforcement officer,’ I said.

Douglas looked at me. ‘So he’s a glorified debt collector. I bet that doesn’t make him much. Does he own his own house?’

‘No. He lives with his wife and three girls in a rented flat in Uxbridge.’

‘There you are then. He is obviously jealous of your lifestyle — successful in the City, making lots of money, living in the country in your own home, two-car family, cruises to the Mediterranean. I bet jealousy has been eating away at him for years.’

‘You might be right,’ I said. ‘Last year, Joe returned the Christmas presents we sent for his girls with a curt note stating that they didn’t need our charity.’

‘There you are then — he’s clearly insanely jealous.’

Funny that , I thought, when Amelia had been so incredibly jealous of him for having children while we did not .

‘He also tells everyone that, because Amelia has been a patient in a psychiatric hospital, she is totally unhinged and not to be trusted.’

Was.

‘But that’s rubbish,’ Douglas said. ‘Winston Churchill had psychiatric problems and where would we be now without his astute wartime leadership. Everyone trusted him.’

‘Exactly. But that hasn’t stopped that damn Joe Bradbury from saying it.’

I was getting quite agitated.

‘Here,’ my brother said, ‘let me refill your glass.’

Douglas had a masterly way of taking the heat out of any situation. He always had. ‘Justice is determined by the facts,’ he would often say, ‘not by how we feel about the facts. Sentiment should have no place in court.’

He handed me another strong gin and tonic.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve not had anything since breakfast. But I’m not hungry.’

‘You need to eat, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It’s important to keep up your strength.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Now, do you fancy taking a chance on my signature spaghetti Bolognese or shall we nip out for a Chinese?’

Difficult choice.

I didn’t really feel up to going out but the opportunity to sample Douglas’s culinary masterpiece didn’t particularly thrill me either. Whereas his former wife had been Cordon Bleu trained, Douglas had always boasted that he couldn’t even boil an egg.

‘How’s the cooking going?’ I asked.

He pulled a face. ‘I miss Charlotte in many ways, but mostly for her food.’

Charlotte had walked out on him four years previously, claiming that she could no longer live with a man who never stopped working, one who regularly left home at six in the morning and often didn’t return until nearly midnight, even at weekends. She wanted more romance in her life and had left him to find it.

In truth, they had simply drifted apart after twelve years of marriage and, with their two sons away at prep school, Charlotte had become bored with preparing gourmet meals for a husband who never came home to eat them.

In the end Douglas and I went to the Chinese, not least because, on close inspection, the minced beef in the fridge that he had planned to use in his Bolognese sauce was well past its use-by date and was looking a touch green.

We didn’t have a reservation but that didn’t seem to worry Douglas.

‘The best Chinese restaurant in London,’ he informed me as we walked round the corner into Ebury Street and to Ken Lo’s Memories of China, where he was greeted like a long-lost family member.

‘So what do I do?’ I asked over crispy duck pancakes.

‘Nothing,’ Charles replied. ‘Other than grieve.’

‘What about funeral arrangements?’

‘There’s no hurry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this but, in murder cases, it is usually some considerable time before the victim’s body is released by the coroner. It can take several weeks or even longer.’

‘Oh.’

The prospect of Amelia’s funeral was bad enough without having the agony prolonged.

‘As the next of kin, do I have to register the death?’

‘That will be a job for the coroner once the inquest has concluded. That too could be some time off as it would likely be after any criminal proceedings. There really isn’t anything you have to do. Just wait and see how the police investigation unfolds.’

‘It seems all wrong,’ I said. ‘I feel I ought to be doing something.’

A waiter placed an iron plate of sizzling chicken in black-bean sauce down on the table between us. The smell was magnificent and I found that I was more hungry than I’d realised.

‘Can I stay tonight?’ I asked between mouthfuls. ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

‘Of course you can,’ Douglas replied. ‘But you’ll have to go in one of the boys’ rooms. The spare is being redecorated. I had a leak from a pipe. Damn nuisance.’

‘I’ll find somewhere else tomorrow,’ I said.

‘No need. Stay as long as you like. I’d enjoy the company. I keep the boys’ beds made up ready, just in case, although they won’t be back until Christmas at the earliest, that’s if their mother lets them come at all.’ He smiled lopsidedly at me.