Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

‘I saw it on the TV news,’ said the young man I spoke to. ‘Dreadful.’

Amelia’s murder was not just on the television. Every daily newspaper on the newsstand at Marylebone Station had the story on its front page, all of them carrying that same smiling picture taken at Ascot.

The man who’d been sitting opposite to me on the train had been reading the Daily Telegraph and I’d craned my neck to peruse the article beneath the picture.

While the journalist hadn’t openly accused me of being responsible, he all but had, reporting the fact that I had been escorted by the police from Warwick Racecourse to Banbury Police Station for questioning under caution, but had not yet been arrested.

How did he know all that? I wondered.

There had even been a small head-and-shoulders photo of me at the bottom, lifted from my website, no doubt, and without my copyright permission.

I’d kept my eyes down and hoped that neither my train neighbour, nor anyone else, would recognise me.

It was an action I’d sadly have to become familiar with.

I turned right out of the racecourse car park and drove the twenty miles home to Hanwell village.

There was a single marked police car and a small white van stopped on the road outside my house blocking the drive. Not that I wanted to park there anyway. I went past them and round the corner to the village pub, where I left my car in their car park. The publican was a good friend and I was sure he wouldn’t mind.

I walked back to my house.

There were lines of yellow tape everywhere around the property with CRIME SCENE — DO NOT ENTER printed in bold black capital letters continuously along its length. It was stretched across the driveway and also across the path from the road to the front door, which itself was wide open. There was no sign of the police guard I had seen on the TV news the previous evening.

I stood by the tape barrier. ‘Hello,’ I shouted. ‘Anybody there?’

There was no answer.

I almost ducked under the tape and went in but there was a little voice in my head telling me not to upset the police more than I had to.

It would be out of my control if they chose to arrest me for something I hadn’t done, but giving them a good reason to arrest me for something that I had would be just plain stupid.

I stayed where I was and called out again, louder this time, but with the same lack of result.

So I waited.

Eventually a figure appeared through the front door. It was wearing a full head-to-toe white forensic coverall, complete with hood, facemask, gloves and overshoes. Such was the formless nature of the baggy suit that I was unable to tell if it was a man or a woman.

‘Excuse me,’ I shouted. ‘Who’s in charge?’

The person in the suit ignored me completely as he or she walked across the drive towards the van, bending down slightly and lifting the yellow tape overhead.

I walked along the road.

‘Excuse me,’ I said again. ‘I live here and I need to collect a few things.’

The figure turned towards me and a blue-gloved hand pulled down the facemask. It was a man. He had stubble on his chin.

‘Don’t know about that,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘I was told not to allow anyone in.’

‘So who can let me in?’

‘The senior SOCO. Scene of Crime Officer.’

‘And where is he?’ I asked, trying my best to keep my cool.

‘Oxford.’

Oxford was almost an hour’s drive away.

‘Can you please call him?’ I asked.

The man peeled off his gloves and unzipped the front of his plastic suit to extract a mobile phone from a pocket within. He dialled his boss and handed the phone to me.

‘What sort of things?’ asked the senior SOCO when he came on the line.

‘Clothes,’ I said. ‘And some papers from my desk.’

‘I’ll have to check with the officer in the case. I’ll call you back.’

The senior hung up.

His subordinate and I waited.

‘Found anything?’ I asked.

‘Like what?’ he replied.

‘Evidence.’

‘I never know what’s evidence and what isn’t. I’m just the dabs man. I go through the place recording all the fingerprints I can find.’

‘Not the DNA?’ I asked.

‘I can if necessary but that’s mostly the job of the blood team. They were here yesterday.’

‘Where are they, then?’ I asked, nodding at the marked police car.

‘Round the back in the garden, digging. They’re waiting for a JCB excavator to arrive.’

‘Digging?’ I repeated. ‘What for?’

He never had a chance to reply as his phone rang. He answered.

‘It’s for you,’ he said, holding it out.

It wasn’t the senior SOCO but DS Dowdeswell.

‘Sorry, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he said. ‘I can’t let you into the property until we have finished our investigation and search of the crime scene.’

‘But I need some more clothes. I only have what I’m standing up in.’

‘Sorry,’ he said again, not sounding it.

‘Can I at least go into my study?’ I said. ‘It’s next to the conservatory. I can get in there without going through the rest of the house. There are some papers on my desk that I require urgently for my work.’

There was a slight pause while he thought it over — very slight.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That won’t be possible.’

‘Why on earth not?’ I demanded. ‘Are you being deliberately obstructive?’

He didn’t deny it.

‘Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he said, ‘you have to appreciate that we have a murder to investigate. Do you not want us to determine who is to blame for your wife’s death?’

‘Of course I do,’ I replied. ‘And please call me Mr Russell.’

‘I will call you only by your proper name.’

Now I was certain he was trying to rile me.

I remained un-riled — at least on the outside.

‘Why are your officers digging in my garden?’

There was a slight snort from the other end as if he was annoyed that I knew. ‘We are carrying out our investigation in accordance with accepted practice. It is normal to thoroughly search the area surrounding where a body has been discovered in questionable circumstances.’

‘Are you anticipating more?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘A geophysical survey of the garden indicated two areas of interest and a dog specially trained to find dead bodies gave a positive response at one of them. We need to investigate.’

‘A geophysical survey and a cadaver dog,’ I said. ‘My, you have been a busy boy.’

He refused to rise to my goading. Two could play at that little game.

‘So when can I gain access to my home?’ I asked.

‘Not until after we have completed our search. It’s difficult at the moment to say when that will be.’

‘Have a guess,’ I said, consciously suppressing the anger that was rising in my throat.

‘I would hope we’ll be finished over the weekend. Monday, maybe. It depends on what we find.’

‘Do I get a hotel allowance?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘No.’

It was Thursday today. Could I stay with Douglas for four more nights or was that pushing the boundaries of brotherly love too far?

I sighed.

My life seemed to be unravelling around my ears. Amelia’s murder was back in the I-don’t-believe-this-is-happening category. And I wasn’t even sure that I ever wanted to go into the house again anyway.

How could I carry on living there without Amelia? How could I go into the kitchen without looking down at the floor and thinking...?

Oh, God.

I could feel the grief rising in me once more and I fought it for control.

‘And I also need to ask you some more questions,’ the DS went on. ‘We didn’t finish yesterday.’