But why did I suddenly feel like a thief in the night? I’d done nothing wrong. Or had I? Maybe I should just go and see Jessica straightaway when she returned from lunch. But the client, Jolyon Roberts, had specifically asked me to have a discreet look rather than initiate a possible fraud investigation that would, as he put it, drag the good name of the Roberts family through the courts.
Nevertheless, whatever else I might do, I didn’t want to be in the offices when Gregory returned from his restaurant.
I went back into my office to collect my jacket.
“Leaving already?” said Rory sarcastically. “What shall I tell Gregory?”
I ignored him.
As I walked down the corridor towards the reception area I realized with a heavy heart that I’d left it too late. I could hear Gregory and Patrick talking. I would just have to face the music.
“Ah, there you are Foxton,” Gregory announced at high volume. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
I was so mesmerized by Gregory that I hardly took any notice of a man standing to the side of him and next to Patrick, but the man suddenly stepped forward right in front of me.
“Nicholas Foxton,” the man said. “I arrest you on suspicion of the attempted murder of William Peter Searle.”
7
I spent the afternoon waiting in an eight-foot-by-six holding cell at the Paddington Green Police Station not quite knowing what to think.
The man in the office had identified himself as another detective chief inspector, this one from the Metropolitan Police.
I’d missed his name. I hadn’t really been listening.
I did, however, remember him advising me that I didn’t have to say anything, with the proviso that it might harm my defense if I didn’t mention something when questioned that I later relied on in court. I’d been too shocked to say anything anyway. I had just stood there with my mouth open in surprise as a uniformed policeman had applied handcuffs to my wrists and then led me down in the lift to a waiting police car.
William Peter Searle, the chief inspector had said when I was arrested.
That had to be Billy Searle.
So Billy had been right about one thing.
Thursday had been too late.
I suppose I couldn’t really blame the police for arresting me. Hundreds of witnesses had heard Billy shouting the previous afternoon at Cheltenham. “Why are you trying to murder me?” had been his exact words, even if the
I hadn’t been trying to murder him, but I hadn’t taken him seriously either.
But to whom could Billy have owed so much money? Clearly, someone who was prepared to try to kill him for nonpayment by the Wednesday-night deadline.
I sat on one end of the cell’s fixed concrete bed and went on waiting. But I wasn’t particularly worried. I knew I had nothing to do with Billy’s or anyone else’s attempted murder and surely it would be only a matter of time before the police discovered that.
First Herb Kovak and now Billy Searle. Could the two be connected?
Thursday afternoon dragged on into early evening, and I was left alone in the cell, still waiting.
For the umpteenth time I looked at my wrist to check the time and, for the umpteenth time, saw no watch.
It had been removed when I was “checked in” to the custody suite by the custody sergeant, along with my tie, my belt, my shoelaces and the contents of my pockets, including Herb’s MoneyHome payment slips and the transaction report from the box outside Gregory’s office.
The cell door opened, and a white-shirted policeman brought in a tray that held a covered plate and a plastic bottle of water.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Seven o’clock,” he said without looking at his watch.
“How much longer am I going to be kept here?” I asked.
“The DCI will see you when he’s ready,” replied the policeman, who then placed the tray down next to me on the concrete bed and went out. The door clanged shut behind him.
I looked under the cover. Fish and chips. And quite good too.
I ate the lot and drank the water. It took about five minutes.
And then I waited some more, counting the bricks in the walls in an attempt to alleviate the boredom. It failed.
The detective chief inspector finally opened the cell door long after the barred and frosted- glass window had turned from daylight to night black.
“Mr. Foxton,” he said, coming into the cell. “You are free to go.”
“What?” I said, not quite taking it all in.
“You are free to go,” the detective said again, standing to one side of the door. “We will not be charging you with any offense.” He paused as if not being quite able to say the next bit. “And I’m sorry for any inconvenience that may have been caused.”
“Sorry!” I said. “Sorry! I should bloody well think you are sorry. I’ve been treated like a common criminal.”
“Mr. Foxton,” the chief inspector replied, somewhat affronted. “You have been treated exactly in accordance with the laid-down regulations.”
“So why was I arrested?” I demanded.
“We had reason to believe you were responsible for the attempted murder of the jockey, William Searle.”
“So what’s happened that now makes you so sure I’m not responsible for it?” I was purposefully making myself appear angry. It might be the only chance I would have of asking the detective for some answers, and I wanted to take advantage of his defensive position.
“I am persuaded that you could not have been present when Mr. Searle was attacked. You have an alibi.”
“How do you know?” I said. “You haven’t asked me any questions.”
“Nevertheless,” he replied, “I am satisfied that it was not possible for you to have committed the attack. So you are free to go.”
I didn’t move.
“How are you satisfied that I couldn’t have done it?” I asked with persistence.
“Because it is physically impossible for you to have been in two places at the same time. That’s what having an alibi means. ‘Alibi’ is a Latin word meaning ‘somewhere else,’ and you were somewhere else when the attempt was made on Mr. Searle’s life.”
“So where was this attack?” I asked. “And when?”
The chief inspector looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t particularly like answering questions. No doubt he was more relaxed asking them.
“Mr. Searle was deliberately knocked off his bicycle on the road outside his home in the village of Baydon in Wiltshire, at exactly five minutes past seven this morning. He is currently in a critical condition at the Great Western Hospital in Swindon.”
“And how are you so sure I was somewhere else at exactly five minutes past seven this morning?” I asked.
“Because you were at 45 Seymour Way in Hendon exactly fifty-five minutes later,” he said. “You were interviewed at that address at precisely eight o’clock by Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson of the Merseyside Police. There is no way you could have traveled the seventy-two miles from Baydon to Hendon in fifty-five minutes,
