and especially not at that time of the morning during the rush hour.”
“And why didn’t you work this out before I was arrested?” I was beginning to sound rather self-righteous even to my ears.
“We were simply acting on a request from the Wiltshire force,” he replied, neatly passing the blame elsewhere.
“Well, then they should have checked,” I said, trying to maintain a look of rightful indignation. “Maybe I’ll sue you for wrongful arrest.”
“I think, sir,” he said very formally, “that you will find that attempted murder is an arrestable offense, and that we had reasonable grounds for an arrest. Just because it turned out that you couldn’t have been the perpetrator doesn’t give you grounds for claiming false arrest.”
“Hmm,” I said. “So I am now free to go, just like that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“No questions? No police bail?”
“No, sir,” he replied. “Alibi is a complete defense. It doesn’t mitigate a crime, it proves innocence. So there would be no point in charging or bailing you. However, I am sure that the Wiltshire force will want to ask some questions about your argument with Mr. Searle at Cheltenham Races yesterday. No doubt they will be making an appointment in due course. You are free to go home now,” he said. He waved a hand towards the doorway as if trying to encourage me on my way.
I’d had enough of this cell and I didn’t need his encouragement to leave it.
The custody sergeant sneered at me as he returned my watch and mobile phone, my tie, belt and shoelaces, and the previous contents of my pockets. He clearly enjoyed booking prisoners in far more than letting them go.
“Sign here,” said the sergeant without any warmth, pointing at a form on the desk.
I signed.
“Thanks for the supper,” I said cheerily.
The sergeant didn’t reply.
“Which way out?” I asked, looking around at various doors, none of them with a convenient EXIT sign above it. Perhaps it was designed that way to confuse any escapees.
“That way,” said the sergeant, pointing at one of the doors. He pushed a button on his desk, and the lock on the heavy steel door buzzed. I pulled it open and walked out into the police station reception area as the door closed automatically behind me with a loud clunk.
Claudia was waiting there, sitting on an upright tubular steel chair that was bolted to the floor. She jumped up when she saw me and rushed over, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tight. She was crying.
“Oh, Nick,” she sobbed into my neck, “I’ve been so frightened.”
“Come on,” I said, hugging her back. “Let’s go home.”
We walked out into the night, hand in hand, and hailed a passing black cab.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I said to Claudia as we sat down.
“Why ever not?” she said. “I’ve been here ever since I found out where they’d taken you. It’s been bloody hours.”
“But how did you know I’d been arrested?” The police had allowed me only one call, and I’d made that to the company’s lawyer, Andrew Mellor.
“Rosemary called me,” Claudia said. “She was in floods of tears.”
“Rosemary?” I asked.
“You know,” she said. “Rosemary McDowd. She’s such a dear.”
I had worked at Lyall & Black for five years and for all that time I’d had no idea that Mrs. McDowd’s name was Rosemary. The receptionists were always referred to as Mrs. McDowd and Mrs. Johnson because that’s what they called each other. Only the other staff had first names, Mr. Patrick, Mr. Gregory, Miss Jessica, Mr. Nicholas and so on, and we were only addressed in that way because, again, that was how the Mesdames McDowd and Johnson did it.
“How did Mrs. McDowd have your number?” I asked.
“Oh, we speak quite often.”
“What about?”
Claudia didn’t reply.
“What about?” I repeated.
“You,” she said.
“What about me?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said evasively.
“No. Come on,” I said. “Tell me. What about me?”
Claudia sighed. “I sometimes call her to find out what sort of mood you’re in when you leave the office.”
More likely, I thought suspiciously, to check that I was actually in the office or when I’d left it.
“So what did Mrs. McDowd tell you today?” I asked, purposely changing the conversation’s direction.
“Between sobs, she told me that you had been arrested by the police for attempted murder. I thought it must be to do with Herb Kovak, but she said it was about someone else.”
I nodded. “Billy Searle was attacked this morning. He was a top jump jockey, and also a client of mine.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Claudia said.
That’s what I wanted to know.
I t had been nearly eleven o’clock by the time I’d been released, and I’d asked the taxi driver to go to the newspaper kiosk on the Edgware Road where I knew they received the early editions of the daily newspapers the night before.
Claudia stayed in the cab as I went to buy copies of all they had, including the
If its previous day’s front-page headline had been vague and set as a question, this one pulled none of its punches:
BILLY SEARLE ATTACKED.
FOXTON ARRESTED FOR
ATTEMPTED MURDER
And the article beneath gave no comfort to me either.
Remarkably accurate, I thought, except for the bit about currently being held at the Paddington Green Police Station, and that had been right until about twenty minutes ago. Beside the article was another picture of Billy Searle, this time all smiles and wearing a business suit, and a photograph of the cordoned-off village of Baydon. Overlying the top right-hand corner of this photo was a smaller head-and-shoulders shot of me, positioned, to my eye, as if implying that I had been present in Baydon High Street.
Gregory was going to have a field day in the morning. It wouldn’t just be my head he would have on a stick, it would be my career as well. Who would trust a financial adviser who was on the front page of a national newspaper having been arrested for attempted murder?
