Twelve Red Herrings

I sat on the wooden bench and tried to figure out why I had been arrested. I couldn’t believe that Jeremy would have been foolish enough to charge me with assault. When Joe arrived about forty minutes later, I told him exactly what had taken place earlier in the evening. He listened gravely but didn’t offer an opinion. When I had finished, he said he would try to find out what the police intended to charge me with.

After Joe left, I began to fear that Jeremy might have had a heart attack, or even that the blow to his head from the corner of the table might have killed him. My imagination ran riot as I considered all the worst possibilities, and I was becoming more and more desperate to learn what had happened when the cell door swung open and two plainclothes detectives walked in. Joe was a pace behind them.

“I’m Chief Inspector Bainbridge,” said the taller of the two. “And this is my colleague, Sergeant Harris.” Their eyes were tired and their suits crumpled. They looked as if they had been on duty all night, as both of them could have done with a shave. I felt my chin and realized I needed one as well.

“We’d like to ask you some questions about what took place at your home earlier this evening,” said the chief inspector. I looked at Joe, who shook his head. “It would help our inquiries, Mr. Cooper, if you cooperated with us,” the chief inspector continued. “Would you be prepared to give us a statement either in writing or as a tape recording?”

“I’m afraid my client has nothing to say at the moment, Chief Inspector,” said Joe. “And he will have nothing to say until I have taken further instructions.”

I was rather impressed. I’d never seen Joe that firm with anyone other than his children.

“We would simply like to take a statement, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Chief Inspector Bainbridge said to Joe, as if I didn’t exist. “We are quite happy for you to be present throughout.”

“No,” said Joe firmly. “You either charge my client, or you leave us—and leave us immediately.”

The chief inspector hesitated for a moment, then nodded to his colleague. They departed without another word.

“Charge me?” I said, once the cell door had been locked behind them. “What with, for God’s sake?”

“Murder, I suspect,” said Joe. “After what Rosemary has been telling them.”

“Murder?” I said, almost unable to mouth the word. “But …” I listened in disbelief as Joe told me what he’d been able to discover about the details of the statement my wife had given to the police during the early hours of the morning.

“But that’s not what happened,” I protested. “Surely no one would believe such an outrageous story.”

“They might when they learn the police have found a trail of blood leading from the sitting room to the spot where your car was parked in the driveway,” said Joe.

“That’s not possible,” I said. “When I left Jeremy, he was still lying unconscious on the floor.”

“The police also found traces of blood in the trunk of your car. They seem quite confident that it will match up with Jeremy’s.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “He’s clever. He’s very clever. Can’t you see what they’ve been up to?”

“No, to be honest, I can’t,” Joe admitted. “This isn’t exactly all in a day’s work for a company solicitor like me. But I managed to catch Sir Matthew Roberts QC on the phone before he left home this morning. He’s the most eminent criminal attorney on the northeastern circuit. He’s appearing in the York Crown Court today, and he’s agreed to join us as soon as the court has risen. If you’re innocent, Richard,” Joe said, “with Sir Matthew defending you, there will be nothing to fear. Of that you can be certain.”

Later that afternoon I was charged with the murder of Jeremy Anatole Alexander; the police admitted to my solicitor that they still hadn’t found the body, but they were confident that they would do so within a few hours. I knew they wouldn’t. Joe told me the following day that they had done more digging in my garden during the past twenty-four hours than I had attempted in the past twenty-four years.

Around seven that evening the door of my cell swung open once again and Joe walked in, accompanied by a heavily built, distinguished-looki

ng man. Sir Matthew Roberts was about my height, but at least thirty pounds heavier. From his rubicund cheeks and warm smile, he looked as if he regularly enjoyed a good bottle of wine and the company of amusing people. He had a full head of dark hair and he was attired in the garb of his profession, a dark three-piece suit and a silver-gray tie. I liked him from the moment he introduced himself. His first words were to express the wish that we had met in more pleasant circumstances.

I spent the rest of the evening with Sir Matthew, going over my story again and again. I could tell he didn’t believe a word I was saying, but he still seemed quite happy to represent me. He and Joe left a few minutes after eleven, and I settled down to spend my first night behind bars.

I was remanded in custody until the police had processed and submitted all their evidence to the Department of Public Prosecutions. The following day a magistrate committed me to trial at Leeds Crown Court, and despite an eloquent plea from Sir Matthew, I was not granted bail.

Forty minutes later I was transferred to Armley Jail.

The hours turned into days, the days into weeks, and the weeks into months. I almost tired of telling anyone who would listen that they would never find Jeremy’s body, because there was no body to find.

When the case finally reached Leeds Crown Court nine months later, the crime reporters turned up in hordes and followed every word of the trial with relish. A multimillionaire, a possible adulterous affair and a missing body were too much for them to resist. The tabloids exceeded themselves, describing Jeremy as the Lord Lucan of Leeds and me as an oversexed truck driver. I would have enjoyed every last syllable of it if I hadn’t been the accused.

In his opening address, Sir Matthew put up a magnificent fight on my behalf. Without a body, how could his client possibly be charged with murder? And how could I have disposed of the body, when I had spent the entire night in a bedroom at the Queen’s Hotel? How I regretted not checking in the second time, but simply going straight up to Jeremy’s room. It didn’t help that the police had found me lying on the bed fully dressed.

I watched the faces of the jury at the end of the prosecution’s opening speech. They were perplexed and obviously in some doubt about my guilt. That doubt remained until Rosemary entered the witness box. I couldn’t bear to look at her, and diverted my eyes to a striking blond who was sitting in the front row of the public gallery.

For an hour the counsel for the prosecution guided my wife gently through what had taken place that evening, up to the point when I had struck Jeremy. Until that moment, I couldn’t have quarreled with a word she had spoken.

“And then what happened, Mrs. Cooper?” prodded the counsel for the Crown.