Charlie spent his afternoon roughing out a draft story, and then called Tom Jennings, a big name on the Daily Mail. It was many years since they had worked together side by side at The Times as young reporters, but journalists have good memories for names, particularly when they might prove useful.
He ran through his story at speed. ‘I’m helping a local antique dealer. He’s gay, and has been charged with buggering a teenager at a children’s home, but it’s a frame-up. The housefather, the man in charge of the home, should be in the frame. A poisonous local woman with a grudge against my dealer found out, and engineered it so the boy named the dealer instead of the housefather.’
Tom Jennings listened with interest. He was a tubby man in his shirt sleeves, with a blank computer screen in front of him, and he needed a catchy idea or two. Voices from the past rarely brought good tidings, but this sounded like a neat little plot. ‘Can you prove it?’
‘No problem.’ Charlie could hear confidence filling his voice. He was on a roll to victory. ‘A cleaning woman at the home saw housefather and boy go into a shed, and watched them through a crack. Her description is graphic.’
‘So how did they pin it on your friend?’
‘The cleaner worked for the poisonous woman as well.’
‘And they gossipped?’
‘And they gossipped.’
‘And then?’
‘The woman said she could sell the story to the Sundays for big money, and asked the cleaner to frame my dealer, but she refused. So then she said she’d pay her to keep her mouth shut.’
‘Nasty woman. What then?’
‘The police, social services and a doctor turn up at the home, the boy substitutes my dealer for the housefather, and the police arrest him.’
‘Did they let him go again?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Now Charlie’s voice was hard and bitter. ‘They turned up at his shop in a police car, took him down to Slough police station, charged him, and let him out on bail. It’s the talk of the whole village.’
Jennings laughed harshly. ‘Bang goes his business, bang goes his social status?’
‘Bang went everything.’
The phone was silent for a moment. Then Jennings spoke again. ‘Will your cleaner talk to one of our people?’
‘She wants the truth to come out.’
Another pause, as though Jennings was calculating. ‘What do you want for it?’
Charlie was bemused.
‘We could pay you something.’
‘No, thanks.’ The negation was hard for Charlie, because he had worked as a freelance for many years, and never written a word for free. ‘It’s a family matter.’
‘Family?’ Jennings’ voice rose enquiringly.
‘I fell out with my wife, found a new woman, and moved to France. My wife shares a shop with Freddie, the dealer, and now she’s living with him.’
Jennings listened, and chuckled. People do strange things for their principles. But if Charlie was telling the truth, then hewas a man to admire. ‘Ok, mate. Email it to me. I’ll see what I cando for you.’
Charlie sent off his draft and also filed it into Maurice Delacroix’s computer in France. Now he held insurance.
He called at The Firs the same evening. But the door remained resolutely closed, despite his knocking. Charlie waited for a moment, and tried again. Then he heard the sound of a police car siren, and smiled grimly to himself. Hiding behind the police would do Derricks no good at all.
Shiela Hanson was not in a good temper when she reached The Firs. She had planned to leave the station early and have a quiet drink with a nice young constable from Langley who had been taking a marked interest in her. Now Tindal was making a nuisance of himself again. She stopped in the entrance to The Firs, neatly blocking the drive, and called up DI Rowton.
‘Tindal has turned up on Derricks’ doorstep, sir. What shall I do?’
Rowton sighed. The man seemed really intent on making a nuisance of himself. ‘Ask him what he wants.’
WPC Hanson frowned. Men seemed to have an inbuilt ability to pass bucks. ‘What happens if he makes more allegations, sir?’
Rowton took a deep breath. Tindal seemed bent on making mischief, and making mischief might call for rather firmer action. ‘All right, Shiela, keep him there if he looks like making trouble. I’m on my way.’
Charlie smiled at the police car as it halted behind Bella’s Mercedes, and got out of the car. He had eaten and early dinner, and had all the time in the world.
WPC Hanson was sternly formal. ‘Good evening, sir. Why are you here?’
‘I want to talk to Geoffrey Derricks.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Freddie Hoskins has been charged with sexually assaulting a minor. I have evidence that it was Derricks, not Freddie, who assaulted the minor.’ Charlie rapped his words out in hard little bursts, for now he was aiming and firing with care. ‘I also believe that Mrs. Manion, the woman who called you out this morning, arranged matters so that the minor was induced to substitute Freddie for Derricks.’
Shiela Hanson was an intelligent young policewoman, and fully understood both what Charlie was saying, and the potential impact of his words. He was holding a stick of dynamite, if he had the evidence he claimed to possess, and it was not for her to move matters forward.
‘You’d better wait for a moment, sir. I’ve spoken to DI Rowton at Slough, and he should be with us in a couple of minutes.’
Charlie beamed. ‘Good. I’ve been looking forward to meeting him face to face.’
A second police car arrived perhaps twenty minutes later, a big Vauxhall, driven by a policeman in uniform, accompanied by a second man in a business suit. Both looked grimly official.
Charlie, who had been sitting in the Mercedes listing to a CD of Leclerc’s concertos, got out and beamed at the newcomers. He felt on top form.
The man in the suit stared at him hard. He was in a bad mood, and it showed. ‘Good evening, sir. I am Detective Inspector Rowton. Are you Mr. Charles Tindal?’
Charlie nodded.
‘Why are you here, sir?’
‘I came to question Geoffrey Derricks.’
‘Why, sir?’
Charlie could be just as curt as any policeman. ‘I have evidence that it was Derricks, not Hoskins, who sexually assaulted the minor who made the allegation. I have evidence that Mrs Gay Manion, whom I tried to interview this morning, knew of the assault though a third party. I believe that Mrs. Manion may have induced Derricks and the minor to substitute Freddie Hoskins in Derricks’ place.’
Rowton felt a twinge of unease. ‘What evidence, sir?’
‘I have spoken to the person who the assault and told Mrs. Manion.’
‘What person, sir?’
‘You will read about it.’
‘Read about it, sir?’ Now Rowton felt distinctly uncomfortable.
‘I have emailed the story to a national newspaper.’
Rowton frowned. ‘But you are also duty-bound to provide us with the evidence as well, sir.’
‘I think I’m the best judge of my duty.’ Charlie sniffed. He was not about to put upon.
The police inspector was silent for a moment. Then he reached a decision, though it was not one that mades him very happy. ‘You know that I can detain you for refusing to help the police in the execution of their duty?’
‘You can do what you like.’ Charlie tossed his refusal back with defiance. ‘I’ve filed my piece, and backed it up in a friend’s system outside this country. I think I’m home and dry.’
‘Then you had better come with us.’ Rowton’s voice was sharp. It was plain that Tindal had no intention of helping the police, and it was time to put the man away, and let higher powers decide how to handle him.
‘What about the Mercedes?’
‘Is it your car, sir?’
‘No, it belongs to a friend. She’s staying at The Stag.’
‘She can come and pick it up.’
Charlie spent the next hour learning what it was like to be a suspected criminal. Hewas allowed to call Bella about the Mercedes, and then taken to Slough police station, charged with witholding evidence, and made to empty his pockets and surrender his wristwatch, belt and shoelaces. Then he was locked in a cell, a bleak, white-painted box with a bed on one side and a small lavatory in a corner. He had a taste of the humiliation suffered by Freddie, but he felt no humiliation himself, for he was infused with a slow-burning fury, and he knew he would win.
Meanwhile police telephone lines were buzzing busily. Rowton tried to call Weatherall several times, before finally locating him on what he judged to be the nineteenth hole of his golfclub. Weatherall was plainly not pleased to hear his voice, but he insisted on talking, and quickly sketched out the situation as he understood it – he was not going to carry this particular can of worms all on his own.
Weatherall scowled. He was in the middle of a cosy round of pints, and it was the very worst possible time for problems to surface. He levered himself to his feet and went out into the club’s entrance hall. ‘Has he any proof of what he’s saying?’
‘He says he had passed a story to a newspaper chum, and also stored it away in a French computer.’
‘A what?’
‘He has friends in France.’
‘Oh, does he?’ Weatherall felt himself growing increasingly angry with each passing moment. ‘Where’s his computer?’
‘I don’t know, sir. He’s been staying at The Stag.’
‘Get a warrant to seize his possessions.’ Weatherall spoke crisply. Mr. Tindal needed to be taught a lesson or two. The days of journalists making up their own rules had long since passed. ‘Tell any newspaper that comes sniffing around that we’ll run it straight into court. I’ll come down and have a word with him.’
Rowton tooks a uniformed constable and drove to The Bull himself. The whole Hoskins business seemed to be unravelling minute by minute. He reached the hotel a little after ten, and his visit began easily enough, with a good looking darkhaired woman coming into the lounge. But she had a man with her, and Rowton thought his face familiar.
The man spoke before Rowton could open his mouth. ‘I am the Baroness’ solicitor.’
Rowton recognised the man as Graham Rappaport, and his heart began to sink. Rappaport was a sharp brief. He was also put off by him using a title. Nobody had said anything about baronesses. He held out his warrant. ‘I believe Mr. Tindal is sharing a room with the lady, and has a computer.’
Rappaport shook his head. ‘The Baroness has the only computer.’ He scanned the warrant. ‘I don’t see her name here.’
Rowton knew when he was beaten. ‘So be it. I’ll obtain a fresh warrant.’
Bella smiled at him, and her smile was radiant. ‘The computer will be broken down into bits, if you come back, and packed in a small box.’
Rowton returned to his police car feeling thoroughly bad-tempered. Everything was now going wrong in the worst possible way, and he was right up there at the sharp end. He was fed up, and did not deserve any of this.
He found DS Weatherall waiting for him at Slough. Weatherall had changed back into uniform, and his face was as black as thunder. ‘Got it?’
‘She had a solicitor with her, sir. She said Tindal does not own a computer.’
‘He’s using hers.’
‘Her name wasn’t on the warrant. She’s a French baroness.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ Weatherall’s anger took on a tinge of alarm. ‘We’d better talk to him.’
Charlie was seated on the cell bed as the two policemen entered his cell. He did not look up them. He was going to call the cards, and make these two men crawl.
‘Mr. Tindal?’ Weatherall uses his most intimidating voice. ‘I am Detective Superintendant Weatherall.’
‘Yes?’ Charlie looked up at him with the kind of look a man might use for inspecting a pile of dirt.
‘My colleague told me you are concealing important evidence.’
It was Charlie’s clue. He got slowly to his feet, and spoke very deliberately. ‘I have evidence that Berks and Bucks Police have used fabricated evidence deliberately to hound an innocent man.’
‘That’s for us to decide, sir.’
‘No, sir, it isn’t.’ Now Charlie stared the policeman straight in the eyes. ‘It’s for me to present. Your people have gone ahead and arrested an honest and innocent man on a trumped up charge. I can prove that the evidence behind that charge was maliciously fabricated. That’s my duty as a responsible citizen.’
‘Hold hard, sir.’ Weatherall’s voice softened a little. He could see that he was dealing with a man who might prove very difficult, and there was no point in provoking him. ‘If you can prove what you are saying then the charges against your friend could well be dropped.’
‘So you can tidy everything away under the carpet?’
‘I think that’s a little far fetched, sir.’ Weatherall had an unpleasant feeling that a tide had begun to surge against him.
‘You’ve dragged him through the mud, and arrested me as well.’
‘Well, of course we’d drop the charges against you as well, sir.’
Charlie snorted like an angry horse. ‘So you think you can bang two people up to rights, then realise that you’ve made a cock-up of everything, quietly send us on our way, and expect us to keep our mouths shut?’
‘I wouldn’t quite put it like that, sir.’ Weatherall had a feeling that he was now wholly losing control of the situation, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed. Rowton had moved away into a corner of the cell to stand staring studiously at a blank cell wall.
‘I don’t suppose you would.’ Charlie felt a bit between his teeth, and was determined to have the gallop of his life. ‘You think you owe no responsibility to anybody except yourself, that you can go out and haul people in when it pleases you, and that you make all the rules.’
‘We do what the law tells us to do, sir.’
‘The law doesn’t tell you to arrest an innocent man without testing the grounds you think you have for arresting him.’
‘We had a statement, sir.’
‘You had a load of crap.’
The cell was silent for a moment. Weatherall cast around in his mind for some way to limit damage to a minimum. ‘All right, sir. Supposing what you say is true. What are you asking for?’
Charlie had sat in a Slough police cell for more than an hour mulling over his demands, and he had them word-perfect. ‘You drop all charges, and hold a press conference tomorrow. The chief constable of Berks and Bucks Police and the chairman of Chiltern County Council apologise in person to Freddie, and confirm the apology in writing. Berks and Bucks Police and the County issue a statement of apology, agreed by Freddie’s solicitors. Berks and Bucks and the County also pay Freddie substantial compensation.’
‘I suppose you’re doing it for free, sir?’ Weatherall’s riposte was fuelled by anger. But he regretted his words the moment they were out of his mouth.
Charlie smiled icily. ‘I, sir, will benefit from doing a good deed.’
‘But you won’t need to write anything if we do what you ask.’ Now Weatherall’s voice held a note of desperation.
‘I think I need to tell the truth.’ Charlie fired his words like bullets. ‘Berks and Bucks Police is lazy, incompetent, and corrupt. You are lazy, because I have read that you have a high rate of absenteeism. You are incompetent, because I have read that you have a low crime clear-up rate. You are corrupt because you have failed to observe the laws of natural justice. Britain is not a police state yet, even though you seem to be trying to push it that way. Perhaps I can help push things back a bit.’
Weatherall was silent for a moment. He knew when he was beaten, and it was not a nice feeling for a senior police officer. He had a feeling that heads might roll as a result of this business, and he felt decidedly unsafe.
‘All right, sir. We’ve both heard what you’ve said. We need to take advice.’
Charlie was released ten minutes later, and taken back to The Stag in an unmarked police car, escorted by DI Rowton. Rowton watched Charlie get out of the car as it pulled up, and then followed him.
‘You gave DS Weatherall quite a roasting.’ His voice was placatory, and he held out his hand. ‘We were just doing our job.’
Charlie scowled, keeping his own hand at his side. ‘That’s what thugs always say. I’m going to roast you both.’
Rowton swallowed and returned to the police car.
Later that night Slough police station received a call from Wexham Hospital. Geoffrey Derricks had been brought to the hospital’s Accident and Emergency Unit in an ambulance after having been found hanging from a beam in a hut in the grounds of The Firs. The hospital reported that he had been dead when cut down.