48 Hours - A City of London Thriller (13 page)

“
Not that good, Toby. I’m being taken to Southwark Police
Station to be interviewed in relation to Andrew’s
death.”

“
Right,” Toby said, taking immediate control of the situation.
“Don’t say anything, either in the car or at the station. I’ll get
a lawyer to meet you there as soon as possible.”

Chapter 2
5

Southwark Police Station, Borough Rd. London.

Saturday 12:20am.

The Metropolitan Police accommodations were not as quaint as
the London City Police Station in Wood Street. The room we were
waiting in had bare plastered walls with some kind of shiny paint
that may have been blue at some time but which now looked faded and
grey.

The furniture, however, was new and the chairs were
comfortable and brightly upholstered in a wine coloured fabric. The
desk and chairs were probably chipboard but they were faced with
the blonde wood so beloved of offices everywhere.

The lighting was provided by a number of spotlights on two
tracks on the high ceiling. The odour was provided by an
over-zealous cleaner who had obviously disinfected the room before
our arrival.

Dee gripped my hand under the table and smiled at me. She had
made me agree that I wouldn’t say a word until my lawyer arrived. I
accepted her advice, which was timely because I soon spotted the
CCTV camera in the corner and I had no doubt that the room was
wired for sound.

We had been cautioned in the car and we were warned that
anything we said could be written down and used later, and that if
we chose not to answer questions our silence could be considered by
a court in deciding our guilt or innocence.

I asserted my right to representation and explained that I had
already let someone know where we were. So, now we were waiting for
our lawyer to arrive.

We had been in the room about twenty minutes when the door
opened and Inspector Boniface stepped inside.

“
Josh, Dee, I’m sorry about this. I had my chief petition the
Met’s Superintendant in Charge but they wouldn’t give way. They
wouldn’t even hold off until Monday. So, my advice is to tell the
truth and get out of here as soon as you can, and come and see me
Monday.”

He crossed to the door, squeezing my shoulder as he went, and
made a beckoning gesture. Just before the beckoned person arrived
at the door Boniface smiled at me and said, “Look who I found
lurking in the corridor.”

A man of around forty in a Savile Row suit and a silk tie that
cost more than any of my suits entered our little room. The last
time I had seen him he had been wearing white sports kit and he was
thrashing me at squash.

“
Colin, I never expected to see you.” Boniface closed the door
as Colin and I hugged; a manly hug, admittedly, but a hug
nonetheless. I turned to Dee.

“
Dee, meet Colin Penworthy, senior partner at Kellaways.” Dee
shook hands with my close friend and squash partner, a man who had
famously represented an errant member of the Royal Family against
her creditors.

“
Colin, I thought you were civil cases only, or I would have
called you myself.”

“
Josh, Toby sends his regards. I was at his house partying
when I got the call. Luckily I’d gone their straight from work,
hence the togs. Anyway, if you both agree I will represent the two
of you.” We gave our assent.

Colin turned to the CCTV camera and said, “Can I see the
officer in charge, please?” Within a minute an untidy man in his
late forties appeared and introduced himself as Detective Chief
Inspector Terry Coombes. He had short hair which was a mixture of
dark and grey, and carried a little extra weight than might have
been advisable for his height, which was similar to mine. He wore a
suit which looked as though he might have slept in it, although his
white shirt was crisp and his tie probably silk. A man not to mess
with, I concluded.

Colin rose and shook his hand. “I need a few minutes with my
two clients and, as the conversations are privileged, I expect the
camera and audio to be switched off, is that clear?”

“
Yes, I’ll see to it,” the policeman answered, in a rather
surly manner. He departed, closing the door with an ominous
click.

***

For the next ten minutes we explained exactly what had
happened in relation to Andrew and his part in the blackmail plot.
Now Dee was in another room and I was sitting with Colin, opposite
Detective Chief Inspector Coombes and a Detective Sergeant Scott. A
digital machine nearby was recording our conversation. The DCI
introduced us all, stated the time and asked if I was happy that I
had been properly cautioned. I accepted that I had been,
twice.

I was asked to explain the events surrounding Andrew’s demise,
beginning at my visit to his office on Thursday afternoon. As I ran
through the story, DS Scott scribbled wildly on a writing
pad.

“
Mr Hammond, let me be clear here. We don’t want any
misunderstandings.” He said the last part looking at my lawyer.
“The initial examination of Mr Cuthbertson shows that his lower
mandible is broken. It is likely that the blow that inflicted this
damage also rendered the victim unconscious as there are signs of a
serious concussion in the brain pan. The forensic scientists
suggest that, having been rendered unconscious, probably by someone
he knew – no defensive marks present – he was pushed over the
railing, falling face down in the mud. The marks and abrasions on
his back are consistent with the joining piece on the bridge hand
rail. Do you have any comment on that, Mr Hammond?”

I was about to answer when Colin gripped my knee under the
table.

“
Mr Hammond obviously does not want to speculate on the manner
of Mr Cuthbertson’s death, as he was not present, but I am sure
that for the purposes of this interview he will accept the
scientific evidence of how events unfolded.”

I nodded at the appropriate time.

“
Thank you,” the DCI said without meaning it. “We are of the
opinion that to break a man’s jaw would take a significant blow
from a fit man of at least medium height. In fact, Mr Hammond, a
man not unlike you. Could I see your hands, please?”

At Colin’s nod I showed my hands palm up. Coombes turned them
over to examine my knuckles. The policeman looked closely and set
my hands down, thanking me.

“
Let the recording show that my client Mr Hammond’s hands
displayed no signs of injury, damage or abrasion when examined some
seventeen hours after the death of Mr Cuthbertson.” Colin smiled
and the policemen scowled.

“
Mr Hammond, it is also possible that someone trained in
unarmed combat might also be capable of causing such an injury,
even a woman. You had Ms Delia Conrad with you when you met Mr
Cuthbertson this morning, didn’t you?”

“
First of all, Mr Cuthbertson was dead by the time we arrived
at the bridge, and secondly Ms Conrad and I were together the whole
time and I can assure you that neither of us caused anyone any
harm. She will confirm that.”

The DCI spoke whilst looking down at a file in a brown manila
folder.

“
This is not the first time Ms Conrad has appeared in this
station for questioning about an assault on a man.” He looked up to
gauge my reaction, and I suppose I registered surprise. Colin
interjected.

“
Josh, you will recall that the Detective explained that she
had been ‘questioned’, not arrested or charged. It would be unusual
for a close protection officer to go through her entire career
without having to restrain someone. What was the exact outcome in
the instance you are referring to, Chief Inspector?”

“
I don’t know,” he answered sullenly. “It wasn’t my case.” He
closed the file. “I think that will be enough for now, unless you
have any comments.”

“
You do realise that I have been working closely with the
Police in trying to apprehend a blackmailer and possible murderer?”
I pointed out.

“
Yes, I do realise that. In fact, it’s the acrimony between
yourself and Mr Cuthbertson, relating to his alleged betrayal of
you, which gives you a motive for his manslaughter or murder. My
own feeling is that someone got angry enough with Mr Cuthbertson to
punch him so hard they knocked him out, and in their anger they
tipped him into the river to teach him a lesson. Perhaps they had
no intention of killing him. It may even have been self-defence. A
confession at this stage would almost certainly be looked upon
favourably when deciding on charges.”

Colin spoke for me. “Thank you Chief Inspector. If we happen
to find the killer before you do we will be sure to mention those
options to him or her.” Coombes muttered something under his
breath.

With that my interview ended and I left the room, to be
replaced with Dee, or more correctly, Delia. I wasn’t sure how I
felt about her full name.

***

I waited in the corridor for the interview to conclude. I
desperately wanted to be in there protecting her, making sure she
was comfortable, and then I remembered that she would consider two
burly men as no competition and three burly men as a
challenge.

It was almost two in the morning when we shook hands with
Colin and he noted that his fee invoice would be in the post. I
hoped he was joking, as I knew he charged around four hundred
pounds an hour and I was already two hundred and fifty grand poorer
than this time yesterday.

We took a cab back to my flat, and with late night supplements
it came to nearly thirty five pounds. I was dead on my feet and
forgot to wait for my change, so the cabbie escaped with a five
pound tip.

Inside Dee said she was desperately tired and asked if she
could sleep in the bed tonight.

“
Of course,” I agreed gallantly. “You’ve been a star today.
I’ll take the sofa tonight.”

“
No need,” she said, flinging off her shoes. “It’s a double
bed.”

Chapter 2
6

Upton Park Tube Station, Green Street. London. Saturday
1pm.

We had taken the DLR from Greenwich up to Bow Road and then we
switched to the Tube for the short hop to Upton Park. I had a
season ticket for the Legends Restaurant, with seats in the West
Stand. It had not been difficult getting another seat for Dee, and
it wouldn’t be until West Ham started seeing some
success.

We walked along Green Street past the kebab shops and soon the
ground came into view. I still got a great feeling as I looked
along the road and saw the old stadium with its claret railings and
blue roof trim. The twin castellated towers at the entrance,
enhanced by West Ham shields, were a bit Disneyworld, but this
place was once a field of dreams and the supporters surrounding us
hoped that one day it would be again.

On the journey we had been comfortable sitting together in
silence. That had given me time to contemplate the events of last
night. I would have liked to remember the night as being filled
with slow but passionate love making, each of us investigating the
other’s body, taking time to feel textures, absorb fragrances and
grip one another tightly in ecstasy. Sadly, the reality was that we
made love clumsily, quickly, with an urgency that was unnecessary,
laughed at our amateur performance and promptly fell
asleep.

Dee had awoken first at around ten; she just lay in bed
waiting for me to stir. When I did it took us a while to make it
out of the bedroom. We moved quickly once I remembered it was West
Ham United versus Bolton Wanderers today and that I needed to buy
another ticket.

We arrived at the ground and Dee looked suitably impressed.
She confessed that she had not attended a football match before. I
was a taken aback. First I find her name is really Delia, and now I
find she isn’t a football fan. Could this relationship work? Yes,
after last night I knew it most certainly could.

We walked in through the glass fronted main entrance and made
our way to the Legends restaurant, where a three course lunch was
served from one o’clock on match days. The lunch was served carvery
style, and so we helped ourselves from large silver domed tureens.
The food was always plain and simple but beautifully
cooked.

We took our seats and I introduced Dee to the regulars at our
table. Actually I didn’t, she introduced herself when I suddenly
realised that I couldn’t really describe her as my close protection
officer and the term girlfriend seemed too presumptuous. Dee filled
the silence by saying that she was a colleague. Why hadn’t I
thought of that?

As we ate and drank our Foster’s lager, Dee chatted non stop
with Ron and Danny, lifelong supporters who lived for their
families and West Ham, not necessarily always in that order. Danny
and Ron were plant fitters at the Ford plant in Dagenham and they
invested a goodly proportion of their wages on these twenty one
matches a season, in the best seats. We had nineteen home league
games and the ticket also included the first round matches of the
Carling Cup and the FA Cup.

I often cursed commentators who pointed at decent hard working
guys like these and dismissed them as corporate guests who were not
really interested in the match but only interested in the
hospitality. All because they chose to pay for the best seats from
a relatively small income. These guys were real
supporters.