Death By Dangerous (5 page)

Mia opened the passenger door and handed Anderson his crutches. He manoeuvred his leg into position and hauled himself up. With her steadying hand he limped into the house. Felt good to be home.

Mia fussed around in the lounge, avoiding eye contact with her husband. ‘I'll get you some water, then I've got to collect the boys.'

Anderson flopped onto a chair and watched her busying herself. He held out an arm as she passed. ‘Mia?'

She ignored him.

‘Mia. Please. Let's talk.'

‘What about?'

‘Everything.' Anderson's voice croaked. No one had told him anything yet. He was desperate for information about what happened. Who were they? How old? And he wanted to tell Mia that he was sorry. He'd been doing a lot of thinking in that hospital bed. Was it too late? Was he responsible for the deaths of two people? Could he live with that knowledge? Was that why he wanted to make it work with Mia? Fear of having to cope alone? He braced himself: ‘Who were the people that died?'

Mia stopped and gave Anderson her full attention. ‘One was a five-year-old girl. Molly Granger.'

Anderson winced, too much to bear.

‘I thought you might know who the woman was?' She asked more as an accusation than a question.

‘Why? What do you mean?' Anderson was confused.

‘She was in
your
car.'

‘What?' Anderson was stunned. ‘Who told you that?'

‘The police,' she replied. ‘They wondered if I might know her.' A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I didn't.'

‘What was her name?' Anderson demanded, unable to disguise his impatience.

‘I can't remember.'

They held each other's gaze.

‘John, I want you to move out.'

‘What? Move out?'

‘You can have a week or so to get back on your feet.'

‘Mia, please!'

‘I've already told the boys.'

‘But I need you.' As the words came out he realised how rare it was for him to say it. To express his feelings in words.

‘No, John. You didn't need me before the crash and you don't now.' She got up to go.

‘I did,' Anderson protested. ‘I just didn't know it,' he said, trying to get out of the chair. ‘Mia, please?'

‘It's too late. Why couldn't you have just gone to watch your son play football?' She was crying now. ‘You'd rather have been with her. You bastard, John.' She left the room.

Her? Who did she mean? Tilly?

‘Mia, wait, please!' By the time he was up she'd gone.

For the first time in his life he felt like sobbing. It was all too much to take in: Mia, the crash, his injuries. He balanced uncertainly on his good leg as he surveyed the room, appreciating it for the first time. The family home. Trying to remember rolling around on the floor with the kids. Never seemed to be enough time. He tried to remember fun times with Mia. He couldn't. Not even in the early days. It had always been about money, material things. What she wanted.

He caught his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The first time he'd seen himself since the accident. A beard, with grey flecks in it. The left side of his face had a large rectangular bandage over it. He shuffled closer and rested one hand on the mantlepiece. With the other he slowly removed the bandage. Anderson gulped. A deep red scar snaked down the side of his face. The stitches gave it the appearance of a fishbone. It would serve as a reminder, a marker − not just to him but to everyone – of when his life had changed forever. He quickly covered it.

A knock on the front door. Anderson pulled himself together and hobbled into the hall. He was out of breath by the time he managed to open the door.

Orlando West. ‘Hello, old chap.'

‘Orlando! Come in.' West's visit couldn't have come at a better time. Just the lift he needed.

They made their way into the lounge.

‘You look a lot better than when I last saw you,' said West.

‘You came to the hospital? I didn't realise. I should've known you'd be there.'

‘The whole of chambers has been really worried about you, John.'

Anderson took it all in.

‘How's Mia coping?'

Anderson wasn't ready to tell him. Not yet. To announce her decision to separate would make it real. He shrugged. ‘You know Mia.' Then he thought out loud: ‘I think I need to get back to work as quickly as possible.' By way of explanation: ‘I need the money.'

‘First things first, old chap. You're recovering from a very serious accident. You need to take it easy for a while.'

‘I need to read the papers in the Harrison murder.'

‘All in good time,' West replied, chuckling at Anderson's enthusiasm.

‘If only I'd gone back to chambers to collect the brief. And what was it you wanted to speak to me about?'

‘Oh, I can't remember now. What do you remember about the accident?'

Anderson shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just leaving court with Connor and his pupil.' He stopped. His heart beat faster. ‘Orlando, do you know anything about the lady that died?'

They heard the front door opening. Will and Angus hurtled into the lounge and leapt onto their father. ‘Daddy! Daddy!'

‘Ouch! My leg.'

They both jumped off and apologised, devastated that they had caused their father more pain.

Anderson bit his lip. ‘Boys, it's fine, come here,' he said, pulling the children to him. He held them tight, his eyes welling up. ‘I'm sorry I didn't make the football match, Will. What happened?'

‘We lost,' he replied. Then with more cheer: ‘But I've got another game tonight! Can you come?'

Anderson smiled. ‘I wouldn't miss it for the world. We'll be there, won't we, Angus?'

Both boys beamed.

West shot Mia a nervy smile.

Another knock at the door.

Mia showed two suited gents into the lounge.

Anderson thought he recognised them both.

The older man spoke: ‘John Anderson, my name is Detective Inspector Taylor and this is DC Waters. I am arresting you for offences of causing death by dangerous driving. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say—'

‘It's all right, gentlemen,' Anderson interrupted, once he was over the shock. ‘I understand my rights.'

‘I'm sure it's only routine,' West offered unconvincingly, more for the wider family's benefit. ‘Where are you taking him, gentlemen?'

‘Longsight police station, sir.' DI Taylor saw the distress on the children's faces. Sometimes he detested his job.

West quickly took control: ‘Right, I'll have a solicitor there for the interview, John. I'll try and get Dewi Morgan.'

‘Thanks, Orlando.' Anderson hugged his sons and kissed the tops of their heads. ‘You might have to go to the match without me I'm afraid.'

They both nodded, understanding the solemnity of the moment.

Anderson thought he caught a flicker of empathy in Mia's face as the officers escorted him out to the squad car.

He'd never seen the criminal justice system from this side of the fence before.

An intense sense of foreboding took hold.

Taylor took Anderson into the custody suite. After a few raised eyebrows the sergeant booked in the detainee.

‘We're going to have to put you in a cell, Mr Anderson,' explained Taylor. ‘Until we are ready for interview.'

Anderson said nothing.

‘I'm sure it won't be long,' he added on sensing Anderson's apprehension. Taylor felt for the man. A few seconds of bad driving and his life was over. He'd seen it a hundred times before. Even if they survived the jail sentence, they never got over the guilt, especially when a child was involved. Still, Taylor had a job to do and he was sure Molly Granger's parents didn't see it like that.

The steel door clanged shut. Anderson stared blankly at the grey walls. He'd seen the inside of a cell as part of his training to be a recorder – a part-time circuit judge. But this was different. He sat down on the concrete bench and let his head fall into his hands, then flinched, having forgotten the injury to his face. Bereft, he tried to make sense of what was happening to his life. Was he being selfish? Two people had died. Was it his fault? Had he been rushing to get to Will's football match? With so much going on had he lost concentration? And who was his passenger?

The misery of his contemplation was broken by the sound of the hatch opening, and then the door.

He was joined in the cell by a short man with a ruddy face in a pinstriped suit, thrusting out a fat, nail-bitten hand. ‘Dewi Morgan. Pleased to meet you. Big admirer of yours, you know.'

An encouraging start, thought Anderson.

A bloated-looking Welshman with a love of real ale, Morgan was also a highly respected solicitor, famed for his ruthless defence of his clients. He shot Anderson a mischievous smile. ‘You've put a few of my clients behind bars over the years, I can tell you.'

‘Well, let's see if you can keep this one out,' Anderson replied.

Morgan laughed. ‘Right, down to business,' he said, taking out a pad and sitting down on the concrete bench. ‘They've given me absolutely no pre-interview disclosure.'

‘You're joking?'

‘They're so paranoid about not appearing to do anything that could be seen as favouritism that they have gone completely the other way.'

Anderson shook his head in astonishment.

‘Tell me everything you can remember of the accident?'

‘I don't remember anything.'

‘Nothing at all?'

‘No.'

‘Was drink involved?'

‘No way. I'd never drink and drive.'

‘On any medication?'

‘No.'

‘What's the last thing you remember?'

‘Leaving court with my junior and his pupil. Stopping off for a coffee at Starbucks. That's about it.' Anderson didn't see any point mentioning the flirting with Tilly. Was he already being economical with the truth? The realisation sent a shiver down his spine.

‘Right, well. You'll have to go no comment.'

‘No comment? I'm not doing that!' Anderson protested, appalled at the suggestion. ‘How can I refuse to assist the police with their enquiries? I'm a prosecution barrister!'

‘Right now, my friend, you're a suspect. If you tell them you can't remember anything, firstly they won't believe you, and secondly, when you do come up with a defence, a jury may wonder why you didn't mention it in interview.'

‘A jury? You don't seriously think I'll be charged, do you?'

Morgan shrugged.

‘I'm still not going no comment.'

‘OK, it's your funeral.'

‘This interview is being tape recorded at Longsight police station. I am DI Taylor. I will be conducting the interview with my colleague, DC Waters. The suspect is John Anderson. Also present is his legal representative—'

‘Dewi Morgan.'

The two officers sat facing Anderson across a table. No natural light in the small room. A dusty plastic palm tilted in the corner.

Anderson could feel his legs shaking.

‘Thank you. The time now is 1903 hours. Mr Anderson, I need to remind you of the caution. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

Things were moving so fast. Still adjusting, Anderson couldn't keep up.

‘Right, Mr Anderson, you have been arrested in relation to a road traffic accident which happened on the westbound carriageway of the M56, just past junction five on the 24
^th
of January this year. Do you have any recollection of that incident?'

‘No, I don't.'

The officers exchanged glances. ‘What is the last thing you remember, Mr Anderson?'

‘Leaving court with my junior and his pupil. I was prosecuting in a trial – I'm a barrister. We went our separate ways. Then I went for a coffee at Starbucks on Quay Street.' Anderson thought hard about what he was going to say next. He swallowed. ‘And that's it.' No mention of Tilly. What was the point of upsetting people, embarrassing her and himself? Causing further upset to Mia? Nothing happened anyway. But he'd just lied – on tape – during a police investigation. He'd just done an act
tending and intended to pervert the course of justice
.

No time to dwell on it, questions were coming thick and fast.

‘What time was this?'

‘About five.'

‘Did you buy a drink?'

‘Yes. An Americano.'

‘That's a black coffee, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you drink it?'

‘Think so.'

‘You don't sound very sure.'

Why hadn't Anderson thought about these things before? Furious with himself, he more than anyone knew how important it was to be decisive in a police interview. ‘I drank most of it. I remember spilling some as I got up to leave. I was in a hurry.'

‘In a hurry?' repeated DI Taylor, eyebrows raised. This was too easy. Not the usual cat and mouse when interviewing psychopathic murder suspects.

‘Yes. To get to my son's football match. I wouldn't have driven like a madman or anything, you couldn't even if you wanted to at that time of day.' Anderson cringed as he heard himself say it. What was he thinking?

‘You don't
know
how you drove – do you, Mr Anderson? I mean you say you can't remember?'

‘Well – yes − but – I would never drive inappropriately for the conditions.'

‘Oh, I see,' Taylor replied.

Anderson's solicitor decided to offer an explanation: ‘It is perhaps worth noting at this juncture, officer, that Mr Anderson received a serious head injury during the accident. We of course consent to the police having access to those medical notes.'

‘Is that what you are saying, Mr Anderson? You had a bump on the head which caused you to lose your memory?'

‘He can't answer that, officer.' Morgan wasn't going to let Anderson get tied down to a defence at this stage. ‘That is a matter for a medical expert.'

The interview continued in this vein for some time. The drip-feeding of information about the crash drove Anderson mad with curiosity. He couldn't wait any longer. ‘Officer, I appreciate you are conducting this interview in your own way, but…' Anderson could hardly get the words out. ‘I know a woman and a child died. No one has told me anything about them. Please, what happened?'

‘I was just getting to that, Mr Anderson,' replied DI Taylor officiously. He wasn't going to let the suspect bully him, whoever he was. ‘We have several eyewitnesses who describe your vehicle.' The officer glanced at his notes. ‘A Volvo, registration BV52 EYS, drifting from the outside lane across the carriageway at speed and then colliding with another vehicle that had just entered the nearside lane from junction five.'

Anderson digested the information. He had no recollection of it at all. Had his brain erased the awful truth?

‘The vehicle you collided with was driven by Mrs Granger. Her five-year-old daughter, Molly, was in the back. Had to cut her out of the vehicle. She died later in hospital from her injuries.'

Anderson wanted to blot out what he was hearing.

‘Did you lose control of the vehicle in your hurry to get back?'

‘No!'

‘No you didn't, or no you can't remember?'

Dewi Morgan tried to rescue his client: ‘Officer, Mr Anderson has already told you that he cannot remember the accident, but that he would never drive dangerously.'

‘Your passenger was killed, Mr Anderson. A thirty-two-year-old woman, Heena Butt.' The officers waited for a reaction.

Anderson looked at his solicitor for some kind of explanation.

None came.

‘Heena Butt?' repeated Anderson. ‘I don't know that name. Who is…' He checked himself. ‘Who
was
she?'

‘We were hoping you could tell
us
that.'

‘I'm sorry, I can't,' Anderson stuttered, struggling to take it all in. ‘Do you have a photograph of her?'

Taylor nodded to DC Waters, who then removed an A4 brown envelope from a file and took out a photograph, which he then slid across the table towards Anderson.

Terrified at what or whom he might see, Anderson slowly cast his eyes down at the picture. Taken at the post-mortem, a lifeless body on a slab. The skull was impacted but he could make out the features of a woman. Asian, possibly Indian or Pakistani, with long brown hair. She'd been beautiful. Anderson gagged, then gave an involuntary sob. Was he really responsible for her death? He tried to compose himself. ‘I don't recognise her, officer. I don't know this woman.'

‘Mr Anderson, even if you can't remember the collision, surely you would remember how and when this woman came to be in your vehicle?'

‘You would think so, officer, but I don't.'

‘Do you often give complete strangers a lift in your car, Mr Anderson?'

All he could offer was: ‘No, never.'

Taylor gathered up his notes. ‘Right, that's all for now, Mr Anderson.'

‘What, I can go?'

‘For now, yes, but I'm sure we'll have some more questions for you when our collision investigator has completed his report.' Taylor checked his watch. ‘I'm terminating this interview. The time now is 1933 hours.'

Anderson was relieved to feel the cold Manchester air nipping at his face as he balanced on the steps outside the police station. His solicitor wanted a quick debrief. ‘You really don't remember, John?' he asked with the merest hint of a smile.

Anderson didn't hear him. Deep in thought – his old life; Mia, the children.

‘John? Are you OK?'

‘Yes, sorry, I was miles away.'

‘You must be exhausted.' Morgan took Anderson by the arm and guided him towards the car park. ‘I'll drive you home.' Morgan continued to moan about the police. ‘Outrageous to pull you in like that, the day you get out of hospital.'

‘Do you think it will go to trial, Dewi?' Anderson already knew the answer.

Morgan grimaced. ‘It doesn't look good, does it?'

Anderson climbed into the passenger seat and tried to picture Heena Butt's face. Tried to remember if he knew her, or had seen her somewhere before. His head began to ache. He looked across at Morgan. ‘We need to find out about that woman – Heena Butt. She must be the key to all this.'

‘I'm not sure that's such a good idea, John. Might be better to let sleeping dogs lie.'

‘What do you mean?' Anderson replied.

‘We're both men of the world, John,' said Morgan, treading carefully with his client.

‘Go on?'

‘Well, acting on your instructions – which of course I do – you say you didn't know the deceased. If you met her that night and she was in your car…? What would a prosecution barrister think that meant?'

The penny dropped. ‘You'd think I'd been kerb crawling.'

Morgan tiptoed on. ‘And if you were distracted…'

Anderson shook his head in horror. ‘You'd think I'd crashed the car because I was having sex with a prostitute whilst driving down the motorway?'

‘As your lawyer, I have to tell you how it looks, don't I? What other explanation is there?'

Was this really happening? Was she a prostitute? Would he pay for sex? Could he be sure of anything? ‘My DNA won't be inside her.'

‘Maybe not. They haven't disclosed that yet, but it's not critical.'

Anderson was confused.

Morgan spelt it out: ‘You know − blow job.'

Anderson looked skywards. ‘Please, just get me home.'