The Samsara Project, David Burgess [most popular ebook readers txt] 📗

the keypad, ‘Alan, how are you. Not had a chance to catch up in ages. Let’s meet, when’s a good time for you? John.”
John pressed send. He sat back in his chair and for the first time admitted to himself that he had a king-sized hangover.
John had just sent a text message to one of his long established ‘external partners’ as they like to be called. To everyone else they were paid informers who, for the right price would spill the beans on all sorts of things. John had found that whilst money tended to loosen tongues it was still a matter of quality over quantity. For John both the source and the information had to be credible and reliable. In Alan’s case it was usually both. Alan Edmonson had spent the last thirty one years of his life working for the Home Office Pathology Department as a mortuary attendant, the politically correct term for a cleaner. Alan though was neither political nor correct. In his mind he had always been a mortuary cleaner and always would be. He was also in the perfect position to help out the press from time to time, depending on why a particular post mortem was being carried out or who it was being carried out on.
After a couple of minutes and two paracetamol later John pulled himself together - hangover or not there was work to do. Just at that moment Status Quo could be heard from his inside pocket. “John Reynolds.”
“John its Alan, I just got your message. What’s up?”
“You OK to talk for a few minutes?”
“Fine, I’m outside having a cigarette, can’t smoke inside these days in case the smoke contaminates the bodies. Have you ever heard the like? They’re already dead. I mean what harm’s a bit of smoke going to do to them now?”
“I’m sure you can answer that far better than I can, especially with some of the lungs you get to see.”
“Listen John, I’m glad you called because I was waiting to give you a call this morning. Can you meet me in an hour?”
“You have something for me, usual place then at eleven o’clock?”
John agreed and ended the call. He had no idea what the information was but it had to be connected to the Suzie Reeves murder.

* * * *

DCI Bales and Detective Constable Mick Wilding were sat behind a desk in a very sparsely furnished interview room at New Scotland Yard. On the table was a multi directional radio microphone that was sending everything it picked up to a digital data recorder securely locked behind a metal cabinet at the back of the interview room.
Up to a few years ago the interviewing detectives had set the recording equipment themselves, but it did not take long before enterprising defence solicitors challenged the validity of the tapes claiming ‘conflict of interest’. Politically correct judges, afraid of a verdict they had overseen being overturned on appeal or worse by the Court of Human Rights, had agreed with the defence teams and disallowed the recorded interview. To counter this, independent technicians were employed to ensure absolute integrity in all aspects of interview recordings.
On the desk were three cups of barely warm coffee. Sat opposite the detectives was Ron Billington. As far as Ron was concerned he was there to help the police with whatever background he could with regard to Suzie Reeves. He was more than happy to do this. Ron wanted justice for his dead girlfriend and to see his future wife’s killer put away for a very long time. Ron wanted to be in court every day of the trial, to look at his Suzie’s killer eye to eye. What Ron did not know, or expect, was at this moment in time he was the police’s main suspect. Ron would be taking part in an interview, just not the sort he was expecting.
The interview lasted for over three hours. Ron was quizzed on every aspect of his life with Suzie Reeves. It started off smoothly enough, but that was just to lead Ron into a trap, to make him relax and let his guard down. DCI Bales started by asking where the couple had met?
“At work,” replied Ron. He then talked for a while about how they had started out as friends and how that friendship had developed into something much deeper.
“When was this?”
“August fifteenth.Three years ago. It would have been our fourth anniversary this year.”
DC Wilding then asked; “What about any other girls in your life since then? You’re a good looking young man. There must have been the opportunity for a quiet office romance?”
“I was never interested in any other girl, well not in a romantic way.”
“A one woman man” responded DC Wilding. “What about Sharon, Sharon Morgan?”
“What about her,” asked Ron
“From what we’ve been told you two were very cosy, a bit too cosy for someone planning to get married.”
“That’s rubbish.” Ron replied, in a louder and more stressed tone. “There was never anything between Sharon and me. We were, are, just good friends.”
DC Wilding then took a photograph from out of a buff coloured file he had kept in a briefcase by the side of his chair. “Recognise this?” DC Wilding pushed a photograph towards Ron. The photograph was face down. Ron picked it up and turned it over. The colour drained from his face, he felt physically sick.
The photograph had been taken at the bank’s Christmas party two years ago. Sharon was sat on Ron’s knee. Her arms around his neck, he had one arm around her back, the other around the back of her neck, the two of them passionately kissing.
“There are plenty more,” said DC Wilding. “Want to see some more?”
Ron was now very agitated; “There not what they look like,” he said, his voice now slightly higher than before. The panic was clear, “It was a Christmas party and nothing happened, we were just larking around, a bit of fun in front of the camera. Suzie was there.” He pointed at the photograph, “Just out of shot, she was laughing to. In fact she was egging Sharon on.”
“Not what we’ve heard. Not what we’ve heard at all.”
DCI Bales then came in with the killer question. It was blunt, direct and spoken in a slow, deliberate, clear, harsh and precise voice. “Why did you kill Suzie Reeves? Come on Ron get it off your chest. You’ll feel better. Tell us now while we can still help you. Tell the judge how you co-operated.” DCI Bales then stood up and leaned forward over the table until he was only a foot away from Ron’s face. “Why did you kill Suzie Reeves?”
Ron’s mouth went dry, he couldn’t speak. Every muscle in his body was shaking. It felt as though he were inside a freezer, with no way out. It was only a few hours ago that he had to identify the body of the woman he loved more than life itself. He never imagined he could feel worse than he had at that time. Now he wished to have that feeling back.
Ron endured another two and half hours of intense questioning after which his clothes were stuck to his body. His shirt, soaked in sweat, was clinging to his chest and back. He felt as though he had been verbally abused, used and verbally bullied. The two officers had used ‘good cop, bad cop’. DCI Bales was ‘bad cop’. He’d tear into Rob telling him they had witnesses. How they knew Ron was clever enough not to kill himself, but that he had paid someone else to kill for him. They had signed confessions. Confess Ron confess. Then, for some reason, he’d leave the room. Wilding would apologise for Bales telling Ron how shocked he was about his boss’s actions, but, he was his boss so he could do nothing about it. Wilding offered John a drink, asked if he wanted a break, was he alright. He spoke gently to Ron, almost kindly. Then,” Look Ron, if there is anything you want to tell me, now’s the time. It’s just you and me. I want this to stop as much as you do. Come on Ron, talk to me. Why did you kill Suzie Reeves? I can help you, I want to help you.” Ron shook his head, “I didn’t kill her.” He said in a quiet, almost childlike voice. “I didn’t kill my Suzie.”
There had been moments during the interrogation when it just wanted everything to stop. He was emotionally, mentally and physically drained. He so worn down, so low, so intimidated by everything going on that he even though for a moment of confessing. Not because he had killed Suzie, just to make it stop. To make them leave him alone, to leave him with his thoughts and memories of Suzie.
Despite everything though Ron managed to keep one faint thought in the back of his mind, the one thing that got him through the two and a half hours of gulling nonstop questioning. That was the absolute and certain truth that he had not killed Suzie Reeves.
At the end of the ‘interview’ DCI Bales looked Ron straight in the eye. “I know you killed Suzie Reeves, I don’t yet know why or how, but I will find out. You can go for now but you and I will be talking again. Now get out of my sight.”
Ron left the room a broken man. During the past twenty four hours his world had collapsed. It started off as what should have been one of the happiest days of his life, a milestone day. Twenty four hours later he had lost the will to live.
Still in a daze from the events of the pat three hours Ron walked out of New Scotland Yard. He could not believe what had just happened. Ron had never so much as had a parking ticket, now he was being accused of murder. He started to shake again then he started to cry. Ron cried like he had never cried before. He sat down on the pavement, not caring or seeing the other people around him. Most thought he was a low life bum, a homeless beggar. After a short while he stood up and started to walk. Ron had no idea what direction he was going in or where he was heading towards. He just walked. Ron knew nothing at all as the number eighty eight bus hit him full on. Witnesses later said he was probably on drugs or had been drinking. There was no other explanation. Why else would you just walk straight out into the road like he did? There was absolutely nothing the driver could have done to avoid the accident. Paramedics arrived within minutes. And did all they could at the scene. Less than fourteen minutes later Ron arrived at the accident and emergency unit of Stepney Hospital. He was pronounced dead on arrival.

* * * *

Sylvia showed Andrew into Geoffrey Adamson’s office. Geoffrey stood up from behind his desk, thrust out his hand towards Andrew and welcomed him as though he were a long lost friend.
“Let’s sit over here,” said Geoffrey gesturing towards a leather three piece, blood red chesterfield suite. Andrew chose to sit in the Queen Anne upright chair, Geoffrey sat on the three seat settee. There was a quiet knock on the door and Sylvia brought in a pot of coffee on a try with a selection of plain and chocolate biscuits. “Thank you Sylvia,” said Geoffrey.
“You’re welcome.” She replied.
Geoffrey poured the coffee, handed the plate of biscuits to Andrew,