“Sorry!” I said. “Sorry! I should bloody well think you are sorry. I’ve been treated like a common criminal.”
“Mr. Foxton,” the chief inspector replied, somewhat affronted. “You have been treated exactly in accordance with the laid-down regulations.”
“So why was I arrested?” I demanded.
“We had reason to believe you were responsible for the attempted murder of the jockey, William Searle.”
“So what’s happened that now makes you so sure I’m not responsible for it?” I was purposefully making myself appear angry. It might be the only chance I would have of asking the detective for some answers, and I wanted to take advantage of his defensive position.
“I am persuaded that you could not have been present when Mr. Searle was attacked. You have an alibi.”
“How do you know?” I said. “You haven’t asked me any questions.”
“Nevertheless,” he replied, “I am satisfied that it was not possible for you to have committed the attack. So you are free to go.”
I didn’t move.
“How are you satisfied that I couldn’t have done it?” I asked with persistence.
“Because it is physically impossible for you to have been in two places at the same time. That’s what having an alibi means. ‘Alibi’ is a Latin word meaning ‘somewhere else,’ and you were somewhere else when the attempt was made on Mr. Searle’s life.”
“So where was this attack?” I asked. “And when?”
The chief inspector looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t particularly like answering questions. No doubt he was more relaxed asking them.
“Mr. Searle was deliberately knocked off his bicycle on the road outside his home in the village of Baydon in Wiltshire, at exactly five minutes past seven this morning. He is currently in a critical condition at the Great Western Hospital in Swindon.”
“And how are you so sure I was somewhere else at exactly five minutes past seven this morning?” I asked.
“Because you were at 45 Seymour Way in Hendon exactly fifty-five minutes later,” he said. “You were interviewed at that address at precisely eight o’clock by Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson of the Merseyside Police. There is no way you could have traveled the seventy-two miles from Baydon to Hendon in fifty-five minutes, and especially not at that time of the morning during the rush hour.”
“And why didn’t you work this out before I was arrested?” I was beginning to sound rather self-righteous even to my ears.
“We were simply acting on a request from the Wiltshire force,” he replied, neatly passing the blame elsewhere.
“Well, then they should have checked,” I said, trying to maintain a look of rightful indignation. “Maybe I’ll sue you for wrongful arrest.”
“I think, sir,” he said very formally, “that you will find that attempted murder is an arrestable offense, and that we had reasonable grounds for an arrest. Just because it turned out that you couldn’t have been the perpetrator doesn’t give you grounds for claiming false arrest.”
“Hmm,” I said. “So I am now free to go, just like that?”
“Yes,” he said.
“No questions? No police bail?”
“No, sir,” he replied. “Alibi is a complete defense. It doesn’t mitigate a crime, it proves innocence. So there would be no point in charging or bailing you. However, I am sure that the Wiltshire force will want to ask some questions about your argument with Mr. Searle at Cheltenham Races yesterday. No doubt they will be making an appointment in due course. You are free to go home now,” he said. He waved a hand towards the doorway as if trying to encourage me on my way.
I’d had enough of this cell and I didn’t need his encouragement to leave it.
The custody sergeant sneered at me as he returned my watch and mobile phone, my tie, belt and shoelaces, and the previous contents of my pockets. He clearly enjoyed booking prisoners in far more than letting them go.
“Sign here,” said the sergeant without any warmth, pointing at a form on the desk.
I signed.
“Thanks for the supper,” I said cheerily.
The sergeant didn’t reply.
“Which way out?” I asked, looking around at various doors, none of them with a convenient EXIT sign above it. Perhaps it was designed that way to confuse any escapees.
“That way,” said the sergeant, pointing at one of the doors. He pushed a button on his desk, and the lock on the heavy steel door buzzed. I pulled it open and walked out into the police station reception area as the door closed automatically behind me with a loud clunk.
Claudia was waiting there, sitting on an upright tubular steel chair that was bolted to the floor. She jumped up when she saw me and rushed over, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tight. She was crying.
“Oh, Nick,” she sobbed into my neck, “I’ve been so frightened.”
“Come on,” I said, hugging her back. “Let’s go home.”
We walked out into the night, hand in hand, and hailed a passing black cab.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I said to Claudia as we sat down.
“Why ever not?” she said. “I’ve been here ever since I found out where they’d taken you. It’s been bloody hours.”
“But how did you know I’d been arrested?” The police had allowed me only one call, and I’d made that to the company’s lawyer, Andrew Mellor.
“Rosemary called me,” Claudia said. “She was in floods of tears.”
“Rosemary?” I asked.
“You know,” she said. “Rosemary McDowd. She’s such a dear.”
I had worked at Lyall & Black for five years and for all that time I’d had no idea that Mrs. McDowd’s name was Rosemary. The receptionists were always referred to as Mrs. McDowd and Mrs. Johnson because that’s what they called each other. Only the other staff had first names, Mr. Patrick, Mr. Gregory, Miss Jessica, Mr. Nicholas and so on, and we were only addressed in that way because, again, that was how the Mesdames McDowd and Johnson did it.
“How did Mrs. McDowd have your number?” I asked.
“Oh, we speak quite often.”
“What about?”
Claudia didn’t reply.
“What about?” I repeated.
“You,” she said.
“What about me?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she said evasively.
“No. Come on,” I said. “Tell me. What about me?”
Claudia sighed. “I sometimes call her to find out what sort of mood you’re in when you leave the office.”
More likely, I thought suspiciously, to check that I was actually in the office or when I’d left it.
“So what did Mrs. McDowd tell you today?” I asked, purposely changing the conversation’s direction.
“Between sobs, she told me that you had been arrested by the police for attempted murder. I thought it must be to do with Herb Kovak, but she said it was about someone else.”
I nodded. “Billy Searle was attacked this morning. He was a top jump jockey, and also a client of mine.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Claudia said.
That’s what I wanted to know.
I t had been nearly eleven o’clock by the time I’d been released, and I’d asked the taxi driver to go to the newspaper kiosk on the Edgware Road where I knew they received the early editions of the daily newspapers the night before.
Claudia stayed in the cab as I went to buy copies of all they had, including the Racing Post, which arrived in a van as I was paying for the rest.
If its previous day’s front-page headline had been vague and set as a question, this one pulled none of its punches:
BILLY SEARLE ATTACKED.
FOXTON ARRESTED FOR
ATTEMPTED MURDER
And the article beneath gave no comfort to me either.
Further to our exclusive report in yesterday’s Racing Post concerning a heated argument at Cheltenham Races on Wednesday between top jump jockey Billy Searle and ex-jock turned financial wizard Nicholas (Foxy) Foxton, we can exclusively reveal that Foxton was yesterday arrested for Searle’s attempted murder.