Kitabı oku: «The Follow», sayfa 4
7
They took me to Worthing custody instead of Brighton: a small mercy as I know far fewer people on West Downs division. The woman, Andrea Brown, was driving while Barnett sat in the back with me as if I was a common criminal.
They hadn’t searched me or cuffed me, but Barnett was clearly ready for me to try something, sitting half turned towards me with his hands within striking distance just in case. For the first ten minutes or so they had tried to make light conversation, but my fear was making me snappy, so they gave up and we carried on in silence.
I’m honestly not sure that I can describe how I felt at that moment. Everything inside me felt tight, as if my body was squeezing in on itself, and I couldn’t stop shaking from the shock. I felt angry, sad, scared, betrayed and exhausted all at the same time and thoughts kept popping unwarranted into my head. Did they know about the Budds and this was just a cover to get me in and throw questions at me with no evidence, what we called a fishing trip? Had someone pointed the finger at me about the knife going walkies? Or worse still, did Davey have someone inside PSD that had authorized my arrest as a final coup de grâce? It didn’t bear thinking about, unlikely as it was.
About a hundred years later, we pulled into the long drive that led to Centenary House in Worthing, the police station and custody centre. We parked by the doors, and Barnett let me out of the child-locked door and into the custody centre. Brown followed close behind me in case I had any last-minute ideas about making a break for freedom, and I felt a chill as the heavy metal door slid closed behind me, cutting off the real world.
My usual luck held. Standing on the bridge was DC Helen Watkins, who had been on my intake when I joined. Great. Not only did she have the biggest mouth in the force but we hadn’t got on from the moment we met and our relationship at that point could have been described as antagonistic at best. One look was all she needed to work out what was happening, and I saw the corners of her mouth quirk up in a poorly suppressed smile as she turned away and left the bridge. I guessed that in less than an hour, the whole force would know what had happened to me.
The bridge is a raised platform behind which sit three sergeants, separated from the prisoners they’re booking in by three feet of fake marble cladding. The floor nonslip, dirty green and the walls painted off-white, broken up by the occasional green-framed window. All in all, it’s just like any other custody centre in Sussex, bleak and depressing.
I was ushered in front of the only free sergeant, a man in his mid-forties with brown hair and the gut that inevitably comes with long hours behind a desk. Barnett gave the circumstances of arrest to the serious-looking man behind the desk, who eyed me with undisguised sympathy.
‘Gareth, do you understand why you’ve been arrested?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘Okay, you know your rights. Do you want a solicitor or anyone told that you’re here?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, can you tell the Federation? Hopefully they’ll get me a solicitor.’
He nodded and made some notes on my custody record. The Federation are the closest thing we’re allowed to a union as police officers, for all the good it does us. Normally, they’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot, but I paid £17 a month in case of situations like that and I was determined to get my money’s worth.
Barnett spoke to me while the sergeant was busy. ‘Look, we’re pretty much ready to go; you’ll be in and out in an hour.’
I raised one eyebrow but didn’t deign to comment. It doesn’t do any good to get too friendly with PSD; they see it as a sign of guilt.
The sergeant turned back to me, a thick wodge of paper in his hand. ‘We’re putting you on a paper custody record mate,’ he told me, ‘so you won’t show up on the system if anyone looks, okay?’
I nodded, grateful that the whole force wouldn’t be able to read what was happening to me like they would on an electronic record. I was taken down to a cell and searched rather than it being done in full view of the crowd that had gathered, presumably tipped off by Helen. My belt and shoes were taken, as was everything in my pockets. I was given a blanket and a cup of coffee before the door slammed shut, cutting me off even further from the outside world and leaving me alone with nothing but my fear for company.
I hate police cells, I always have. They’re small, grey, miserable and there’s a camera high up in the corner watching your every move, even when you have a shit. I slumped on the raised platform they laughingly called a bed, feeling the cold of the fake marble through the thin plastic mattress. I drew the blanket up to my neck in a useless effort to still the trembling that still affected me.
The minutes turned into hours and stretched away in a timeless blur. There was nothing to keep me occupied except my own dark thoughts and I went through almost every sour emotion you can think of, from rage, to fear, to despair. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not that they’d arrested me for, but being nicked is one of the worst things a police officer can face. No matter how innocent or guilty you are, rumours will spring up and a reputation that can take years to build is shattered in an instant.
Not only that, but PSD actually have targets to meet. They have to arrest, suspend and charge a certain number of officers per month or explain why they haven’t. Personally I think it’s disgusting, the same as giving targets to uniformed officers. How do you quantify the three hours spent with an elderly woman who’s been burgled, waiting for her family to show up? It doesn’t tick any boxes but I think it’s just as important as chasing down criminals, if not more so.
The same goes for PSD. What if there aren’t any coppers breaking the law? Well, they just arrest them anyway on any kind of flimsy evidence, in the hope that they’ll get lucky and find something to stick you with. I knew that if they’d had any idea what I’d just done they’d be dancing with glee, and their figures would soar. To be honest, I couldn’t help but think that I deserved it. Coppers should keep the peace, not break it. I’d crossed a line and I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to cross back over and carry on being one of the good guys.
I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in sleep that refused to come. Too many things were running through my head, keeping me awake and worried. A couple of times I got so scared that I nearly threw up, but managed to stop myself before I actually started retching.
Some indefinable time later the hatch to my cell slid open and a round, bearded face appeared at the slot. I heard the keypad outside being pressed and then the door clunked open, spilling bright light in from the corridor and making me realize that at some point they had dimmed the lights in my cell.
A portly inspector in a pristine uniform waddled into the cell, a smile fighting its way through the beard. ‘Gareth? I’m Inspector Reg Turner. You’ve been here for six hours, so I have to do a review. Do you need anything?’
Six hours? I figured I must have fallen asleep at some point, as they should have offered me food before then, despite the fact that I wasn’t in the least bit hungry.
‘I could do with some water; my mouth is dry as a bone.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll get you some. I don’t know why they’re taking so long; apparently they’re searching your house with the specialist search unit, so they should have been done hours ago. Unless you live in a mansion?’
I couldn’t raise a smile at his attempt at humour, much as I wanted to. ‘No, it’s only a two-bedroom. I could search it in an hour by myself; my ex-wife took most of the furnishings. And the bitch took the cat.’
He made an ah noise, as if trying to sympathize. I didn’t want his sympathy, I wanted to go home.
‘Your solicitor has been informed of what’s happening but they’re not going to come until the morning now. My advice is to get your head down and get some rest. Do you want any food?’
I shook my head. ‘No, just some sleep and the codes to all the doors.’
He laughed politely and swung the door shut as he left. So much for solidarity; it could have been my imagination but he seemed like he couldn’t get away quickly enough. Muttering to myself, I settled down and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
8
I was woken by the sound of a custody assistant opening the hatch in my cell door and, for a moment, I thought I was dreaming. Then I remembered where I was and the fear squeezed my heart again in greeting.
‘Do you want breakfast?’ a male voice asked through the hatch.
‘Uh yeah, is it a buffet or do I pay by the plate?’
‘Funny man. You want cornflakes or all-day breakfast?’
I should have known better than to order the breakfast. When it arrived, it was a microwaved mess consisting of potato wedges and baked beans and tasting like cardboard. Still, it was hot and filling, even if it did have all the nutritional content of sandpaper.
I did the best I could to wash away the stink of sleeping in my clothes, using the tiny sink that sat just above my toilet. It wasn’t the smallest en suite I’d ever had, but it came close.
I was just sticking a wet hand down my trousers to wash away the worst of the sweat when the hatch opened. I pulled my hand out guiltily, despite the fact that I’d only been washing. Masturbation is one of the most common pastimes for people in the cells and I didn’t want to be thought of as following that particular herd.
A very tired-looking Steve Barnett looked at me through the gap, and the door opened to reveal an equally tired-looking Angela Brown standing next to him.
‘Morning, Gareth, your solicitor is here. We’ve given disclosure and now she wants to speak to you.’
I nodded and walked out into the corridor, letting them lead me to a private consultation room. Inside the room was a woman in her early forties with dark curly hair and a serious manner. She was wearing a knee-length skirt with a matching jacket and cream blouse and her manner shouted competence at me as she shooed the other officers out. That done, she stuck out a hand and introduced herself as Kerry Nielson.
I took the proffered hand, shaking it firmly. ‘So,’ I said, sitting down opposite the chair she took for herself, ‘on a scale of one to ten, how shafted am I?’
She looked down at her notes, studying them intently. I could only assume that they were from the disclosure, which is where the police tell the solicitor most of the evidence they have, while holding a little back to ‘test for truth’.
‘Well I really don’t think that they have a lot to go on; it’s pretty shaky stuff. The reason you’ve been arrested is that on record you’re the last person to have touched the knife which has now gone missing, making you the most likely person to have swapped the evidence.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, I would have had to have done that at scene, still covered in Jimmy’s blood and in front of five other officers. Don’t you think someone would have noticed?’
She looked at me across the table. ‘Yes, Gareth, I do. So do they, probably, but from what I’m picking up they need to show that they’re doing something and the first logical step was to arrest you.’
I rose and began to pace the room. ‘Okay, the first thing I want to make clear is that I didn’t tamper with the evidence. Jimmy is my friend and my partner and there’s no way I would ever do something to stop the son of a bitch that did this to him from going down.’
‘I believe you, really I do, but we have to prepare for what they’re going to ask you in interview.’
I stopped pacing to look at her. ‘All I can do is tell the truth. If that isn’t good enough I don’t know what is.’
She smiled at me reassuringly. ‘I’m sure that will be fine, but just so I don’t have any surprises I need you to go through what happened that day, okay?’
I nodded and sat down, letting her grill me for about twenty minutes about the day Jimmy was stabbed. I was impressed with her manner as her sharp mind drove me to remember details that I’d almost forgotten. Once we had been through it all a good three times, she judged us ready for interview and we left the room to see my captors waiting impatiently in the corridor.
‘Ready? Good.’ Barnett could hardly wait to open the interview room door and gesture us inside.
The room was set up with the huge tape machine against the far wall and a table by the near wall surrounded by four chairs. Barnett sat and tried to make pleasant conversation, while Brown filled out tape labels with my custody number and got their file ready.
A few minutes later, Brown had everything prepared and pressed the button on the large tape machine. It buzzed annoyingly for a few seconds, and then the tapes began rolling. Brown began speaking, her clear voice echoing in the small room.
‘It is 08.37 hours on Wednesday, the 14th of May 2008. We are in an interview room at Worthing custody centre. I am DC Angela Brown, DB429, and the other officer present is …’
Barnett chimed in, looking bored. ‘DC Steve Barnett, CB776.’
Brown took the lead back. ‘Thank you. Also present is …’
‘Kerry Nielsen, solicitor for PC Bell.’
‘Thank you. Can you tell me your full name and date of birth, please?’ This to me, who was beginning to feel slightly left out.
‘PC Gareth Bell, CB925; 7th September 1976.’
I probably shouldn’t have added my rank and warrant number, but I was still a copper and I wanted that made clear.
‘Thank you, Gareth. Do you agree that there is no one else present in the room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I’m going to caution you now. 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 may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution?’
‘I should damn well hope so,’ I blurted before remembering I was on tape.
Angela smiled at me in understanding.
‘Okay, the reason you have been arrested is that yesterday, in court, during the trial of Quentin Davey, it was shown that evidence vital to the case had been removed and replaced with something else. Namely, exhibit GB/250308/1355, a black-handled knife which had either been removed or was never placed in the tube, and instead a rubber knife was found there. The records show that you were the last person that touched the unsealed tube. What can you tell me about that?’
Just thinking about it made me angry and my carefully planned answers evaporated as my emotions took over. ‘It’s a travesty, that’s what it is! That piece of crap stabbed my mate in front of me and somehow he paid someone off to swap the evidence over. I had no idea that it had happened. Do you really think that I would stand up in court against him if I’d tampered with the evidence? And how am I supposed to have done that if there were five other officers watching me when I put the knife in the tube?’
Angela looked slightly put out by my outburst. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Gareth. So you’re saying that when you seized the knife, you put it in the tube and sealed it, is that correct?’
‘Yes, of course it is!’
‘Okay, I’m just trying to get things straight in my own head, there’s no need to get angry.’
‘No need to get angry? No need to get angry? You’ve arrested me and accused me of tampering with the evidence that would have convicted the bastard who stabbed Jimmy! How am I supposed to feel? He’s my best mate, I’ve known him for years and we’re completely loyal to each other. Not that I’d expect you worms from PSD to understand that, always looking for excuses to shop in another officer. Listen carefully, I’m not going to repeat myself. I had nothing to do with the evidence going missing. If I find out who did, I’m going to drag them in here by the hair and hand them to you. Other than that, I have nothing more to say.’
I crossed my arms and sat back. Who the hell did they think they were to imply that I’d had anything to do with something that would hurt Jimmy? I glared at my interviewers across the table, daring them to challenge me.
Angela tried to sound calming, despite the colour in her cheeks and the annoyance showing clearly in her eyes. ‘So you’re saying that you won’t answer anymore questions on this matter, is that correct?’
I just stared, knowing full well how frustrating it was as the interviewing officer to have nothing but silence on the tape.
Barnett leaned forward, taking his hand from the pepper spray it had strayed to during my outburst. ‘Come on, Gareth, we’re only trying to find out what happened. You can’t blame us for that. We’re trying to help Jimmy.’
I stared at the wall behind his head as I counted silently to ten. They tried a few more times, but I was having none of it, and at 08.43 hours they wrapped up the interview. Six minutes was probably the shortest PSD interview ever, but I didn’t feel particularly special as I was led back to the consultation room and left there with my solicitor.
When we were alone I looked at Kerry, trying to gauge her mood.
‘Uh, look, I’m sorry about that but this is bullshit and they know it. They’re just wasting time in the hopes of an easy outcome while the person that did it is laughing at us.’
She sighed and shuffled her notes. ‘We all know that but I really don’t think you helped yourself in there. You don’t respond well to pressure, do you?’
‘Actually, I do. It’s just bullshit that makes me lose my rag.’
‘I see. Well, all we can do is wait and see what happens. I can only assume that you’ll be suspended pending further investigation. With something this serious at least we can hope for a short bail date.’
I didn’t really listen to anything past the word ‘suspended’. My stomach tied itself up in knots again as I thought about the grief that Davey had wrought. Every time I thought the slimy little bastard had gone too far, he somehow managed to go still further. He couldn’t have had a better result if he’d planned it this way.
A few minutes later I was hauled in front of the custody sergeant again. This time he had a bail notice for me. I was to return to Worthing custody at 11.00 a.m. the Wednesday after next. Kerry had been right about the short date, usually bail was for a month or more while they, or should I say we, tried to put together a convincing case. Kerry said goodbye to me at the doors and after taking my mobile number she drove off, leaving me with my arresting officers.
‘You’re okay getting back to Hove I take it, mate?’ Barnett asked, his voice sweet as he turned and closed the door, shutting me outside with no hint of remorse.
Cursing under my breath, I began the long walk back to the train station, adding Barnett to the mental list I keep of people who will get their comeuppance come judgement day.
9
Two hours later I was sitting at home in my front room, enjoying the space that I hadn’t refilled since my ex-wife, Lucy, had taken all of the furniture, apart from the sofa and my widescreen TV. I flicked idly through the channels, unable to concentrate on anything in particular as I tried to ignore the frustration that was nagging at me.
They had taken my warrant card before they chucked me out of custody and I felt more than a little naked without it. It had been a constant companion for eight years, a shield that I could use to help people without being dragged through the court system myself. Some use it had turned out to be.
My phone rang for the fourth time since I’d been back and I didn’t even bother to take it out of my pocket, knowing it would be Kev Sands trying to make sure I was okay. I couldn’t face talking to him right then; I felt like I might dissolve into tears if anyone showed me the slightest sympathy.
Eventually the ringing stopped, and I got up to go into the kitchen, tripping over the worn patch in the grey carpet that I kept meaning to get around to replacing. One day. I’d intended to make a cup of tea but one look at the mess I’d left the kitchen in put me off. I’d been working so much recently that I had been literally dumping stuff on the worktops and running and it looked like a group of students had moved in. Dishes and takeaway boxes littered the worktops and the sink was piled high with dirty crockery. Just looking at it depressed me even more. I grabbed my jacket from the end of the banister and headed out, not sure where I was going but needing to get away.
I got into the car and drove on autopilot, fairly unsurprised when I ended up sitting outside my dad’s bungalow on Farm Hill in Woodingdean, where he’s lived alone since my mother died of cancer ten years ago. It’s a pleasant street, set back from the main road and dotted with a mixture of houses and bungalows that stretch up the hill towards the fields that separate the village from the A27.
I got out of the car and crunched up the gravel driveway, hearing Lily – my dad’s German shepherd – begin barking as I intruded on her territory. I walked up the side of the bungalow, past the half-finished shed that has been in that state since before I joined the job, and was greeted at the back gate by a whirling dervish of black-and-tan fur. Lily’s lips were pulled back to show her impressive teeth as she barked and snarled, but we knew each other of old and I knew that she was just showing off. As soon as I was through the gate, she turned the snarls into little yaps as she jumped up, trying to growl and lick my face at the same time.
True to form, my dad was ignoring the noise, trusting Lily to get rid of anyone who wasn’t welcome, no matter how many times I told him to listen to her just in case. I tried the back door handle and found it unlocked. Sometimes I wished that he would get burgled, just so that he’d take a little more care in future.
I kicked Lily’s football up the lawn, and she chased after it, grinding the leather with her back teeth as I walked into the kitchen. It was cleaner than mine and I set about figuring out the coffee machine as my dad finally came in from the front room to see who had invaded.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ he asked, sounding old and tired.
‘Now there’s a story. Let me make coffee and I’ll tell you about it,’ I replied, turning to look at him over my shoulder.
He looked as tired as he sounded and had dark circles under his eyes, presumably from lack of sleep. He isn’t a tall man, only five foot six if he stretches, but he’s stocky, with a belly that has always inspired me to fight my genetics, most of which I have inherited from him. His shock of white hair was sticking out in all directions, the same as it always does, and several days’ worth of snowy stubble made him look older than his sixty years.
‘If you keep growing that beard, you’ll end up looking like Papa Smurf!’ I warned him, as the coffee machine finally yielded to my ministrations and began to make the right noises. ‘You having trouble sleeping still?’
He nodded, moving to the cupboards and getting out a couple of battered but serviceable ceramic mugs. ‘Yeah, I’ve been having the nightmares again.’
‘About Mum?’ She passed away while holding his hand, lying in a hospital bed with dozens of tubes coming out of her and he hasn’t been the same man since. When she died, something indefinable but vital went out of him at the same time. Then my brother Jake, already hooked on heroin, had disappeared without a trace, and it was a wonder the man hadn’t fallen apart completely.
‘Yeah. Anyway don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. What’s your news?’
More and more, my father had begun to live vicariously through me. He still worked when he felt like it, but he had made an absolute mint in the first dotcom explosion and he probably had more money squirreled away than I would earn in ten years. He’s always wanted to be a copper though, ever since he was a lad, and I had honestly thought he would cry with joy the day I passed out of Ashford Training School.
I sighed, dreading telling him my news, not wanting to disappoint him. ‘I think you’d better sit down before I tell you this one, Dad, it’s a biggie.’
He looked at me over the top of his glasses, a warning expression on his face. ‘You can stop treating me like I’m made of glass; I can read the papers as well as the next man. Probably better, seeing as the next man is you.’
I ignored his jibe, swallowing the echo of guilt I felt from having dropped out of my English degree so many years before. Although it has never bothered Dad, I felt like I had let Mum down. She had been so proud when her little boy got into university. Suddenly the words he had used actually registered with my brain. ‘Read the papers? Oh shit!’
He passed a folded copy of The Argus over to me while he took over coffee duty. The headline read, in massive letters:
POLICE OFFICER ARRESTED IN SHOCK ATTEMPTED MURDER EVIDENCE SWITCH!
It went on to explain in the article about the court case and the fact that one of the officers ‘who couldn’t be named for legal reasons’ had been arrested and bailed pending further enquiries. All the other officers in the case were named, and the lack of mine in print was a glaring indication of who they were talking about, to me at least. So much for keeping this one quiet.
‘You could have phoned to see if I was okay,’ I accused my dad, feeling hurt.
‘I did bloody phone you, twice! If you ever looked at the damn thing then maybe you’d know I called!’ he threw back at me as he delivered a steaming mug of coffee that suddenly I didn’t fancy, my stomach heaving as I read the rest of the article.
In a nutshell, it said that the police had screwed up in a case where a police officer had been stabbed and that, because of an evidence blunder, a notorious criminal had walked free.
It’s a good job most of the local criminals can’t read much more than the health warning on a cigarette packet; there’d be an open season on police otherwise.
I walked through into the lounge and sat down on the creaky old leather sofa, looking around the room and enjoying the sense of familiarity that took some of the sting out of my situation. The room hasn’t changed for years, the leather sofa accompanied by an ancientlooking leather recliner stacked up with cushions just the way Dad likes them. Dark wooden bookshelves line every available wall and at one end stands a dining table with four chairs around it, used only at Christmas and for the occasional poker nights.
A word of warning here, never, ever, play poker with my dad if you don’t want to go home broke. I swear he has a sixth sense when it comes to cards.
At the other end of the room stands a TV that dwarfs the small table it sits on. Last year on his birthday I bought him a widescreen plasma, which I suspect still sits in its box somewhere in the loft. He doesn’t believe in getting rid of things until they wear out and even then only when they can’t be fixed anymore. The whole room smells slightly of dog and books, which is actually quite a pleasant combination if you’ve grown up with it, which I had.
My dad came into the room juggling a plate of ginger creams, a bowl of peanuts and his mug of coffee. I waited until he got comfortable before I started talking.
‘So, I assume you can guess that I got arrested last night?’
He nodded, slurping his coffee noisily.
‘Well, they think I might have had something to do with the knife being replaced. I hope that I don’t need to tell you that I had nothing to do with it?’
The look he gave me told me everything I needed to know on that front.
‘Okay,’ I continued hastily, ‘well I told them where to stick it, basically, but I’ve been suspended and bailed out until the middle of the week after next. I’m not fucking happy.’
I try not to swear in front of my dad; he doesn’t mind but old habits die hard. Up until the age of eighteen I would get a smack round the head for anything worse than ‘bloody’.
He finished the ginger cream he was eating and stared off into space thoughtfully before looking back at me. ‘Is there any way that they can link you to anything that’s happened? I assume that this Davey chap was the one who managed to get the evidence lost?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s the one who must have done it. He was laughing at me in court before it came out but I’m the last person logged to have touched the knife.’
‘What about fingerprints, wouldn’t they have dusted the rubber knife?’
I’d already thought about that and came to a conclusion about it on the walk to the train station after my interview. ‘Well, PSD didn’t mention it, so I can only assume that they checked it for prints and didn’t find any. They probably neglected to disclose that so that there was more chance of me making an admission.’
Dad shook his head angrily. ‘They really are bastards, aren’t they? What did your sergeant, Kevin isn’t it, have to say about all of this?’
I finished my coffee just in time to avoid getting it spilled as Lily streaked into the room and threw herself on my lap. ‘I think he’s on my side,’ I said, fending the dog off, ‘but he has to try and stay as neutral as possible. The only link he has to the case is that he’s our supervisor. He wasn’t there that day until after the evidence had been bagged and Jimmy was en route to the hospital, so he’s in the clear, but if shit sticks to us it’ll stick to him as well by association, if he isn’t careful.’
Lily finally got the message and went off to hunt biscuits, leaving me brushing what looked like half her coat off my lap. Dad took pity and threw her one, which disappeared in a single gulp.
