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.
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
