‘Inspector Priest,’ Mingeles began, ‘my client has already spoken at length to DCI Makinson and Superintendent Isles. I really do not know what we can learn from more of these pointless conversations. Until my client is charged I am advising him not to answer any more questions. He will, of course, vigorously deny any charges made against him.’
‘Mr Watts is still under caution,’ I reminded them. ‘As it says, it may harm his defence if he does not mention, when asked, something which he intends to rely on in court. I’ve looked at the transcripts of the previous interviews and I’d hardly describe them as speaking at length, Mr Mingeles. Being downright evasive is more like it.’
‘Very well, go ahead’ he said, with a dismissive wave. Some would blame his assumed superiority and oily confidence on the claret he’d consumed with his lunch, but I knew he was always like this.
I turned to Watts. ‘Where were you at ten thirty, last Thursday night?’ I asked.
‘Mr Priest,’ Mingeles interrupted. ‘My client has already explained his whereabouts to your superior officers. Is it really necessary to go through all this again?’
‘We have senior officers, Mr Mingeles, not superiors. And while we’re on the subject of titles, by your client, I assume you mean Mr Watts. Don’t you think it more polite to address him by his name?’ This was becoming another hobby-horse.
Mingeles blinked, but came straight back. ‘I am touched by your concern for our relationship, Mr Priest, but that is something between us and nothing to do with you or your investigation. Could we stick to the business that brings us here?’
‘So where were you?’ I asked Watts again.
His big hooded eyes glared at me and gave a perfunctory flick towards his mouthpiece. Why not? He was paying him enough.
‘My client was at a private drinking club, as stated earlier, on more than one occasion,’ Mingeles said.
‘An illegal club?’ I wondered.
‘Awaiting a licence, yes.’
Like I’m waiting for a call from Steven Spielberg. ‘And where is this club?’
‘In Heckley.’
‘The address?’
Mingeles sighed. ‘Mr Priest. This information is on record, with me. It can be furnished to you if and when my client is charged. Until that time he prefers not to disclose the whereabouts of the club or the names of the witnesses who can vouch for his presence there.’
I said, ‘That’s bullshit, Mingeles, and you know it.’ The big PC standing at the door to make sure we didn’t attack each other shuffled his feet.
‘That is the position,’ the lawyer stated, with admirable restraint.
‘OK.’ I wanted Watts to speak, say anything, just to get his jaw working. Who knows? Once he started, he might not be able to stop. I rocked my chair back on two legs and asked him, ‘Do you remember me, Michael?’
The big eyes flicked from me to Mingeles, who extended his fingers in a gesture that told him to go ahead and answer. ‘Yeah, I met you. You fuckin’ Crazy Horse,’ he said.
Mingeles looked puzzled, wondering if I was having sex with the spirit of the Sioux chief. I smiled at the memory of the rhubarb run.
‘How much did that little venture cost you?’ I asked.
‘Don’t answer that,’ Mingeles insisted, placing a hand on his client’s arm.
‘So what is the street price of heroin?’
‘No comment,’ Mingeles snapped.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s try you with another one. How much is an ounce of gold, on the black market, these days?’
Mingeles jumped in again with ‘My client has no comment to make.’
I turned to the tape and said, ‘Accused opened his mouth to speak but solicitor intervened.’
‘This is disgraceful!’ Mingeles blurted out. ‘You are putting implications on this that are entirely fictitious. I demand that you withdraw the comment or it be stricken from the tape.’
I said, ‘No, Mr Mingeles. You jumped in because you assumed that your client might know the answer. I was merely underlining this.’
He turned to Michael and advised him not to reply again until they’d conferred.
‘What’s your date of birth?’ I asked.
Mingeles nodded with a sigh of resignation.
‘Third September, nineteen sixty-six.’
‘And your shoe size?’
‘We are not here to play games,’ Mingeles complained.
‘We found a footprint. What’s your shoe size?’
Nod of approval, followed by ‘Eight and a half.’
We hadn’t found a print, but I could play silly buggers just as good as them. I said, ‘So tell me how your fingerprints came to be on your father’s telephone?’
The tame brief chipped in again with the usual complaint that this had already been explored, mulled over, analysed and generally put to bed with Makinson and Isles. ‘I’d like to hear it for myself,’ I said.
Watts received the go-ahead. ‘I borrow it, and lose it somewhere. That’s all.’
‘Do you often borrow your father’s portable telephone?’
He looked sideways, and when the nod came said, ‘Yeah, all the time.’
‘Doesn’t your father mind about the bill?’
This time the glances were more urgent. ‘No…’ he began, cutting it off as a friendly hand fell on his arm.
‘Is your mobile the same type as your father’s?’
Mingeles nodded at him, he nodded at me.
‘For the tape, please.’
‘Yes,’ Mingeles chipped in. ‘My client has confirmed that his mobile phone is the same type as his father’s.’
‘Exactly the same?’ I insisted.
‘Yeah,’ Watts said.
‘A Sony?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Thanks. So where did you lose it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you remember where you went between the last time you used it, which was at three forty-seven on the Thursday in question, and noticing it was missing?’
‘My client told Mr Makinson that he believes he lost it somewhere in Heckley town centre,’ Mingeles informed me.
‘I’d like to hear it from him.’
Mingeles nodded. ‘That’s right,’ Watts confirmed. ‘I lost it somewhere in town centre.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
There was a long silence, until Mingeles said, ‘Fortunately, Mr Priest, what you believe is not important. Unless you have evidence to the contrary, my client’s word will be accepted by any court in the land. Now, if there are no further questions, I suggest we terminate this interview.’
‘Where did you lose the phone?’ I asked again.
‘My client has already answered that satisfactorily.’
‘I want to hear it from him.’
‘I fuckin’ tol’ you. In town centre.’
‘How well did you know Lisa Davis?’
He’d rehearsed that one. ‘Never heard of her,’ he replied.
‘So why was her number in your Filofax?’
Mingeles said, ‘Ms Davis’s agency is in the Yellow Pages. My client extracted the number for future use, in the event of his father needing any clerical assistance.’
‘And, of course,’ I declared, ‘she just happens to employ several very attractive young ladies. Some might say
