'Yeah,' he grinned.
'Sorry. Go on.'
'We got in and snogged a bit. I had to slow her down. She wanted it, there and then, no messing. I soaped her, all over, then got her to do it to me.'
'And then?'
'And then we did it. She wouldn't wait any longer. She was desperate for it, I'm not kidding.'
'Standing up in the shower?'
'Yeah.'
'Isn't that dangerous? I'd have thought you'd fall over.'
'Nah, course not. You lean on the wall, don't you.'
'What, both of you?'
'Christ, 'aven't you ever 'ad it against a wall? She leans on the wall wiv 'er legs open and you do it to her; it's no different.'
'A good old knee trembler!' I declared.
'Yeah, a knee trembler. In the shower. You got it.'
I pursed my lips and thought about things. After a moment I said:
'Let's get this clear. I've led a sheltered life and it's all new to me. You're standing in the shower, both of you, covered in soap. You take her by the shoulders and gently lean her on the wall and… hey presto, you're away. Is that it?'
'Yeah, more or less.'
'Didn't she protest?'
'Protest!' he echoed. 'What about? She was begging for it. I leaned her on the wall and she couldn't wait for it inside her. She didn't do no protesting.'
I worried about the double negative, but decided his meaning was clear.
'None at all?' I asked.
'None,' he assured us, adding, 'She was desperate for it.'
'Did it take long?' I wondered.
'No,' he admitted, grinning modestly. 'We was boaf a bit too eager.'
'So was she disappointed?'
'Nah, not a bit. But I like to give satisfaction, if you know what I mean. Well, we all do, don't we? We got dried and I took her in the bedroom and we did it again, on the bed. This time I waited for her.
She lapped it up, I'm telling you.'
'Sounds fun,' I said, nodding appreciatively. I turned to Sparky, who'd pushed his chair back from the table. 'What do you think?'
He leaned forward. 'A fair f- f- f-, a fairer very fair, I'd say,' he replied.
I allowed myself a little laugh. 'Have you ever had it in the shower?'
I asked him.
'No,' he replied. 'I'm strictly under the blankets, with the lights off.'
'Do you talk to your wife while you're doing it?'
'It'd be difficult. We have separate bedrooms.'
This time Darryl joined in with my laugh, and even Mr. Turner allowed himself a little smile.
'Well,' I said, 'I reckon that just about concludes it. We'll let you have a copy of the tape and video, Mr. Turner, and a transcript. Can you think of anything else, Dave?'
'The tattoo,' he replied. 'Don't forget the tattoo.'
'God, the tattoo!' I exclaimed, bashing a palm against my head. 'It'd completely slipped my mind.' I opened my notebook and thumbed the pages, first in one direction, then the other. 'Here we are,' I said, flattening the pages. 'Do you, Darryl, have a large tattoo on your back?'
Turner looked at him and raised a hand before Darryl could answer. 'I think I'd like to consult my client in private,' he said.
I nodded my approval, 'No problem,' and slid my chair back.
'I ain't got no fuckin' tattoo,' Darryl blurted out. 'Tattoos is for fuckin' weirdos.'
'Maybe we should have a talk,' Turner said.
'It's OK, Mr. Turner,' Darryl assured him. 'I ain't got no tattoos.'
I turned to Turner. 'Nasty case,' I said, grimacing. 'Another rape.
We have to ask, I'm sure you understand. The chap who did it the woman said he had this big tattoo on his back. Apparently she had mirrors on her ceiling, and he didn't realise.' I consulted my notebook.
'According to her, it was a mural of someone called… Bart Simpson, riding a Harley Davidson motorbike. Does that mean anything to you, Darryl?'
'Bart fuckin' Simpson,' he scoffed. 'Get real.'
'Should I know who he is?'
'He's a cartoon character, Boss,' Sparky informed us.
'Right. And you don't have a likeness of him reproduced anywhere on your torso, Darryl?'
'No.'
'Fair enough, but to eliminate you from enquiries I have to confirm it.
Unfortunately your word is not enough. With Mr. Turner's approval, would you be good enough to remove your shirt?'
Turner shrugged, Darryl stood up and slipped his jacket off. He unfastened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, determined to prove his innocence of this one. His stumpy fingers had problems with his cuffs, but in a few moments the shirt was draped over the back of his chair. He turned round and flexed his muscles.
'Let's have you on film,' I said, looking at Martin. Darryl held the pose as Martin checked the viewfinder. He nodded at me and I said:
'That's fine, thank you.'
Darryl relaxed and turned back to us, rotating his shoulders as he reached for his shirt, obviously pleased with his performance. He was well built, but turning to fat. His shoulders were overdeveloped and the muscles on his neck could have buttressed a small cathedral. His shape reminded me of one or two Olympic athletes who fell foul of the drug testing procedures.
'Just a moment, please,' I said as he lifted his shirt from the chair.
He paused as I got to my feet and let the shirt fall from his fingers.
I approached him, flapping my hands like a novice curate addressing his flock.
'This… sex in the shower thing,' I said. 'I'm still a bit baffled as to how you did it.' I stepped past him and gestured to the wall of the cell we were using. 'Just… stand here a moment, please, if you don't mind.' He moved to where I'd indicated, looking uneasy. Turner's chair scraped on the floor but he made no objection.
I moved forward until I was standing almost toe-to-toe with Buxton.
'Let's just say,' I suggested, 'that you are her and I'm you.' He looked wary, his cockiness rapidly evaporating, but didn't protest. I raised my hands and held them palms towards him, but not quite touching. Touching is deemed an assault. 'Now… you said… that you leaned her back against the wall…' I shuffled forward until I could smell last night's beer on his breath and see the wrinkles of skin through the stubble on top of his head. I inched my palms towards him and he leaned backwards against the ancient glazed tiles of the Bridewell.
'Whaa!' he exclaimed, jerking upright.
'What's the matter?'
'It's fucking freezing!'
'Just lean back again,' I insisted.
He tried again, flinched and stepped forward.
'OK,' I told him. 'That'll be enough. It looks as if I'll never know how to do it against a wall.' I passed him his shirt and sat down. We watched him refasten the buttons and stuff the flaps into his trousers.
When he was back in his seat I said: 'You're a big lad. You obviously work out.'
'Yeah,' he agreed. 'Now and again.'
'At a gym?'
'Yeah.'
