“But why would I have killed the girl? What possible reason could I have? Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because you didn’t tell us the truth. That means you had something to hide. And there’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“We found your blood under Deborah Harrison’s fingernails. What do you have to say to that?”
“Nothing,” Owen said, “I want a solicitor. Now. I’m not saying another word until I get a solicitor.”
“That’s your right,” said Banks. “But just hear me out for a moment before you do or say anything else. You’ll feel much better if you just tell us what happened. And it’ll go better for you in the long run. When you saw Deborah Harrison on the bridge, she reminded you of this Michelle, didn’t she? The girl you were upset about. Were you punishing Michelle through Deborah, Owen? Is that what all this was about? What did she do to you?”
Owen broke off eye contact. “Nothing,” he said. “This is all just speculation. It’s rubbish.”
“You followed her into the graveyard and you approached her, didn’t you?” Banks went on, resting his elbows on the desk and speaking softly. “Maybe you offered her a fiver to toss you off so you could pretend it was Michelle doing it. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. But she reacted badly. She got scared. You dragged her off the path, behind the Inchcliffe Mausoleum. It was dark and foggy and quiet there. You were going to give her what for, weren’t you? Give it to her good and proper just to show her she couldn’t do what she did to you and get away with it? All your anger burst out, didn’t it, Owen? What happened? Couldn’t you get it up? What did Michelle do to you? It was her you were strangling, wasn’t it? Why did you lie about knowing her?”
Owen put his head in his hands and groaned. Banks packed up his papers, stood and nodded to Stott, who said, “Owen Pierce, you have already been cautioned and now we’re going to put you under arrest. I’m going to ask you to come with me to the custody officer. Do you understand me, Owen?”
II
Stott had called it the “custody suite” on the way down, and the sign on the door said “Charge Room,” but to Owen it resembled nothing less than the entrance to hell. Abandon all hope…
It was a cavernous room in the basement of the old Tudor-fronted Eastvale Regional HQ, full of noise and activity. Saturday afternoon was one of the busiest times in the Eastvale custody suite. Today, in addition to the usual Saturday bouts of shoplifting, hooliganism and drunkenness, Eastvale United were playing at home to arch- rivals, Ripon, and there had already been plenty of violence both on and off the field.
The flaking paint had obviously once been an attempt at a cheerful lemon color; now it looked like a nicotine stain. Owen sat between Stott and Hatchley on a hard bench opposite elevated, joined desks, screwed to the floor, that ran the whole length of the room like a counter. Behind the desks, about six or seven uniformed police officers typed, bustled about, shouted, laughed, filled in forms and questioned people, presided over by the custody sergeant himself. The contrast between the real smell of fear and this slick, bureaucratic activity brought, for Owen, its special brand of terror, like a hospital casualty department where ripped flesh bleeds and pristine machines hiss and beep.
At the moment, a drunk with a bloody face leaned over the desk singing “Danny Boy” at the custody sergeant, who was trying to get his personal details. On the benches near Owen sat a couple of gloomy skinheads, laces missing from their bovver boots; a man who resembled nothing more than a bank clerk, perhaps an embezzler, Owen thought; and a nervous-looking young woman, smartly dressed, biting her lip. A kleptomaniac?
Another man at the desk started arguing with one of the officers about being picked on because he was black. The drunk paused in his song to look over and shout, “Bloody right, too. Ought to go back to the bloody jungle where you came from, Sambo,” then he emitted a technicolor whoosh of vomit all over the desk and sank to his knees on the floor to clutch his stomach and whimper. The sergeant swore and jumped backwards, but he wasn’t quick enough to prevent some of the vomit from spattering the front of his uniform.
“Get that bastard out of here!” he yelled. In the room’s eerie acoustics, his voice rose, echoed wildly, then fell dead.
Adrenalin pumped through Owen’s system. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and almost gagged on the stink of vomit and ammonia cleaning fluid that permeated the stale air.
An officer filled in names, numbers, charges and times with a black marker on a white board. Posters covered the walls: one gave a graphic warning about the possible consequences of driving while drunk; one informed prisoners of their rights; a third showed sign language; another advised officers to wear gloves when dealing with vomit and blood due to possible AIDS and Hepatitis B exposure.
Two officers dragged the drunk out and another started clearing up the mess with a mop, cloth and a bucket of Lysol. He was wearing plastic gloves. Blood had dripped on the pale green linoleum. Even the skinheads looked cowed by it all.
Owen kept trying to convince himself that the nightmare would end any moment and he would wake up and find himself out shopping with the rest of the Saturday crowd. Perhaps he would go to HMV in the Swainsdale Center and buy the new Van Morrison CD. Then, maybe a pint or two and a nice dinner out, Chinese or Indian, just to celebrate. Alone, the way he liked it best.
Or perhaps the policemen would rip off their uniforms to reveal clowns’ costumes underneath, and Stott would break into a song and dance number, like characters out of a Dennis Potter play.
As soon as the custody sergeant was free, Stott went over and had a brief word, then gestured for Owen to approach the desk. Stott disappeared through the far door.
“Empty your pockets, please, sunshine,” said the sergeant, after taking Owen’s personal details.
Owen emptied his pockets onto the desk. There wasn’t much in them: keys, wallet, three pounds sixty-eight pee in change, check book, bank machine and credit cards, a few crumpled shopping lists and old bus tickets that had been through the washer and dryer a couple of times, his gold Cross fountain-pen, the small Lett’s appointment diary-cum-address book with the pencil tucked down the spine, three pieces of Dentyne chewing-gum and a few balls of fluff.
The sergeant flipped through Owen’s diary. It was empty apart from a few addresses. Next he looked through Owen’s wallet. “Nothing much there,” he said, placing it in the plastic bag with the other items. He held the pen between thumb and forefinger and said, “Gold-looking fountain-pen.”
“It is gold,” Owen said. “It’s not just gold-looking.”
“Well we’re not going to get a bloody appraiser in, mate, are we?” the sergeant said. “Gold-looking.” He dropped it in the bag.
Before they sealed the bag, a constable patted Owen down to see if he had anything else hidden.
“Shall we have a look up his arse, sir?” he asked the custody sergeant when he had finished.
The sergeant looked at Owen, then back at the constable, as if he were seriously considering the proposition. “Nah,” he said. “I never did like rectal searches, myself. Messy business. Never know what you might find. Take him to the studio.”
Jesus Christ, thought Owen, they’re enjoying this! They don’t need to be rude, violent and brutal; they get their kicks better this way, the vicious tease, the cruel joke. They had already judged and condemned him. In their minds, he was guilty, and the rest would be mere formality. And if they believed it, wouldn’t everyone else?
When they put him jail, he thought with a stab of fear, it would be even worse. He had heard about the things that went on, how people like the Yorkshire Ripper and Dennis Nilsen had to be kept in solitary for their own good, how Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered in prison and Frederick West had hanged himself.
Solitary confinement would probably be better than a poke up the bum from a three-hundred-pound Hell’s Angel with tattoos on his cock, Owen thought. But could he stand the loneliness, the feeling of being hopelessly cut off from everything he held dear, abandoned by the whole civilized world? He liked the solitary life, but that was his choice. Could he stand it when it was imposed on him?
The constable led him into another room for fingerprinting and mug shots taken by a mounted camera. The “studio.” Another cruel joke.
“Now then, mate,” the constable said, “let’s have your belt and shoelaces.”
“What? Why on earth-”
“Regulations. So’s you don’t top yourself, see.”
