But he is sure about the look on Sargent’s face when he turned around to see them standing in the Crown and asking him to come into the station for a chat. He’d been taken completely by surprise. Probably never thought the police would have the balls to step through into the pub, which was a shit hole if McNally ever saw one. Why it was rumoured to be the headquarters for the Jacks’ underground trade was unknown. Surely they’d be rolling in it if all their criminal activity was anything to go by?
But where that money was tied up wasn’t their problem this evening. Sargent had bluntly asked for a solicitor before even being escorted into the car, never mind the station. Stephen Beattie, another arrogant man, rocked up an hour later like he owned the place and demanded for some time alone with his client before they began questioning. Overly smug for someone who didn’t know Sargent personally and has been given to him free from the government. Now, here he sits. His purple tie, with a stain that they hope is tomato soup, pulled out from his collar slightly. Signs of a difficult conversation. He folds his arms as the interview begins.
“Now, Mr Sargent,” McNally sits back after the formalities are out of the way, “we would like to know where you were on the night of June 18th 2016?”
“No comment,” Sargent smirks.
“You aren’t going to tell us?”
“No comment.”
“Because we have reason to believe that you might’ve been mixed up in something that may interest us. What have you got to say to that?”
“No comment.”
“Do you spend a lot of your time in the Crown?” McNally attempts to try a different tactic.
“No comment.”
“Funny how many of the people who drink at the Crown seem to always end up in criminal activity, isn’t it?”
“No… No comment,” Sargent narrows his eyes at him.
Looks like they’re starting to get somewhere. Of course, they’d checked his file. And, surprisingly, he was squeaky clean. It definitely didn’t suit his attitude. Which only means one thing. He’s good.
“But not you, huh?”
“No comment,” Sargent yawns.
“So, anyway, back to the 18th June 2016.”
He continues to look at them with a bored expression on his face.
“No ‘no comment?’”
“You didn’t ask me anything.”
“He speaks! Let’s try to keep this up, shall we?”
“No comment.”
McNally grips the pen in his hand tighter, before looking over towards Ferguson, who coughs and sits forward, eager to takeover.
“We have reason to believe that on the night of June 18th 2016, the night Everyone Unite Party leader Aaron Parker went missing, that you had something to do with it.”
Sargent rolls his eyes and leans back further in his chair, sucking his teeth now.
“We’ve heard from a source that you were one of the guys in the car who snatched him from the Waterfoot Hotel. Is this true?”
“No comment.”
“Where did you take him?”
“No comment.”
“And why?”
“No comment.”
“How did his body end up behind his garage?”
“No comment.”
“Why Parker? What did he do?”
“No comment.”
McNally, cracking up, slams a closed fist down on the table, even making Ferguson jump.
“Just answer the damn questions, Victor!”
“Now, Detective Inspector McNally, that is extremely unprofessional…”
As Beattie goes into a rant about how he’s being physically violent and aggressive towards his client, Sargent just chuckles away. He rests his hands behind his head and continues to smile whilst swinging on his chair.
“Why am I even being questioned? Yous have nothing on me. Why am I here? I’m not under arrest. You should be talking to big Taylor… Not me,” he beams, showing yellow stained teeth.
McNally takes a deep breath to get ready to bring this little shit down a peg or two… But then he realises… Joining his smile, he also starts swinging on his chair, almost miming Sargent’s every move.
“Billy Taylor? The leader of the Ulster Jacks Party? … Well, who said anything about him?”
Sargent’s face drops. He sits forward, all four legs of the chair now safely on the floor.
“Billy Taylor? I… I never said anything about Billy Taylor. What are you lads talking about?” he forces a laugh, which is cut short as he stares at McNally.
“May I remind you, Mr Sargent, that this interview is being recorded…” Ferguson cocks his head to the side.
Sargent is sheet white. He splutters a few times, before diving his head towards his solicitor. Ferguson and McNally almost jolt up, thinking it was an attack and a chance to escape. But it was only to confer. After a few seconds of hushed tones, Beattie nodding and staring at them the whole time whilst Sargent’s mouth is pressed against his ear, he clears his throat.
“My client and I would like some more time alone to discuss things.”
****
I should just go in. Come clean. Clear my conscience. But I can’t. My feet won’t let me. It’s like they’re cemented to the ground. My heart beats frantically within my chest and my brain screams at me to just go in and do it. It’ll only take a few seconds. Sure, more is to follow, but if I’m compliant then they’ll go easy on me. Lesser sentence. Lighter punishment. Who knows? But my body just won’t respond, like it’s having a battle against my brain and my heart, and my muscles are winning. Standing tall and clinging on.
I’m standing outside the Strand Bingo Hall. Gazing across the road at the police station. The high walls with the higher fences built on top. The metal gates shut to everyone except police cars, none of which have entered or left the premises since I’ve been standing here. Where do I even enter? I suppose that’s a stupid question. The station is built to keep people out. People who see police as scum. Not let people in. The station has had its fair share of terrorist attacks. This street blown to pieces; shop windows smashed from the impact. The walls impenetrable, not unlike the city
