Bright Spark (21 page)
“Quiz
night,” explained Barry, knocking back his whisky and moving up the bar. “A few
regulars here by the looks of it. Might have a few more witnesses for you, but
only if you’re good on sport and the pre-Raphaelites.”
Harkness
was denied the existential rapture due him when he finally heard the sound of
one hand clapping. The one flailing hand was his and for two hours and three
interview tapes it found no counterpoint to strike against.
In
the hour Snelling had filled taking instructions from Firth, Harkness had
gulped his way through a pint of syrupy coffee and plotted out an interview
plan so lengthy, artful and intricate it could have been a symphonic score.
Open
questions that couldn’t be taken as leading or judgemental would form the
opening salvo. The suspect, according to best practice and bitter experience,
should be encouraged to speak expansively with minimal guidance or
interruption, rather than having words crammed into his mouth.
Not
only was this intended to prevent ham-fisted cops missing facts because their
specific questions weren’t specific enough, or their leading questions led only
up the garden path, it also ensured that suspects spun out enough rope to hang
themselves, whether they admitted or denied the deed. It took intelligence,
alertness and an amazing memory to lie consistently under pressure, as Harkness
knew from his home life.
Once
the suspect had given as complete an account as they were ever likely to, their
words would be pored over in detail, with every inconsistency teased out and
explanations demanded. Some challenges had to be devised on the wing, but
Harkness still plotted out Firth’s likely bolt-holes, seeing starkly how
brittle and circumstantial his case was.
Appearing
near the scene twelve hours after the event and happening to have bitter
history with a much-hated man just as capable of destruction simply didn’t seal
his fate, much as Harkness wanted it to. Even the alleged encounter in the pub
didn’t clinch it. Coincidence wasn’t an offence and it was far from clear he’d
done anything other than get threatened and run away.
In
a murder interview, this should be an intricate process, an interview by
committee. Every new interview tape would afford a chance to debrief, alter
timelines, rephrase questions, analyse answers and tighten the noose. It should
occupy three, four or more officers for at least a day. Instead, Harkness had a
spare pen, Biddle and a tepid pep talk from the DI.
Biddle
had at least volunteered to take Firth’s prints, DNA and fingernail cuttings,
and to make sure his belongings were sent to the lab for trace analysis. It
gave him plenty of time for a smoke.
Just
short of forty minutes into the interview, with an automated voice from the
twin tape-recorder warning of the first tape’s imminent end, Harkness barked
out his hundredth question and received a weary, “no comment” in reply. It
would, he reflected, have been a dynamic and clinching interview if only the
suspect had participated in it.
Taking
aside the spoken word, everyone in the room had said a great deal, if only the
interview transcript could have described every gesture and involuntary tell.
Harkness had been assigned the most cramped interview room, so that he and
Firth, Snelling and Biddle were fixed a few feet apart by crude benches and a
scratched slab of a table, both fixed to the wall. Predictably, the air
conditioning in the rooms had failed completely, leaving them all poached by
heat and hostility.
Snelling
had opened the scoring by cutting across Harkness’s painstakingly formulated
opening question with objections to a variety of issues, not least of which was
the police’s “riding roughshod over his client’s inalienable rights.” He’d then
produced a written statement on which his client would entirely rely and beyond
which his client would not be commenting.
After
scanning the statement briefly and finding the expected bare denial, Harkness
dropped it into an evidence bag and pointedly ignored it, resigning himself to
a solo performance. At their last meeting, Firth had been so eager to spar with
him that he’d ignored his solicitor and showed too much of his damaged soul.
This time, he’d devoted himself to reading the graffiti etched into the table
while repeating ‘no comment’ at metronomic intervals, sometimes between and
sometimes during questions.
“Nigel,
tell me everything you’ve done in the last 36 hours. Be as open as possible – I
need to know where you’ve been, what you’ve done and who you’ve spoken to or
kept company with. Take your time.”
“No
comment.”
“Where
were you yesterday evening?”
“No
comment.”
The
basics outlined and ignored, the fishing trip had embarked.
“Nigel,
this isn’t television. There’s no two-way screen. No drugs in your coffee. No
cheap psychological tricks. No leading questions. Your solicitor thinks we’ve
got our facts…..
“No….
“….wrong.
Maybe you….”
“…..comment.”
“….do
too. Tell us the truth.”
“If
we’re wrong about you, we’re wasting time when we could be out looking for a
murderer. Do you want that kind of responsibility?”
“No
comment.”
“We
know he knocked you about in prison. Maybe nobody listened at the time but now
you have the floor.”
“No
comment.”
“Did
you set that house fire to get back at Dale Murphy?”
“No
comment.”
“We
know you did it. In time, you’ll go down for it. Maybe you didn’t know it would
spread. Didn’t think anybody would be trapped. Didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“No
comment.”
“You
will NEVER have the chance to use that excuse after today. Miss that chance,
the world will know you for a murderer and a liar.”
“No
comment.” No comment and no glimmer of a response. No dilating pupils. No rush
of blood to the cheeks or away from the knuckles. No smirking or scowling.
Firth had walled himself in beautifully.
And
so it had gone, less an interview than a schizophrenic monologue. Perhaps he
should have continued, asked the same questions again and again, jumbling the
words for his own entertainment, seeing how much brow-beating and pressurised
boredom Firth could take.
If
he had continued, he knew it would have been for his own benefit for he had an
urgent need to understand Firth, to see where the springs uncoiled and the cogs
bit in that complex head of his. To see what it took to carry that much damage
and guilt and wretchedness with so much smirking serenity.
“You
know all about the caution, don’t you Nigel. Mr Snelling will have no doubt
briefed you on its limitations. Well you and I both know the law. You go mute
now then lay it on thick at court, with your bad character for arson,
everything you try to do to defend yourself will be tainted and those nice
local men and women who don’t want to be burned alive and don’t like your sort
will convict before you open your mouth. Think about it.”
Firth
mimed drawing a zip closed across his mouth and almost smiled.
“For
the benefit of the tape,” Harkness concluded wearily, “Mr Firth has indicated
he would rather not be unzipped at this time. Interview concludes at 2130
hours.”
The
sound of one hand clapping was the clockwork whirring of a tape machine, the
apnoeic snorting of a fat, drowsy cop, the skittering of a lawyer’s pen as it
tore a furious and righteous screed across its page, and the echo of fatuous
words.
The
four of them queued again for the custody desk, the murder suspect once again
denied his perch at the top of the tree. One sergeant was bickering with a very
white and very British drunk who demanded to be classified as ‘non-white
miscellaneous’. The other examined every one of two dozen credit cards found in
a middle-aged shoplifter’s purse while she dabbed at her tear-streaked mascara
like a heart-broken clown.
They
waited back to back, eyes outwards like Spartans, three of them using their
mobile phone as weapons of distraction while Firth studied the custody board
with rapt interest.
‘Bell
me,’ Slowey had texted. There was nothing from Hayley. Harkness followed
Firth’s gaze and wondered if the current pulsing at his temple arced directly
from the LED’s spelling out ‘Braxton K’.
“Sergeant
Biddle, take over please,” announced Harkness as he bypassed the queue, keyed
in the code which he happened to know was Dawson’s year of birth and let
himself into the custody office.
“You
done already?” mumbled Dawson from where he reclined on an executive chair,
feet on a desk, tipping pickled onion crisps into his upturned mouth. “I was
going to finish my refs on time for you but you’ve beaten me to it.”
“Gone
as far as it can. For now. About this Braxton kid.”
“What
about him?”
“Who’s
interviewing him?”
“No
clue. He was pissed up and off his tits on something pharmaceutical. Bedded
down ‘til morning then volume crime will deal.”
“Do
me a favour, would you? Leave a note on his record asking whoever gets him to
ring me first.” Harkness turned to leave then hesitated. “Oh, and leave
yourself another note if you want a quiet night in here. Don’t let him mix with
Firth. Might disturb your sleep.”
“You
off somewhere?”
“Things
to do. I’m a sergeant now. Biddle will take care of the admin.”
“Isn’t
he a sergeant an’ all?”
“Last
time I looked. But he’s not as quick on his feet as me.”
The strip lighting jabbed at his eyes
and seemed to broil the air. The skin on his face and hands still glowed, taut
with heat, and he ached for a cold shower with its necessary and purging pain.
Turning a corner into incomplete darkness felt like some kind of reprieve,
dusty shadows blotting the sodium glare from outside.
A low
murmur of conversation and a thin line of light spilled from a closed door. The
air had thickened with odours of wet earth, stale urine and the sharp,
high-octane tang of rough liquor. Harkness swung open the door.
“And
this,” said Slowey with the breezy enunciation he reserved for children and the
mentally ill, “is the gentleman I told you about earlier, Mickey. The one who
would love to talk to you about anything you’ve got on your mind. Isn’t that
right, Rob?”
“Erm,
yes, Ken, that’s right.” Harkness, managing not to look taken aback by the
hulking presence wedged into the corner opposite Slowey. “I’m just here to
listen. By the way, I’m Rob.”
“Mickey
was just telling me about a nasty thing that happened last night.” Slowey’s
level tone belied the intensity of his eyes as he willed Harkness to
understand. “So nasty he had to leave his base camp and sleep in a bus
shelter.”
Mickey
nodded, pursing his chapped and whiskered mouth and humming faintly with the
unaccustomed satisfaction of being taken seriously. His matted hair seemed to
have been plastered to his skull in a special effort to look tidy. Blackened
plasters held his scuffed spectacles together and little of his rotund frame
could be seen under his head to toe combat gear, complete with webbing which
bulged with unknowable essentials.
“Well
first of all Mickey, I’d like to say a big ‘thanks’ for coming here and helping
us out like this.”
“’s
awreet.”
“Can
we get you anything to eat or drink?”
“’ready
‘ad c’fee an’ choc’lit.”
“You
know Mickey, don’t you Rob?” prompted Slowey.
“Course
I do, Ken. Keep that bridge safe for us all, don’t you? Against enemy attack.”
“Keepin’
tabs. Eyes on. Owt could happen. Major trunk road. My home too. Gotta be done.
Duty callin’. Could be Ivan. Could be provos. Could be ragheads. See me, first
line of defence ain’t it.”
“How
long’s it been now, Mickey? Five years? Speak up loud and clear now.”
“Six.
Since invalidated out o’ special forces. My vigil. Hot. Cold. Dry. Wet. Keeping
stag. That’s what. My job, ain’t it.”
“Did
we wake you up last night, Mickey?”
“Drunks.
Fuggin’ typical.”
“Well,
just a bit of food poisoning I’m afraid, but I’m sorry to have disturbed your
sleep. And you still bivvy down under the eastern end of the Burton Road bridge over the A46? Just to be sure, Mickey, you know what us police are like.”
Harkness
glanced left to find Slowey dutifully taking notes. Mickey grunted his assent.
“So
tell me all about it.”
“Sleepin’.
Bivvied down. Shoutin’ woke us up. Parapet up above. Worse than traffic. Used
to traffic. Not used to shoutin’ fuggin’ drunks. Shoutin’ ‘bout killin’ and
maimin’ and life bein’ shit. I looks out, looks up. Dark but shape o’ bloke in
streetlight. Made me angry. Thought under attack. Combat stress, ain’t it.”