Dick Francis's Refusal (17 page)

“Mr. Halley,” said the plainclothes man standing in front of me, “I am Detective Sergeant Fleet, and I am arresting you on suspicion of the abuse of a child in contravention of the Sexual Offences Act of 2003. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

I said nothing but allowed myself to be escorted out of the railway station and into a waiting police car.

•   •   •

T
HEY TOOK ME
not to Banbury but to Oxford police station, where I was checked into custody by a burly sergeant in a white shirt who made it very clear from the start that he didn't like “kiddie fiddlers,” as he called them.

I had to empty my pockets and hand over my cell phone, my wallet and my belt, which were carefully placed each in its own see-through plastic bag that was then sealed with a signed label. Next someone took my photograph, head-on and in profile, and then a DNA sample was scraped, none too gently, from the inside of my cheek.

There was a moment of amusement, at least on my part, when one of the custody staff tried to take the fingerprints of my left hand. No one had asked me if I had a prosthesis, so I hadn't told them, especially as their brief pat-down search hadn't discovered it.

Not that the custody sergeant was laughing.

“Take it off,” he ordered brusquely.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I say so.”

I could tell that arguing with him was not going to make any difference, so I carefully extricated my left forearm from its tightly gripping fiberglass sleeve and handed the hand to him, palm uppermost. He looked at it in disgust and then placed it in another of his plastic bags.

“I'd like to see my solicitor,” I said.

“All in good time,” the sergeant replied unpleasantly.

“And I'd like to speak with Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson.”

“He'll no doubt speak to you when he's ready,” replied the sergeant, making a note of what I'd said. He turned to his staff. “Take this scum to cell five.”

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “Don't I get to make a phone call?”

“All in good time,” he repeated. “Cell five.”

Two of the custody staff frog-marched me through a metal gate and down a cream-painted corridor to cell number 5, where I was unceremoniously thrust through the entrance. The door was immediately clanged shut behind me.

I suppose I couldn't blame them.

I don't like pedophiles either, and, whatever the law may say to the contrary, in the eyes of the police all people arrested are guilty until proven innocent, and, even then, they'd still have their doubts, especially if those arrested are suspected child abusers.

I sat down on the concrete bed with its thin blue-plastic-covered mattress and pondered how things could change in my life so rapidly. Within two hours I had gone from a state of great anticipation and excitement to one of utter despair and hopelessness.

I could tell that sorting out this mess would take a lot more than a brief word with D.C.I. Watkinson and a laugh at the gullibility of social services. It was probably going to require court appearances, together with the associated, unwelcome press coverage.

And how long was I going to be cooped up in this damn cell?

I reckoned there wouldn't be much chance of me getting from here to the Queen Mary's operating room in the next six hours if a suitable donor hand became available.

Good job, it wasn't raining.

I
was allowed to make my one phone call about two hours later, after repeated requests. I knew my rights, I told them, and I was entitled to let someone know where I was.

I called Charles from the custody sergeant's desk, using his phone.

“Where are you?” Charles asked.

“Oxford police station,” I said. “Did you speak to your QC friend?”

“Yes. He's arranged for a solicitor, but she's currently looking for you at Banbury.”

“Good. Ask her to come to Oxford. And, Charles, please call Marina and tell her where I am and that I'm fine.”

“That's enough,” said the custody sergeant, taking his phone from my hand. “Take him back to his cell.”

“I need to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson,” I said.

“All in good time,” the sergeant said once more. “Back to his cell.”

The frog-march procedure was repeated.

“When will I be interviewed?” I asked one of my manhandlers.

“All in good time,” he also replied.

It must be policespeak for
Not yet
.

•   •   •

I
WAS INTERVIEWED
by a detective superintendent at nine o'clock in the evening, four and a half hours after I'd been arrested and an hour after the arrival in Oxford of Maggie Jennings, the solicitor arranged by Charles's QC friend, not that I'd been allowed to meet with her until five minutes before the interview.

“I'm sorry for the delay, Mr. Halley,” said the superintendent, not sounding it. “We have been conducting a search of your premises.”

“There is nothing to find,” I said.

“I would like to have a private conversation with my client,” Maggie Jennings interjected loudly.

“Interview suspended at”—the superintendent looked at the clock on the wall—“twenty-one-oh-two.” He switched off the recording machine and left the room, followed by his sidekick, leaving Maggie Jennings and me alone. I wondered if the room was bugged but decided against asking.

“Mr. Halley, I thought I told you not to say anything other than ‘No comment' to direct questions.” Maggie Jennings was quite angry with me.

“Sid,” I said to her. “Please, call me Sid. And why shouldn't I say something? I have nothing to hide. I've done nothing wrong.”

“Mr. Halley . . . Sid,” she said, “you are facing very serious allegations, and the police will take what you say and twist its meaning to make it look bad for you. Trust me, it is much better to say nothing.”

I couldn't see how. Surely only guilty men would stay silent.

Maggie went over to the door and knocked on it. It immediately reopened, and the superintendent and sidekick returned to their seats.

The recorder was switched back on.

“Interview resumed at twenty-one-oh-five,” said the detective. “Superintendent Ingram, Detective Sergeant Fleet, the accused, Mr. Halley, and Ms. Jennings, the accused's solicitor, being present.

“Now, Mr. Halley,” he went on, “if there's nothing to find at your premises, tell us where should we look instead for all your pictures of little girls.”

“No comment.”

“You do have pictures of little girls, don't you?”

“No comment,” I said again, biting my tongue.

What I wanted to say was that of course I had pictures of little girls, thousands of them. Six years of pictures of Saskia, from the moment of her birth right up until yesterday afternoon in the garden: pictures of her at home and at school, at Charles's place or on holidays at the beach in Holland, at Christmas dinners and at birthday parties, pictures of her anywhere and everywhere. I habitually had my phone at the ready, with its built-in, multi-megapixel camera. What father didn't? There was nothing wrong or sinister about it.

“Do you know a little girl called Annabel Gaucin?” he asked.

I looked sideways at my solicitor. Ever so slightly, she shook her head.

“No comment,” I said.

“She's only six years old.” There was contempt in his voice. “Mr. Halley, why is there a photograph of Annabel Gaucin naked on your cell phone?”

“No comment.”

“A photograph of her standing naked in
your
house?”

“No comment.”

If he'd seen the photo, he knew damn well that Annabel had been standing in the bath next to Saskia, and both of them had been covered in bubble-bath foam. Apart from their smiling faces sticking out amongst the bubbles, hardly a square inch of bare skin had been visible on either of them. And how did they know the photo was of Annabel anyway?

I was beginning to understand what Maggie had meant about the police twisting everything to make it look bad.

It didn't seem to make any difference if I answered their questions or not, and I didn't like it. It made me squirm in my seat.

•   •   •

T
HE INTERVIEW
continued in much the same manner for the next hour, with me saying “No comment” to every direct question put to me by the superintendent. D.S. Fleet sat silently throughout, watching me. I had heard him say nothing since reciting the arrest caution at Banbury railway station.

I requested another private conversation with Maggie Jennings, where I again voiced my objections to not answering the superintendent's questions.

“I know what I'm doing,” Maggie said. “You don't have to prove your innocence.”

“But I want to,” I replied. “I am innocent.”

“I know what I am doing,” she repeated. “Trust me.”

I wasn't entirely sure that Maggie believed in my innocence. Perhaps the questions about the photo of Annabel had shocked her. But, at the time, it had never crossed my mind that anyone could ever think that it was anything other than what it was, a proud father taking a snap of his six-year-old daughter harmlessly playing in the bath with her best friend. Marina had been in the picture as well, and it had been her idea to take it.

So I went on replying “No comment” to every question I was asked, and, eventually, like me, the superintendent got fed up with it.

“Interview terminated at . . . twenty-two eighteen,” he said, stopping the recording. He then stood up and walked straight out of the room without a further word.

“What happens now?” I asked Detective Sergeant Fleet, the silent sidekick, but, as before, he said nothing. He just looked at me as if I was a piece of dog shit that he'd picked up on his shoe and then he followed his boss out the door, closing it behind him.

“They'll definitely keep you here overnight,” Maggie said, “and probably question you again in the morning. They will be already searching your house and checking through your computer memory for any other indecent images.”

“The photo of Annabel is not indecent,” I said. “It shows her standing in the bath with my daughter, and they are both covered from head to toe in bubble-bath foam. My wife is in the photo as well. There's nothing remotely sexual about it.” But it was true that, at the time, I'd had a thought that I probably shouldn't have taken it. And I wouldn't have done without Marina's insistence.

“They'll keep you here anyway,” she said. “They can hold you for thirty-six hours, unless they apply to a magistrate for an extension.”

“An extension?” I asked.

“In total, they could hold you for up to ninety-six hours before they must either charge you or release you.”

“Ninety-six hours! That's four days.”

“That would be in an extreme case,” Maggie said, trying to be reassuring. “If they find no further images, and the one they have you say looks so innocent, then you will be released sometime tomorrow, maybe on police bail to reappear at a police station at a future date when they have completed their inquiries. Unless, of course, they have statements from other people that are incriminating.”

From whom? I thought. McCusker must have terrorized someone into making a complaint about me in the first place. Who knows what else he might have set up?

Maggie went over and knocked on the door. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Where are you staying?”

“My office has fixed a hotel. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. The police will let me know if and when you are to be interviewed again tomorrow. In the meantime, say nothing to any of them about your case. And be warned, there is no such thing as a ‘friendly, off-the-record chat' with a custody officer.”

The door opened and two of those selfsame custody officers came in as Maggie departed.

In keeping with my instructions, I said nothing to them as I was frog-marched once again back to cell number 5. There seemed little chance of anything “friendly” towards me from this lot anyway. Even the meal waiting for me in the cell was stone-cold and had clearly been left there for ages. It was a dark brown stew of indeterminate content, and the gravy had congealed on the plastic plate to a texture akin to wallpaper paste.

With four days of this diet, I thought, I'd soon be back to my riding weight.

•   •   •

“
H
OW DO YOU EXPLAIN THESE?”
asked the superintendent the following morning.

He threw a brown envelope onto the table in the interview room, and I could see all too clearly the top few of the thick wad of photographs that had spilled out of the end. The images were of young children in sexual situations, and they were enough to make any normal person sick.

“No comment,” I replied once more.

“This envelope was found in your shed,” he said, “hidden under a stack of old gardening gloves.”

I could hear the blood racing through my ears, my mouth went completely dry and my throat felt like it was closing up.

I'd never seen the envelope or the photographs before. They had to have been planted there by McCusker, or by one of his chums, but I didn't think the superintendent would believe me even if I'd been allowed by Ms. Jennings to say so.

Suddenly, the stakes had been raised considerably, and I could feel myself plunging headlong into oblivion, unable to stop, like the
Titanic
steaming full-speed ahead into an iceberg, followed by a one-way trip to the abyss.

Whoa, I said to myself. Calm down. Take a few deep breaths.

I forced myself to slowly take a drink of water from the glass in front of me.

“I would like to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson or to Detective Sergeant Lynch.”

It wasn't the first time I'd asked, but, as before, the superintendent took no notice.

“There are fifty-eight highly indecent images of children in this envelope,” he said, sorting through some of them on the table in front of me. “Some of them showing children in sexual situations with adults, not that you can see the adults' faces of course. Let me tell you, Mr. Halley, there's enough here to get you a nice long stretch in the slammer. And you know what happens to people like you when they get inside.” He drew a finger across his throat.

“Please do not intimidate my client,” said Maggie Jennings.

The policeman glared at her in a manner that suggested that he'd have quite liked to intimidate her as well.

“I will answer your questions,” I said to him, “but only if you allow Detective Chief Inspector Watkinson and Detective Sergeant Lynch to be present.”

Maggie Jennings looked at me in amazement and again asked for a private conference with her client.

“Are you sure that is wise?” she asked when we were alone.

“I'm fed up with being accused of something I haven't done and then not defending myself. Those photographs have been planted in my garden shed. I've never seen them before nor want to see them again. It may not be wise to answer his questions, but it can't be any worse than saying ‘No comment' all the time. It sounds as if I've something to hide, which I haven't. Even I'm beginning to doubt my innocence as I listen to myself.”

“OK,” Maggie said, shaking her head in disagreement. “You're the client.”

But instead of continuing with the interview, I was taken forcibly back to cell number 5 and left there all alone for ages and ages.

To say it was frustrating would have been a major understatement.

I was used to being in control and knowing what was going on. But here I was totally isolated, not even aware what was happening to my family.

Were Marina and Sassy somewhere together? Or was my little Saskia frighteningly alone in some unfamiliar children's home as McCusker had insinuated?

Not knowing was the worst bit.

These days, we are all so used to having cell phones and the Internet immediately at hand that we feel completely at a loss without them. It's as if we are addicted to the contact with the world at large and are unable to cope with even a few hours of digital isolation.

I clenched and unclenched the fingers of my right hand as if flexing them back and forth would take away their urge to be texting on my phone or typing on my computer keyboard.

Meanwhile, the fingers on my left hand remained stubbornly unresponsive to any stimulation whatsoever—not least because they were still lying some fifteen yards away from me in the custody sergeant's desk drawer.

The time dragged by interminably, and I went on worrying about Marina and Saskia. I considered that it was my role to look after them, a role that I was currently failing to fulfill in spectacular fashion. I wasn't even able to look after myself.

There was no clock in the cell. As a general rule, I used the time readout on my cell phone instead of a wristwatch. So I tried to estimate how long a minute was. Then five minutes. Then ten. But I had no way of knowing if I was right.

For the second time today, I could feel the panic rising in my throat.

Calm down, I told myself again, calm down. More deep breaths, not that deep breaths were very pleasant. Police cell blocks, I had discovered, had an all-pervasive smell: a mixture of stale sweat, urine and vomit overlaid with the pungent aroma of ammonia disinfectant.