Bright Spark

by Gavin Smith

  Given a suspect willing to play the game, Slowey would scribble reams of notes in which to find knots and fraying strands of logic, then uncoil what he’d learned into a good length of rope with which to hang a bad liar. Even the most irksome lawyer could barely object to police officers asking open questions and listening attentively.

  Yet Braxton seemed intent on ignoring the script and denying Slowey his chance to shine, leaving him feeling like an angler watching a pike leap into his net before he’d even unpacked his thermos or cast his line.

  “I killed him. Killed him proper,” said Braxton, leaning towards the tape recorder. “Smashed his fat fucking head in. Just me. Kevin Francis Braxton. With my own bare hands. And that bastard’s spade. Called me a nonce. Got his own good fucking hiding for a change. Ain’t a nonce now, am I? There. Charge me up. I’ll do my stir. Who’s the big man now, eh? Come on, what else you got? Fuck all, that’s what. Who’s the daddy, eh? Eh?”

  Slowey patiently continued with the preliminaries dictated by the cue card glued to the table, explaining the caution, the pros and cons of asserting the right to silence and the free availability of legal representation. He noted for the tape that Kevin had declined such representation and invited him to explain why, if only to demonstrate that his will was his own.

  “Ain’t got nothin’ to hide from you pricks. Don’t need a fucking suit to hide behind.”

  “There’s an awful lot of hiding going on, Kevin,” ventured Slowey, setting aside best practice and beginning with a challenge. Harkness glanced at him, surprised, then continued picking at his teeth with a thumbnail and doodling in his notebook, feigning apathy. “I reckon hiding is all you can do. Just a big kid really, aren’t you? Bit of a daddy’s boy.”

  “I know you lot,” began Braxton, slouching in his chair, arms crossed, snorting derision while his bare feet beat a nervous tempo on the threadbare carpet. “You saw me. Hiding, was I? I don’t hide from nothing.”

  “Do you mean you don’t hide from anything?”

  “What I said.”

  “No. You said, ‘I don’t hide from nothing’. That’s a double negative. It means you do hide from everything.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “And you’re hiding now. ‘Bullshit’ tells me nothing. Which means you’re hiding something.”

  “Screw you, prick.”

  “Not that I mind. You’re a grown-up now. You’ll talk to me or you won’t. But you’re hiding and you haven’t even got the balls to admit it. If you need to hide from me, just say so. Be a man about it. Or have you lost your balaclava this time?”

  “You saw me with your own eyes, you daft bastard. Killed my old man….” Braxton’s voice ebbed. He gulped, wiped his eyes, gripped the edge of the table and glanced from side to side as if he’d lost his bearings. “You ain’t found no balaclava….”

  “Yes, Kevin. Saw you. By accident, I happened to see you. Burying your old man. Burying your drugs. Burying your dirty little secrets. The dead kiddies. The abused schoolgirl. ”

  “Not hiding!”

  “The dead kiddies across the road. Lot of hiding going on, Kevin.”

  “I killed him.”

  “Yes, and you hid him. And you’re hiding the rest. Just admit to me that you’re hiding the rest of it. No, hang on, you can’t, can you? Almost forgot. You’re not man enough. You’re such a daddy’s boy.”

  Braxton gripped the table’s edge and shoved. Finding the table bolted down, he rocked backwards on his chair. Spitting and sobbing, he allowed it to topple from under him, rolled to his feet, picked it up by its back and flung it against the wall, buckling its legs and tripping the panic alarm recessed into the tiles. Harkness froze, half standing, as Slowey gripped his forearm.

  “Let him blow itself out,” said Slowey as the wailing of the panic alarm resonated through the custody block and pounding feet approached. He put down his pen as though he were laying down his arms. “Just call off the cavalry, would you? And get a new chair while you’re out there. We’ll be alright now, won’t we Kevin? There’s a good lad.”

  Kevin stood squarely, shoulders bunched, forehead lowered, arms wide, ready for the onslaught, ready for all comers. His frown intensified as nothing happened and continued to happen. Harkness slipped out of the room in defiance of all his instincts, closing the door gently behind him. Slowey reclined in his chair, hands behind his head and yawning as if he were sandwiched between Mrs Slowey and the kids on his old sofa watching yet another reality-TV show.

  “For the benefit of the tape,” said Slowey, as Braxton backed himself into a corner and slid to the floor, “Kevin became understandably distressed by the subject matter. A chair broke beneath him, causing him to lose balance. DS Harkness has stepped out of the room to find a replacement. Would you agree with that version of events, Kevin?”

  “Yeah,” offered Braxton, eyes darting as if his mind sought something familiar to anchor itself to. While Slowey had half-expected to be attacked by Braxton, the gamble had paid off. He’d confirmed that Braxton was driven more by fear than by malice. He was also self-interested enough to prefer a show of cooperation to the fists of the dozen or so cops summoned by the panic alarm.

  “Coffee?” Would the cornered animal accept succour or bite his hand, thought Slowey. “You hungry?”

  “Four sugars. White.”

  Harkness returned, relieved to find Braxton on the floor and Slowey in one piece. Satisfied that he wouldn’t need both hands free, he leaned out and dragged in a new chair. He then loomed over Braxton, knuckles pressed to the table, while Braxton meekly took a seat.

  “And?” added Harkness.

  “And a biscuit.”

  “And?”

  “Please,” he muttered.

  “Two white coffees,” Slowey summarised. “One with four sugars. Oh, and one for yourself, Sarge.” Slowey grinned and nodded as Harkness shook his head, shrugged for the CCTV camera recessed into the ceiling and left the room again.

  “That’s my boss, by the way,” said Slowey, leaning across the table to confide and glancing at the still turning spindles of the tape recorder. “Bit of a grumpy bastard. Wouldn’t say it to his face, though.”

  Braxton shrugged. Had he been wholly indifferent, he’d have stared at the wall, at the flaking enamel and gouged-in obscenities on the table before him, at the rhythmically tutting clock. But a shrug was a response, an engagement with the process.

  “Anyway, here’s the thing. You may think this is your typical good cop, bad cop, tactical police bollocks, but it’s not that simple. Not this time. He’s bad and I’m slightly less bad. You see, he and I disagree on a few things. For example, he thinks you killed ‘em all; your dad, Murphy, Murphy’s wife and kiddies…”

  “That ain’t….”

  “Just cool your jets, Kevin. I’m not accusing you and I’m not asking you. Yet. I’m trying to help you to say the right thing. Like I was saying, my boss wants to clear his desk and dump it all on you. Now, I think you’ve got a few things to answer for. Your old man. A certain teenage girl. Some class ‘A’ merchandise. A burglary. Some other odds and sods. But I don’t think you did all of it. I just don’t think you’re a child-killer.

  “So this is where you should pay attention. Like I said, I can hand you to the bad cop and bad things will happen to you, or you can cooperate with me and maybe you’ll be out on probation while you’re still young enough to stack shelves. But if you’re not straight with me about the things you’ve done, I’ll just have to assume you’re lying about everything and my boss was right all along. You’ll just look like a liar and you’ll get convicted as a liar.”

  “I ain’t a liar and I ain’t afraid of your bullshit. You got nowt but what you saw. What I let you see.”

  “Shut your mouth and engage your brain. Look at my face. Remember me? Friars’ Vaults car park? You wore black and I ended up black and blue? Course you do.”

  “Prove it,” said Braxton, eyes wandering.

 
“Want a peek at my cards, do you?” Slowey produced a sheaf of papers from a binder and fanned them out. “Read ‘em and weep. First, there’s this lab report. Your DNA from the blood you left under my fingernails when I tried to nick you at the pub. Before your dad sparked me out. Want more?”

  “You was out of order. He were defending me.” Braxton shrugged. Slowey swallowed his elation and restrained himself from picking up his pen and adding to his tally. He wants to argue, wants to put me right, he thought. Wants to shut me up so badly he can’t think beyond this conversation.

  “Think about how you’ll explain that to the judge, Kevin. Nowhere to hide up there in the dock, all alone. Where was I? Second. Transcript of a video interview with a charming young lady, name of Kelly Somerby. Speaks very highly of you and I bet you can guess what she said, you mucky pup.”

  Braxton’s mouth split into a histrionic yawn.

  “Get used to being tired. You won’t get much sleep on the nonce wing when it’s time to play hide and seek. Third….”

  “She’s well into me, man. Loves me, innit? Ain’t rape or kiddy-fiddling. You’ve got nowt.”

  “Third. Forensic examination form for the hard-drive CCTV recorder seized in your bedroom, today. Want to guess what we’ll find on that?”

  “That were the old man’s blag. Made me go along. Go on, ask him!” Braxton tried to laugh.

  Slowey brandished a thick wedge of paperwork. “It goes on and on, Kevin. I’m not going to give all my juicy secrets away. But I’ll throw the lot at you if you jerk me about. And we’re not finished. The dogs are having a good sniff around your allotment right now. Something funny?”

  “Not my allotment. An’ they’ll get a fucking good sniff of something.”

  “That’s it. That’s all I want. Let’s get the truth on the record. Simplify your life. Do what your old man wasn’t brave enough to do.”

  “It was all him. Always about him. You don’t give a fuck about me. It’s still about him.”

  Braxton studied the calloused skin crowning his fingers, the dirt riming his nails, flecked with copper that could have been his dad’s flesh, half of his own flesh. Maybe it was time to grow up; to play the game before the game played him. This copper seemed harmless enough.

  “You want me to get it right? Tell me. You really want to be free of your old man? You want to be better than him? Get it all out. Take your punishment. Have your own life. Come on, Kevin, tell me about your life.”

  “He’s been working with you way too long. He used to be a model detective.” Brennan slurped from the outsize thermal coffee cup as he stared into the widescreen TV on which the interview played out.

  “Yet you’re happy to let him run with it, boss.” Harkness leaned against the door of the custody viewing suite, a cramped afterthought of a room tucked between the cleaner’s cupboard and the galley kitchen.

  “Do I look happy to you, Rob?”

  “He’s talking. He looks like he’s going to pop and give us everything we need. Even if we run into….procedural issues, we’ve still got two or three big offences in the bag.”

  “Procedural issues, Rob? You mean the fact that we’re brazenly exploiting a deranged and suggestible suspect, even if he is an odious guttersnipe?”

  “Doctor cleared it.”

  “I wouldn’t trust that doctor to clear up a simple dose of clap.” Brennan found the lever that allowed his seat to recline and crossed his feet on the desk.

  “Slowey hasn’t raised his voice once, boss.”

  “But he is playing this idiot like a cheap piano. What happens when some lawyer cries coercion?”

  “He doesn’t want a lawyer.”

  “He’ll get one, sooner or later.”

  “Want me to pause it for a powwow?”

  “No, Rob.”

  “I don’t think this kid’s that fragile, boss. He’s unhinged, giddy, unpredictable, disorientated. I think it’s too early for grief, assuming he ever gets to that point.”

  “I knew you were a pain the arse, Rob, but I didn’t know you were an agony aunt too.”

  “I think he’s, well, exhilarated. Patricide is a pretty meaningful offence, psychologically speaking. He’s freed himself from a father who was a hard man on the street and might have been a hard man in the home too. Not only is the old bastard dead and gone, but he killed him face to face, eyeball to eyeball. He’s settled a score, proved he’s a bigger man than he thought he was. If he plays it right on the inside, he’ll be known as a real hard case. Could be he sees career prospects in this situation. Particularly if he keeps his stash hidden.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting pre-meditation?”

  “No, but I think he’s waking up to what it all meant. He might crumble and start to look human when the shock finally penetrates. But I’m not a psychologist, so what do I know?”

  “You said it.”

  “The oedipal complex might be in play here. Supplant the father to possess the mother. Come to think of it, I’ve met his mother…”

  “Rob, shut up.” Brennan slurped more coffee and sluiced the bitter syrup around his gums before swallowing nosily. ““I trust Slowey. You’ve almost ruined him, but he’s still a smart copper. Let this pillock spill his guts and we’ll mop the decks down later.”

  “Right, I’ll go back in then.”

  “Don’t get carried away though. You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “You seem a bit calm about all of this, Rob. Considering what a hard-on you had for opening up the case again. Back in the day, I reckon you’d have been in there bouncing him off the walls. You know, looking for some closure.”

  “I’m drinking less coffee, boss, and avoiding sugary snacks. I haven’t maimed anyone for days now.”

  “Just try to limit the confessions to things you actually think he’s done.”

  “I thought you were old school, boss.”

  Harkness supplied Braxton with coffee while Slowey slipped him increments of pride, gradually restoring whatever he thought he’d lost when he’d broken the chair, lost control and shed tears on tape, on camera and in enemy territory.

  “I treated her with maximum respect, you can ask anybody,” he’d said repeatedly during his account of his relationship with Kelly Somerby. “Of course I shagged her, I ain’t a nonce.”

  Slowey commended him for his gallantry and assured him that Kelly still thought fondly of him and didn’t allege any kind of violence or perversion. Braxton had just enough gumption to deny knowing her age. He knew, of course, that she’d only just started studying for her GCSE mock examinations; he cared about her and listened to her.

  “Look, I carried the stuff and sold a bit and smoked a bit, ‘cause I was labouring for the old man and drinking with him an’ that,” Braxton said during his account of the family’s drug dealing. “But it weren’t my choice and I didn’t make that screw bent.”

  Slowey remarked on his courage in being so open, repeatedly assuring him that his menial role in the business would be noted. It would in fact lend great credence to his account if he could describe specific transactions he’d been involved in. Obviously, he couldn’t be expected to remember everything, but names, places, dates, substances, weights and sums of money would suffice. Braxton obliged dutifully and at times gleefully. Was he warming to his role as a player, a villain, a pukka criminal?

  “You’re quite the businessman,” offered Slowey once or twice, seemingly impressed by Braxton’s grasp of commerce.

  “We all got to make a living, innit?” he replied, perhaps flattered that he was being treated with the respect due to a fellow professional, perhaps grateful that it spared him from having to face what he really was.

  Once the youth’s meagre understanding of his father’s business had been tapped, Slowey reminded Braxton that the footage from the Friars’ Vaults would shortly be available to compare with his account.

  “So tell me. What were you and your dad and Murphy and Firth
talking about that night? As a businessman, what’s your take on it?”

  “Dad had spent twenty grand of his own dosh on more gear for Murphy to shift inside, yeah. Murphy had lost his bottle or lost his job or something. Thing is, he wouldn’t accept the gear and wouldn’t pay for it either. Dad got right in his face. He called him a bitch and a pussy. Just a bent screw, no use to anyone, hated by everyone. Said he wanted compensation.

  “Dad gave him a little dig in the ribs. Murphy told us we were all on camera. Dad said fuck right off it ain’t ever worked. Murphy said there was lots of witnesses there and anyway he’d make sure the law knew all about dad’s business if anything happened to him or his kids. Murphy went a bit psycho, saying all that. He was twitching, you could see in his eyes. Like a cornered rat. I thought he were going to kick off there and then. We all just stared at each other. Thinking and staring.”

  “So how come it all kicked off with Firth?”

  “Firth was nothing. Came in to buy grass off me. Wrong time, wrong place, innit. He must have known Murphy. Said some words, pushed his buttons. Murphy went off on one, knocking down tables and smashing shit up. Landlord says something about camera working after all. He’s bought himself a system now so Murphy should fuck right off before he gets nicked.

  “So then Firth’s gone and so’s Murphy. And my dad thinks we’re on camera now and won’t stand for that. We’ve got to have the tape or machine or whatever it is. Stupid bastard Murphy fucked it all up, didn’t he? Him and Firth.”

  Slowey nodded and chuckled, as if acknowledging the gruelling path a hard-working man has to tread.

  “I mean, if they hadn’t fucked up, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Not like your lot are interested in a little bit of blow or ganj or smack. Not that I let Firth off with it though. Gave that piss-weasel a pasting.”

  “Well, we know you came to blows with Nigel Firth,” said Slowey confidently. “We have his version. In the interests of fairness, we should have yours too.”