The only furniture in the interview room were four chairs and a small table, with a complicated looking recording machine on top of it. The walls were covered with pale blue carpet tiles, and there was an air conditioning unit on the wall behind me. It whirred occasionally but did nothing about the stench of sweat in the room. There were at least two cameras in the small room that I could see. Was there someone on the other end of them watching me? I had no idea.
After what felt like hours, the door opened and Malcolm walked in. He was followed by the same policewoman from earlier. It was showtime. Malcolm put a grey laptop on the table and sat in one of the chairs opposite me. He left the door open and a young man walked in a few seconds later. He looked as if he was in his late twenties, very thin, and dressed in an off the peg suit. His blonde quiffed hair might have been fashionable in the eighties, but not since. He extended his hand and as I shook it, he introduced himself.
“I’m Toby Cooper, the duty solicitor. You must be Gareth Dawson?” He spoke with a Norfolk accent, but not a broad one. His handshake was firm and reassuring, and I reappraised my initial negative assessment of him. He smiled, showing a brief glimpse of white teeth, and the skin crinkled around his pale blue eyes. He looked like a man who smiled a lot, but I didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad one.
Malcolm shuffled in his chair and prodded at some buttons on the recording machine until a small green light came on.
“This interview is being recorded and may be given in evidence if your case is brought to trial. We are in interview room one at Wymondham Police Station, Norfolk. The date is the 24th November, and the time by my watch is 15.25.” He was staring straight at me while he spoke, not reading from a card, and I guessed he’d done this a fair few times before. “I am Detective Inspector Malcolm Griffiths. The other police officer present is Sergeant Gemma Fitzsimmons. Also present is Mr Gareth Dawson, who has been charged on suspicion of murder. Gareth, please state your full name and date of birth.” I did as he requested, my mouth dry. I thought about asking for a glass of water but decided against it. “Also present is Toby Cooper, duty solicitor,” Malcolm continued before asking me if I agreed that there were no other persons present. I looked at the cameras before nodding in reply. “For the tape please, Gareth,” Malcolm said. A bit pointless when there was a video camera pointed at me, but rules were rules.
“I agree, there’s no one else in the room,” I replied, my voice quiet. Malcolm rattled something off about free and independent legal advice, but I tuned him out and turned to look at the solicitor. He was sitting listening to Malcolm, an A4 size notepad at the ready. I glanced at the notepad. The page was empty, apart from my name and the date and time of the interview written across the top in neat, blockish handwriting.
“So, Mr Dawson. I interviewed you this morning at your flat, voluntarily,” Malcolm said. No more first names then. “You informed me that last night you spent the evening at The Heartsease pub in the company of Mr Tommy Hayworth and Mr David French. Is that correct?” I nodded before remembering the tape.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied, glancing at the solicitor who gave me an encouraging smile.
“And you state you were there for the whole evening?”
“Yes, I was.”
“For the tape, we have obtained initial telephone statements from both Mr Hayworth and Mr French corroborating this statement. We have also recovered CCTV footage from The Heartsease pub which shows the suspect entering and leaving the establishment at the times he states.” Malcolm’s language had changed, becoming much more formal, but from what he was saying it was so far so good. They wouldn’t have arrested me without something, though. There had to be a reveal on the way. The only thing I knew so far was that I’d been wrong to doubt David. He’d come through.
Malcolm continued. “We’ve also analysed the suspect’s phone, which shows that the phone was in The Heartsease pub for the stated period with several texts being sent during that time.” Good old Big Joe had done what I’d asked him, too. Malcolm looked at me, inscrutable as always. “Do you maintain that this was the course of events last night, Mr Dawson?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied, trying to put some authority into my voice for the tape. “I spent the evening with my friends, in the pub, having a few beers and talking nonsense.” Malcolm’s stare bored into me, making me uncomfortable. He knew something, he had something else, I was sure.
“Were you anywhere near The Griffin pub on the Yarmouth Road last night, Mr Dawson?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I was not.”
“Did you attack Mr Robert Wainwright last night, with a baseball bat, in an alleyway to the side of the pub?”
“No, I did not,” I said, my voice wavering despite my attempts to keep it strong.
He reached down to a laptop I’d not noticed him carrying into the room, picking it up and putting it on the table. He also pulled out a bunch of photographs of his briefcase which he placed face down on the table between us. Malcolm opened the laptop and stabbed at a button to turn it on. We all sat in silence while the computer whirred into life, Malcolm's face was bathed in the blue light of the screen. After a few seconds, he flipped the laptop around so that the screen was pointing at me.
“For the tape, I am showing the suspect the footage recovered from the occupants of a house in Yarmouth Road. The property is almost directly opposite The Griffin pub.” He leaned forward and pressed a button on the laptop. I watched as a grainy video started playing. The camera was focused on a car parked by the side of the road, and in the background, the outline of The Griffin could be seen. A figure appeared from the door of the pub. It was Robert. I watched, knowing what was coming as he raised his phone to his ear before disappearing down the alleyway to the side of the pub. I knew what the next thing the camera would show and, sure enough, I could be seen crossing the road a few seconds later. Although the camera was showing my back, I looked left and right as I crossed the road and my face could be seen in profile both times. As I got to the other side of the road, the video showed my right hand pulling the baseball bat halfway out of my pocket.
In the bottom corner of the screen there was some white flashing text, showing a date of 1st January and 00:00hrs. I guessed that the date and time hadn’t been set up properly on the camera, but I couldn’t see how that would make any difference at all. I was still fucked. We sat in silence for a few seconds before I reappeared on the screen, this time walking directly toward the camera. My face could be seen without any problem at all this time, and Malcolm paused the video just before I disappeared from the shot. He turned over the photographs on the table to reveal screenshots from the video. There were three of them, one of my face from the right, one from the left, and one showing me looking directly at the camera. The camera which I hadn’t seen despite scouring the area repeatedly. The photographs looked as though they’d been tidied up in Photoshop to remove some of the grain from the video, but there was no doubt they were of me.
“Officers have since visited Mr French, Mr Hayworth, and Mr Walcott to gain formal statements,” Malcolm said, looking directly at me. Who on earth was Mr Walcott? Malcolm must have seen my confusion. “Mr Joseph Walcott, the landlord of The Heartsease,” he continued. In all the time I’d been drinking there, I’d never known that was Big Joe’s name. I must have passed under the sign above the front door with his name on it a thousand times without reading it. Malcolm carried on. “All three gentlemen have retracted their earlier telephone statements, claiming they were operating under extreme pressure from you. Additionally, Mr Walcott has admitted to sending text messages from your phone on your instructions.” So, all three of them had rolled over. The only way that this could have happened is if the police had threatened them with perverting the course of justice or something like that. In a murder case as well. I think that would get me thinking if I was them. Me threatening Big Joe was a bit of a laugh though, and Malcolm must have known that.
He l
eaned forward and straightened up the three photographs, lining them up. Looking at me, he pressed his lips together before speaking.
“I think we’ll give you a few minutes with Mr Cooper.” He looked at his watch. “I am pausing this interview at 15:35 hours.” That had been the longest ten minutes of my life. Without another word, Malcolm got to his feet and left, followed by the policewoman. As the door closed behind them, Toby stood and shuffled round to the other side of the table so he was facing me. The look on his face was one of disappointment, almost as if he was looking at a child who's just been caught eating the posh biscuits. Not looking at a man who’d killed someone.
“Well?” he asked. “Where do we go from here?”
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?” I sighed. “Absolutely fucked. They’ve got me on camera walking toward him with a baseball bat, and I’ve got no alibi for the evening. Plus he was the man who killed my wife, so there’s motive in spades.”
“Er, I think it’s safe to say you’re not in a fantastic position at the moment,” Toby said. “Now you know this conversation is protected, don’t you? The video cameras are now off, they can’t hear us, and anything you say is confidential.” I nodded to show that I understood, glancing toward the cameras. The red flashing light had gone off. “I take it you hit Mr Wainwright, then?” Toby asked.
What could I say to that? They had me on CCTV, and I had no alibi anymore. I felt numb.
“Yeah, I hit him. I knew he’d be there, and I made sure I was there as well.” Toby scribbled in his notepad, glancing up at me a couple of times. “I’m surprised that the others rolled over so easily, though. I thought I was watertight with them.”
“There were probably police with them up to the point that you were arrested. Just to be sure they couldn’t warn you,” Toby said. “And in terms of them rolling over, they were probably threatened with being arrested themselves. The maximum sentence for perverting the course of justice is life. It’s rarely given out, but that’s a big stick for the police to have.” I sat back in the chair, thinking about what Toby had just said. What would I have done if I’d been in their situation? If it was Tommy asking me for an alibi? I thought for a few seconds before realising that I would do exactly what they’d done. Friendship could only go so far.
Toby and I chatted for maybe about ten minutes before he summarised my situation.
“So, I think it’s fairly sure you’re about to be charged with murder.” Hearing him say that in such a normal tone of voice made my blood run cold. “They’ve got a motive. They’ve got evidence which places you at the scene, and they’ve got evidence to suggest that you planned it throughout to try to get away with it.” Toby looked at me, his face neutral. “That’s a no-brainer for the Crown Prosecution Service.”
“But I didn’t mean to kill him,” I said, knowing I was close to tears. “I only wanted to hurt him, to pay him back.” Toby looked at me, his brow creased as he thought about what I’d said.
“Well, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here but there may be legal options we can talk about further on down the line. Manslaughter might be your best option, but we’ll get to that later,” he replied. “Now DI Griffiths has got twenty-four hours to charge you, but knowing him he’s probably already got the go ahead from the CPS to charge you now. There’s nothing you can do, but I would advise saying nothing when you are charged.”
“So, what happens next?” I asked through the lump in my throat.
“You’ll be charged and remanded in custody until the case comes to trial. If they charge you with murder, then you won’t get bail. I’d say you’d be looking at a trial in about three months.” I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, but I didn’t want to start blubbing like a baby in front of Toby.
It was maybe another ten minutes before Malcolm came back into the room, followed again by his sidekick, Gemma. Toby moved back to my side of the table, and I watched as Malcolm started the recording machine up again and went through the motions for the tape. I glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room and could see the red light flashing again. Then I listened as Malcolm charged me with the murder of Robert Wainwright, reading from a sheet of paper. He got to the end and looked at me.
“Do you have anything to say, Gareth?” I shook my head from side to side. “For the tape, please?”
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t have anything to say.”
It took three months to get to trial, just as predicted. Three months spent on remand at Norwich Prison. Toby had tried very hard to get me bail, but with the seriousness of the charges hanging over my head, that was never going to happen no matter how much money Andy promised to stump up. Looking back at it now, although being on remand was different from being in a proper prison, I was still locked up. There were more privileges, I had more rights for what that was worth, and I had more visitors. The only problem was that most of the visits were about either me being on trial for murder and how shit my situation was, or preparing for the inevitable long prison sentence after the trial. It was almost as if everyone was preparing me for a long time away, which they were.
As the trial itself approached, I was looking forward to it in a sense. At least it would end the limbo I was in. I would know one way or the other what my future held. The first two and a half weeks in the courtroom went past me in a complete blur. It was almost as if I was watching a film, but one with me as the lead character. I knew just beyond the doors to the courtroom was the heart of the old city. Riverside walks, mediaeval ruins, the world’s supply of churches and a cathedral that even I had to admit was impressive were a few hundred yards away. They might as well have been on the other side of the world for all the good they did me. There was also a fantastic pub just near the courtroom. The Wig and Pen I think it was called. I’d been in there once when I went to court with Tommy to watch him get fined for theft. I can’t for the life of me remember what he’d nicked that time though, it was all so long ago.
I was sitting in the courtroom dressed in a tailored suit that Andy had bought me for the occasion. Either side of me were prison officers, and we waited in silence for my future to be decided by twelve of my peers. The jury was being guided by Judge Watling, the same man who had let Robert Wainwright go with no more than a slap on the wrist. Throughout the trial, the judge had seemed disinterested, almost as if he knew this was an open and shut case and all everyone was doing was going through the motions. At the back of my mind were his closing statements at Robert’s trial when he slammed the legal system that forced him to let Robert go. He still let Robert go, so his statements were meaningless anyway.
The prosecuting lawyer was maybe halfway through her closing statement which had started first thing that morning. I’d spent the previous couple of hours listening to her destroy me and my reputation, not that I had much of a reputation left by then anyway. Miss Revell her name was, with an emphasis on the second syllable but absolutely not the first, was an absolute witch. She had to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. It was difficult to get a sense of her size given the flowing black robes she was wearing, but my best guess from the look of her hands and face is that she was stick thin underneath them. She had half-moon glasses on her face and she peered over the top of them so often that I wondered what was the point of her wearing them in the first place. Some small tufts of hair poking out from under her wig told me she had blonde hair. No wedding ring. Married to the law perhaps? I looked at her now, scribbling in her notebook as we waited for the jury to come back in after a short coffee break.
The only thing left once she had finished damning me was a verdict from the jury, so I had no idea what she was writing about. On more than one occasion, I’d wished that she was on my side. First thing this morning, once the judge had called the court to order, Miss Revell had got to her feet and torn me apart.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are now approaching the end of my summary, and I will be shortly handing over to my learned colleague in the defence corne
r.” Her voice was an octave or two lower than it should have been, looking at her. This, along with the crow's feet around her eyes and wrinkled mouth, hinted at a fondness for cigarettes. “They will attempt to persuade you that the defendant didn’t mean to kill Mr Wainwright. Earlier in the week, we discussed the legal definition of murder and the difference between murder and voluntary manslaughter to which the defendant has pled guilty.” I had indeed pled guilty to manslaughter because I had no choice. “But as we discussed, the defendant has admitted planning the attack on Mr Wainwright. He has admitted an elaborate attempt to establish an alibi which failed almost immediately.” She paused and took a breath before continuing. “He has admitted lying in wait for the victim, approaching him when he was defenceless, and striking him with a weapon he had bought specifically for the purpose. Striking him time and time again until Robert Wainwright was dead.” It was all true, apart from the very last part. She didn’t need to be as good as she was, it was almost all true.
“The defence will no doubt focus on the most unfortunate circumstances leading up to the defendant’s decision to do Mr Wainwright harm.” The judge leaned forward slightly as the prosecutor said this, listening to her with a frown. “But these circumstances do not mitigate against the charge of murder. There was no loss of control, no sudden and immediate decision. This was a considered desire for cold revenge, nothing less.” I tuned her out, aware that she was not only crucifying me but also taking apart the defence’s case before they’d even said a word apart from their opening statement. Toby leaned across and whispered in my ear.
Blind Justice Page 14
