An idea came to me and I almost ran from my car to the house and went straight through to the kitchen. I looked out the back at the garden next door, wild and unkempt where mine was neat and uncluttered. The house next door had been empty for weeks, and by the number of ‘to let’ signs clustered sadly by the front gate, I guessed that it wasn’t likely to be occupied any time soon.
I opened the back door and stepped out into my yard, looking around to make sure that none of the overlooking windows had people in them. Once I was sure it was clear, I rolled over the top of the flint stone wall into next door’s garden. The grass on the lawn came up to my knees and there was a buddleia that was threatening to dwarf the small shed in the back corner. I moved to the shed, struggling against the grass that pulled at my feet as if trying to stop me from intruding further into its domain. I eventually reached the shed, a small wooden affair perched on cracked and broken paving slabs.
With a little effort, I managed to lift one of the slabs and scoop out enough earth to hide the drugs, settling the stone back on top and scuffing the grass around the edges until I couldn’t see the result of my labours anymore. Satisfied, I climbed back over the wall and had just finished washing my hands when the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anybody and I began to get nervous as I went to the front door. If this was a salesman, he was going to get a bloody good earful. I opened the door to see a man and a woman in smart clothes standing on the top step. Everything about them said ‘police’ and I took a step back in alarm. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked suspiciously.
The man stepped forward, holding up a Sussex Police warrant card. ‘Gareth?’ he asked, and the pit in my stomach yawned wide enough to swallow a battleship.
‘Yes,’ I answered, trying to stop my knees from shaking.
‘I’m sorry, there’s no easy way to say this. My name’s DC Steve Barnett from PSD Ops. I’m arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice. We need you to come with us.’
7
THEY TOOK me to Worthing custody instead of Brighton, a small mercy as I knew far fewer people on West Downs division. The woman, Andrea Brown, was driving while Barnett sat in the back with me as if I was a common criminal.
They hadn’t searched me or cuffed me, but Barnett was clearly ready for me to try something, sitting half turned towards me with his hands within striking distance just in case. For the first ten minutes or so they had tried to make light conversation, but my fear was making me snappy so they gave up and we carried on in silence.
I’m honestly not sure that I can describe how I felt at that moment. Everything inside me felt tight, as if my body was squeezing in on itself, and I couldn’t stop shaking from the shock. I felt angry, sad, scared, betrayed and exhausted all at the same time and thoughts kept popping unwarranted into my head. Did they know about the Budds and this was just a cover to get me in and throw questions at me with no evidence, what we called a fishing trip? Had someone pointed the finger at me about the knife going walkies? Or worse still, did Davey have someone inside PSD that had authorised my arrest as a final coup de grace? It didn’t bear thinking about, unlikely as it was.
About a hundred years later, we pulled into the long drive that led to Centenary House in Worthing, the police station and custody centre. We parked by the doors and Barnett let me out of the child-locked door and into the custody centre. Brown followed close behind me in case I had any last-minute ideas about making a break for freedom and I felt a chill as the heavy metal door slid closed behind me, cutting off the real world.
My usual luck held. Standing on the bridge was a female DC, Helen Watkins, who had been on my intake when I joined. Great. Not only did she have the biggest mouth in the force but we hadn’t got on from the moment we met and our current relationship could be described as antagonistic at best. One look was all she needed to work out what was happening and I saw the corners of her mouth quirk up in a poorly suppressed smile as she turned away and left the bridge. I guessed that in less than an hour, the whole force would know what had happened to me.
The bridge itself was a raised platform behind which sat three sergeants, separated from the prisoners they were booking in by three feet of fake marble cladding. The floor was a non-slip dirty green and the walls were all painted off-white, broken up by the occasional green-framed window. All in all, it was just like any other custody centre in Sussex, bleak and depressing.
I was ushered in front of the only free sergeant, a man in his mid-forties with brown hair and the gut that inevitably comes with long hours behind a desk. Barnett gave the circumstances of arrest to the serious-looking man behind the desk, who eyed me with undisguised sympathy.
‘Gareth, do you understand why you’ve been arrested?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘Okay, you know your rights. Do you want a solicitor or anyone told that you’re here?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, can you tell the Federation? Hopefully they’ll get me a solicitor.’
He nodded and made some notes on my custody record. The Federation are the closest thing we’re allowed to a union as police officers, for all the good it does us. Normally, they’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot, but I paid £17 a month in case of situations like these and I was determined to get my money’s worth.
Barnett spoke to me while the sergeant was busy. ‘Look, we’re pretty much ready to go; you’ll be in and out in an hour.’
I raised one eyebrow but didn’t deign to comment. It didn’t do any good to get too friendly with PSD; they saw it as a sign of guilt.
The sergeant turned back to me, a thick wodge of paper in his hand. ‘We’re putting you on a paper custody record mate,’ he told me, ‘so you won’t show up on the system if anyone looks, okay?’
I nodded, grateful that the whole force wouldn’t be able to read what was happening to me like they would on an electronic record. I was taken down to a cell and searched rather than it being done in full view of the crowd that had gathered, presumably tipped off by Helen. My belt and shoes were taken, as was everything in my pockets. I was given a blanket and a cup of coffee before the door slammed shut, cutting me off even further from the outside world and leaving me alone with nothing but my fear for company.
I hate police cells, I always have. They’re small, grey, miserable and there’s a camera high up in the corner watching your every move, even when you have a shit. I slumped on the raised platform they laughingly called a bed, feeling the cold of the fake marble through the thin plastic mattress. I drew the blanket up to my neck in a useless effort to still the trembling that still affected me.
The minutes turned into hours and stretched away in a timeless blur. There was nothing to keep me occupied except my own dark thoughts and I went through almost every sour emotion you can think of, from rage, to fear, to despair. I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong, at least not that they’d arrested me for, but being nicked is one of the worst things a police officer can face. No matter how innocent or guilty you are, rumours will spring up and a reputation that can take years to build is shattered in an instant.
Not only that, but PSD actually have targets to meet. They have to arrest, suspend and charge a certain number of officers per month or explain why they haven’t. Personally I think it’s disgusting, the same as giving targets to uniformed officers. How do you quantify the three hours spent with an elderly woman who’s been burgled, waiting for her family to show up? It doesn’t tick any boxes but I think it’s just as important as chasing down criminals, if not more so.
The same goes for PSD. What if there aren’t any coppers breaking the law? Well, they just arrest them anyway on any kind of flimsy evidence, in the hope that they’ll get lucky and find something to stick you with. If they had any idea what I’d just done they’d be dancing with glee and their figures would soar. To be honest, I couldn’t help but think that I deserved it. Coppers should keep the peace, not break it. I’d crossed
a line and I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to cross back over and carry on being one of the good guys.
I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in sleep that refused to come. Too many things were running through my head, keeping me awake and worried. A couple of times I got so scared that I nearly threw up, but managed to stop myself before I actually started retching.
Some indefinable time later the hatch to my cell slid open and a round, bearded face appeared at the slot. I heard the keypad outside being pressed and then the door clunked open, spilling bright light in from the corridor and making me realise that at some point they had dimmed the lights in my cell.
A portly inspector in a pristine uniform waddled into the cell, a smile fighting its way through the beard. ‘Gareth? I’m Inspector Reg Turner. You’ve been here for six hours so I have to do a review. Do you need anything?’
Six hours? I must have fallen asleep at some point then; they should have offered me food by now, despite the fact that I wasn’t in the least bit hungry. ‘I could do with some water; my mouth is dry as a bone.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll get you some. I don’t know why they’re taking so long; apparently they’re searching your house with the specialist search unit, so they should have been done hours ago. Unless you live in a mansion?’
I couldn’t raise a smile at his attempt at humour, much as I wanted to. ‘No, it’s only a two-bedroom. I could search it in an hour by myself, my ex-wife took most of the furnishings. And the bitch took the cat.’
He made an ah noise, as if trying to sympathise. I didn’t want his sympathy, I wanted to go home.
‘Your solicitor has been informed of what’s happening but they’re not going to come until the morning now. My advice is to get your head down and get some rest. Do you want any food?’
I shook my head. ‘No, just some sleep and the codes to all the doors.’
He laughed politely and swung the door shut as he left. So much for solidarity; it could have been my imagination but he seemed like he couldn’t get away quickly enough. Muttering to myself, I settled down and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
8
THE NEXT morning, I was woken by the sound of a custody assistant opening the hatch in my cell door and for a moment I thought I was dreaming. Then I remembered where I was and the fear squeezed my heart again in greeting.
‘Do you want breakfast?’ a male voice asked through the hatch.
‘Uh yeah, is it a buffet or do I pay by the plate?’
‘Funny man. You want cornflakes or all-day breakfast?’
I should have known better than to order the breakfast. When it arrived, it was a microwaved mess consisting of potato wedges and baked beans and tasting like cardboard. Still, it was hot and filling, even if it did have all the nutritional content of sandpaper.
After I’d finished, I did the best I could to wash away the stink of sleeping in my clothes, using the tiny sink that sat just above my toilet. It wasn’t the smallest en suite I’d ever had, but it came close. I was just sticking a wet hand down my trousers to wash away the worst of the sweat when the hatch opened. I pulled my hand out guiltily, despite the fact that I’d only been washing. Masturbation was one of the most common pastimes for people in the cells and I didn’t want to be thought of as following that particular herd.
A very tired-looking Steve Barnett looked at me through the gap and the door opened to reveal an equally tired-looking Angela Brown standing next to him. ‘Morning Gareth, your solicitor is here. We’ve given disclosure and now she wants to speak to you.’
I nodded and walked out into the corridor, letting them lead me to a private consultation room. Inside the room was a woman in her early forties with dark curly hair and a serious manner. She was wearing a knee-length skirt with a matching jacket and cream blouse and her manner shouted competence at me as she shooed the other officers out. That done, she stuck out a hand and introduced herself as Kerry Nielson.
I took the proffered hand, shaking it firmly. ‘So,’ I said, sitting down opposite the chair she took for herself, ‘on a scale of one to ten, how shafted am I?’
She looked down at her notes, studying them intently. I could only assume that they were from the disclosure, which is where the police tell the solicitor most of the evidence they have, while holding a little back to ‘test for truth’. ‘Well I really don’t think that they have a lot to go on, it’s pretty shaky stuff. The reason you’ve been arrested is that on record you’re the last person to have touched the knife which has now gone missing, making you the most likely person to have swapped the evidence.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, I would have had to do that at scene, still covered in Jimmy’s blood and in front of five other officers. Don’t you think someone would have noticed?’
She looked at me across the table. ‘Yes, Gareth, I do. So do they, probably, but from what I’m picking up they need to show that they’re doing something and the first logical step was to arrest you.’
I rose and began to pace the room. ‘Okay, the first thing I want to make clear is that I didn’t tamper with the evidence. Jimmy is my friend and my partner and there’s no way I would ever do something to stop the son of a bitch that did this to him from going down.’
‘I believe you, really I do, but we have to prepare for what they’re going to ask you in interview.’
I stopped pacing to look at her. ‘All I can do is tell the truth. If that isn’t good enough I don’t know what is.’
She smiled at me reassuringly. ‘I’m sure that will be fine, but just so I don’t have any surprises I need you to go through what happened that day, okay?’
I nodded and sat down, letting her grill me for about twenty minutes about the day Jimmy had been stabbed. I was impressed with her manner as her sharp mind drove me to remember details that I’d almost forgotten. Once we had been through it all a good three times, she judged us ready for interview and we left the room to see my captors waiting impatiently in the corridor.
‘Ready? Good.’ Barnett could hardly wait to open the interview room door and gesture us inside.
The room was set up with the huge tape machine against the far wall and a table by the near wall surrounded by four chairs. Barnett sat and tried to make pleasant conversation while Brown filled out tape labels with my custody number and got their file ready.
A few minutes later, Brown had everything prepared and pressed the button on the large tape machine. It buzzed annoyingly for a few seconds, and then the tapes began rolling. Brown began speaking, her clear voice echoing in the small room.
‘It is 0837 hours on Wednesday the fourteenth May 2008. We are in an interview room at Worthing custody centre. I am DC Angela Brown, DB429, and the other officer present is…’
Barnett chimed in, looking bored. ‘DC Steve Barnett, CB776.’
Brown took the lead back. ‘Thank you. Also present is…’
‘Kerry Nielsen, solicitor for PC Bell.’
‘Thank you. Can you tell me your full name and date of birth please?’ This to me, who was beginning to feel slightly left out.
‘PC Gareth Bell, CB925. Seventh September 1976.’
I probably shouldn’t have added my rank and warrant number, but I was still a copper and I wanted that made clear.
‘Thank you Gareth. Do you agree that there is no one else present in the room?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I’m going to caution you now. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution?’
‘I should damn well hope so,’ I blurted before remembering I was on tape.
Angela smiled at me in understanding.
‘Okay, the reason you have been arrested is that yesterday, in court during the trial of Quentin Davey, it was shown that evidence vital to the case had been removed and replaced with something else. Namely, exhibit GB/250308/135
5, a black-handled knife which had either been removed or was never placed in the tube and instead a rubber knife was found there. The records show that you were the last person that touched the unsealed tube. What can you tell me about that?’
Just thinking about it made me angry and my carefully planned answers evaporated as my emotions took over. ‘It’s a travesty, that’s what it is! That piece of crap stabbed my mate in front of me and somehow he paid someone off to swap the evidence over. I had no idea that it had happened. Do you really think that I would stand up in court against him if I’d tampered with the evidence? And how am I supposed to have done that if there were five other officers watching me when I put the knife in the tube?’
Angela looked slightly put out by my outburst. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out Gareth. So you’re saying that when you seized the knife, you put it in the tube and sealed it, is that correct?’
‘Yes, of course it is!’
‘Okay, I’m just trying to get things straight in my own head, there’s no need to get angry.’
‘No need to get angry? No need to get angry? You’ve arrested me and accused me of tampering with the evidence that would have convicted the bastard who stabbed Jimmy! How am I supposed to feel? He’s my best mate, I’ve known him for years and we’re completely loyal to each other. Not that I’d expect you worms from PSD to understand that, always looking for excuses to shop in another officer. Listen carefully; I’m not going to repeat myself. I had nothing to do with the evidence going missing. If I find out who did, I’m going to drag them in here by the hair and hand them to you. Other than that, I have nothing more to say.’
I crossed my arms and sat back. Who the hell did they think they were to imply that I’d had anything to do with something that would hurt Jimmy? I glared at my interviewers across the table, daring them to challenge me.
Angela tried to sound calming, despite the colour in her cheeks and the annoyance showing clearly in her eyes. ‘So you’re saying that you won’t answer any more questions on this matter, is that correct?’
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