Fat Tuesday

by Gary Davison

  “Don’t know what you’re on about.”

  “Sergeant, we’re here to interview my client, not chat about his acquaintance.”

  Irwin: “Ok, Spencer, let’s say you were mixed up.

  Why did you leave town on the 1.15 bus. A bit late at night to move on after a shift at work, don’t you think?”

  “We’d already decided to go and the festival tickets were cheap.”

  McQueen: “You’re a liar, Hargreaves. You’re making this all up. You’re tripping yourself up at every corner and your so-called mates’ versions are completely different. You robbed Vasey supermarket and skipped town.”

  “Prove it.”

  They went through everything again from the beginning: stop start, stop start, stop start. I wasn’t even sure if I was giving the same answers. Every answer triggered an outbreak of questions. What colour door? Ten minutes or fifteen? How many bags to the station? Who carried them? What colour? How heavy?

  Hopper kept on at them and was threatened with an application for a warrant of further retention, which could take up to thirty-six hours.

  “Sergeant, regardless of what threats you care to pollute the air with, your line of enquiry must be carried out within the parameters of the law. The detention clock is ticking and my client will be spending the next 4 hours in his cell due to poor health unless you move this on.”

  There was a knock at the door. A woman police constable entered and handed a piece of paper to McQueen. He read it and passed it to Irwin. “Interviewed terminated. Take him back to his cell.”

  Morning came and I was escorted back through the holding area to the front desk. The large black clock on the wall read 9:15.

  The two plain clothed detectives that had interviewed me came in through the double doors and stood at the exit. There were two uniformed officers either side of me, and the desk sergeant behind the counter. Hopper had said last night that it was likely I’d be charged with possession of class A drugs for personal use and released on bail in the morning.

  Something was wrong, though. It was too quiet.

  The desk sergeant went through the charges – possession of class A drugs, possession of a bladed article, and I signed a statement. He emptied my belongings onto the counter and I signed for them.

  I hesitantly looked around. “Is that it? Am I free to go?”

  McQueen walked up to me: “Spencer Hargreaves, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Charles Surman-Wells. You are not obliged to say or do anything. Anything you do say or do may be recorded and used in a court of law. Do you understand the charge?”

  “Eh?’

  “Do you understand the charge?”

  “Murder? What you on about? Who the fuck’s Surman-Wells?”

  “Take him down.”

  I dug my heels in and struggled to break free as they led me away. “What the fuck’s going on! I want my solicitor! GET THE FUCK OFF ME! GET OFF ME!”

  19

  Charles Surman-Wells was a civil servant from Sydney. Charles Surman-Well’s job, before he was beaten and strangled to death, was to investigate benefit fraud. He had been investigating Gregg for dodging rates. My fingerprints had been matched to a set found at the crime scene in Palmer Street. I didn’t even try to explain the reason my fingerprints were there until Gavin Hopper arrived.

  Hopper was standing in the corner of the interview room facing the wall, hands together behind his back. I sat down at the table. As soon as the officer shut the door he spun around, eyes black and raging, and shot towards me, yelling and banging his fist on the table… Damn fool! You could go down for life! Guilty or not! I found him quite amusing and he sensed this and stormed for the door.

  “The hell with you! I owe you nothing! You hear me! Nothing!”

  “Gavin wait, please,” I said, getting up. “I’m only smirking because I know how the prints got there.”

  He stopped at the door, back to me, weighing up his options.

  Chin up, hands behind his back, he slowly walked the perimeter of the room. On reaching me, he sat down, crossing his legs. He stared at me, right hand over his mouth. Once I was suitably uncomfortable, he said, “Before we go any further, I deem it necessary to justify my actions to you.

  “I will continue defending you for one reason only: the memory of your father. If at any time you no longer require my services, please say so. Once this is over, I will no longer carry out work for you or Hargreaves Financial. Now,” he got up and walked behind me. “Last night we were in the driving seat. The possession of the drugs and knife were minor offences and it’s safe to assume that they have no forensic evidence connecting you to the robbery of the supermarket. But what they do have now is forensic evidence linking you to a murder scene. This significantly alters our predicament and we now find ourselves, cap in hand, hoping an explanation from you will not only satisfactorily explain why you were at a murder scene, but that you never played any part in the crimes committed.”

  “It will.”

  “The police are now in a position of power and it may be that they charge and remand you to keep you off the streets and bring forward the evidence at a later date.”

  “Even if I’m innocent?”

  He sat down in the chair opposite. “Ok. This is the story so far. On Friday night you and your friends leave work early and don’t clock out. You then catch the last bus out of town heading north. No goodbyes, no notice given to your landlord, nothing. Hours later the alarm is raised at the supermarket when they find the weekend’s takings gone. No sign of forced entry, security videotapes gone, an inside job for certain.

  “A day later you get arrested carrying a hunting knife and a pocket full of designer drugs, and are covered in cuts and bruises. Finally, your fingerprints are found at the scene of a murder in the town you’ve just left.” He smacked the table as he got up. “Come on! Do you really think the police are that gullible? They see you as a vigilante for Christ’s sakes, with the financial clout to run an army… and now… and now, they have something on you.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t do anything.”

  “They don’t give a damn! Listen to what I’m telling you, boy! They have forensics. It’s likely they’ll charge you with something and bring further evidence later.”

  Hopper settled in the chair with his note pad on his knee. “Tell me everything you know about Charles Surman-Wells.”

  20

  The same two detectives were interviewing me. They were much more relaxed with me than before, and didn’t keep stopping and starting the interview. I told them about Charles Surman-Wells coming to the flat, photographing me at the supermarket, Cam following Surman-Wells from the gay club and me getting paranoid and bricking his window. They went back through everything I said in more detail and I got the feeling that my reason for following Surman-Wells in the first place didn’t sit well with them.

  I asked Hopper on the breaks if Amber had contacted him or if she’d been hanging around in reception for me, but she hadn’t. I think if I could have seen her, or even knew she was okay, it would have given me more strength to carry on. As it was, I was on my last legs when they moved onto their second piece of evidence. It was a grey cast of a shoe print, which matched the trainers I’d been wearing when arrested. We burnt everything we wore the night of the robbery, but there was no need to discard anything after bricking a window, it was hardly the crime of the century.

  Anyway, the shoe print proved that I had been up close to the house, next to the side window to be exact, and contradicted my original story of only going into next door’s garden to throw the brick. I admitted to listening at the window to make sure I had the right room.

  DS McQueen was very passive and didn’t respond to anything I said, and simply waited for his colleague to finish taking notes, before methodically moving on. Even when he caught me out with the shoe print, he appeared to accept without suspicion that it was a genuine oversight on my behalf.

  After a short break, they
started the tape and McQueen said: “At any time did you go into 154 Palmer Street?”

  “No. Never.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “We have DNA taken from blood found in Charles Surman-Wells’ room at 154 Palmer Street. Your DNA is a match. Can you explain how your blood came to be in Charles Surman-Wells’ room?”

  My heart was hammering.

  “Take your time,” McQueen said.

  Hopper’s heavy breathing was rattling around the room, one croaky deep sigh after another.

  “The only way it could have got in his room,” I said, eyeing Hopper. “Is… if… if I bled on the brick. Wait a second!” I yanked one sleeve of the blue paper suit up and showed them the inside of my arm. “I get really bad eczema, have done for years and it often bleeds. That night it was bleeding bad. I remember… ask Amber, my, eh, girlfriend, she noticed it…” I knew how desperate and far-fetched I sounded. “I swear I’ve never been in 154 Palmer Street or met Charles Surman-Wells. Never.’

  They suspended the interview.

  They came back in and started the tape.

  DS McQueen. “Spencer Hargreaves, I’m charging you with the murder of Charles Surman-Wells. You do not have to say or do anything. Anything you do say or do may be recorded and used as evidence in a court of law. Do you understand that?”

  “Please, please, you’ve got to believe me. I swear I didn’t do it. Gavin…” Hopper couldn’t look at me. “GAVIN! I DIDN’T DO IT! I DIDN’T DO IT! GAVIN! YOU GOT TO BELIEVE ME! GAVIN! GAVIN!’

  Part Four

  21

  On remand I was locked in my cell twenty-three hours a day. One hour out for exercise, and even that was at the discretion of the prison officers. Every day four cells were opened at the same time and allowed down for breakfast, which was dished up on your tray and taken back and eaten in your cell. Before each meal you were given a tea pack, consisting of two teabags, two sugars, two whiteners and two coffees. If you wanted any privileges, like using the gym or library, you had to fill in an application form in advance. I spent the hour I had out my cell on the phone to Amber.

  Each week your account was credited with $20 to live off, and you were allowed a maximum of $120 paid into your account. Amber made sure mine was always full. The real currency in prison was phone cards and tobacco.

  I got a letter from Hopper, saying he could no longer represent me, claiming that criminal law was not his speciality. He recommended a barrister from Sydney, who commanded a premium, but was the best. Hopper wished me well and enclosed a self-addressed envelope for my instructions. I wrote back asking him to send my case to the barrister.

  Three weeks later I was sat opposite Keith Gallagher going through the case. Keith Gallagher looked young for a barrister, I thought, maybe late-thirties. He was stocky and had poker-straight sandy hair with cow’s licks either side, and the biggest and cleanest set of teeth I’d ever seen. I caught him yawning once and his mouth was so big you could drop a cooking apple in it without it touching the sides. He wore a black pin-stripped suit, sharp white shirt with gold cufflinks and yellow tie. The only thing that didn’t fit his image was his deep monotone voice – nothing snappy about that at all.

  The prosecution had a set amount of time to bring forward the further evidence they claimed to be getting together. Gallagher reckoned a couple of months more and the judge would want to see all the evidence and decide whether there was a case for court – which, Gallagher said, there would be, unless the real killer was brought to justice before then. This was also a possibility as another blood sample had been found on Surman-Wells and some unidentified fingerprints. I was desperate for some good news from Gallagher, even it was just his opinion, but he never mentioned the possibility of me getting out, so I asked him outright and he said, in that drone of a voice, that I shouldn’t be thinking about getting out, only about keeping my nose clean and doing my time. The fucker made me feel worse than ever and I got thinking about Amber on the outside without me. What if she found someone else? If she did, I wouldn’t be bothered about getting out of here. What would be the point?

  Nothing happened for five months, save for I got out of my cell for three to four hours a day, twice-a-week, for recreation. It meant an extra long phone call to Amber and, out of sheer boredom, I started working out in the gym.

  I had lots of different cellmates and didn’t like any of them. I dare say they didn’t like me. Being in a twelve-by-six room with a stranger, usually a total scumbag, for over twenty-hours a day is all about compromise. Three hours of crosswords is better than listening to the grunts and strains of someone taking a shit for an hour. One thing I could never get used to was the junkies. When they first came in, they screamed all night and kept the whole wing awake. I ended up sleeping during the day.

  I’d been in the Metropolitan Remand Centre in Sydney for six months when the prosecution submitted the further evidence. Keith Gallagher was now in a position to direct me.

  “Spencer, the crown has to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that you took Surman-Wells’ life and they have the evidence to do that. What isn’t so certain, is why you took his life and this is what we must work on in your defence.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” I said, leaning forward. “I didn’t kill Surman-Wells. Read what I’ve said. I’ve never met the bloke or went into his digs.”

  “The further evidence they have brought forward is,” he pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and laid it in front of me, “detailed here. Ignore the fancy jargon and read here. They found skin and blood on Surman-Wells’ clothing. That skin and blood is yours. I can’t see how you can deny being in a struggle with him and, consequently, whether you meant it or not, killing him.”

  “I DIDN’T FUCKING DO IT! YOU HEAR WHAT I’M FUCKING SAYING PRICK! I DIDN’T DO IT! I DIDN’T FUCKING DO IT! YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M FUCKING SAYING –”

  The screws burst in and dragged me back to my cell.

  22

  Even though they are not accepted in Australia as proof, I demanded to take a polygraph test and after I refused to change my plea, Gallagher agreed.

  I took the test three times and passed three times.

  Gallagher now believed that I genuinely thought I hadn’t been in 154 Palmer Street and hadn’t murdered Charles Surman-Wells. This, he said, gave us another avenue to explore.

  I got a letter from Cam. He apologised for taking so long to get in touch, but was right behind me, and would gladly stand up in court for me. He said this could have happened to him because he had followed Surman-Wells and could have easily done something stupid like brick his window. He signed off, saying as soon as I got out we’d start planning our worldwide tour of festivals, starting with Fat Tuesday this September. Gregg sent word via Cam that he was rooting for me. I didn’t expect a letter from him; it’s not his style.

  The trial date was set for 25th August – three months away. As soon as I heard, I pictured the judge sentencing me to life and started to panic, and was put on suicide watch until I convinced them that all the blood was from the eczema on my arm.

  Amber and I discussed the options put forward by Gallagher. I could go to trial, the outcome of which wasn’t in doubt. I could change my plea and try and cop a deal for manslaughter, which would carry a five to eight-year sentence, provided the police went for it. Gallagher thought that they wouldn’t, because they wanted the maximum sentence because of my criminal potential.

  The final option was to try and prove I was unfit for trial. If I was found to be unfit for trial, I’d be treated in a secure hospital. The only problem with this, if we were successful, was that I wouldn’t be serving any set sentence. Comparing my case to similar cases that had gone down this route, the time served averaged between three and five years. I would always be classed as a nut, maybe even an outpatient for life, but I had to seriously consider it because I was facing a life sentence.

  Amber had broken down a few times as the net closed in on me
. I had done myself, curling tight in a ball on the top bunk, silently crying for hours.

  Gallagher had submitted three separate reports of my ‘condition’ from top psychologists and after nine months on remand, I was transferred to St Vincent’s High Security Hospital for psychiatric assessment. It’s the last thing the authorities wanted to sanction because they saw this as a clear-cut case and thought I was guilty of a whole lot more, so the reports had to be conclusive. We weren’t claiming that I didn’t kill him – only that I believed I didn’t and was therefore mentally unstable at the time.

  The psychologists we employed were of the opinion that I use avoidance suppression to blank out ordeals and replace them with self-protective thoughts. After comparing my version of a varying number of events with those of someone else’s who was there (this was loosely confirmed from people working at Hargreaves Financial that knew me through my father, a child psychoanalyst who I saw when I was really young and one of my nannies), they found that my version was completely different. Large chunks of the event had been missed out and replaced with what I would have liked to have happened, or other memories dragged back in time to blank out the ordeal.

  The child psychoanalyst also brought forward the strong possibility that I suffer panic and anxiety attacks, which turned out be an integral part of my case.

  Amber told them how she had found me the night I bricked Surman-Wells’ window. He was distant and lost, sat clutching his arm, blood dripping onto the ground. He never spoke for ages. He was exhausted and frightened and in need of a cuddle.

  The psychologists at St Vincent’s Hospital assessed me over a three-month period and concluded that I suffered from anxiety and panic attacks, had an obsessive personality and was very confrontational. They also said that in testing circumstances, it was likely I would become violent. All this based on the fact I was none too chuffed when they cancelled a visit from Amber at the last minute and wouldn’t let me call her. They also agreed with the other psychologists, that I truly believed that I hadn’t killed Surman-Wells.