“Capable in theory, I suppose, but he’d have to get in and fix the charges. And before that, he’d have to know they were there – assuming they were the intended targets. It’s the stuff of fantasy.”
“Like your fantasy about Jack and Jason being innocent?”
“Yes, but that’s looking like it might not be a fantasy, isn’t it?”
“In which case, let’s not be quick to dismiss this,” Harry said. “One thing I think we’ve learned is that we should all keep open minds from now on.”
*
Jo and Tina took their seats opposite the two men. The cut on Tina’s head had been covered by as small a plaster as possible and hidden by a new hairstyle incorporating an eyebrow-length fringe.
“Interview started ten-twenty-three am; present, Mr Mickey Kadawe, Mr Chester Rockwell – representing Mr Kadawe, Detective Sergeant Christina Ramirez, Detective Inspector Joannita Cottrell; in attendance, Constable Geordie Carroll.”
“I don’t fancy yours much, Rocky. Come to think of it, I don’t fancy mine either.”
Jo looked up from her notes and across at Chester Rockwell.
“It might be wise, before we start, Mr Rockwell, to remind your client how he should behave; in his own best interest, of course.”
The lawyer took a deep breath and stared back at her.
“What I will say, DI Cottrell, is that I object very strongly indeed to the way my client has been treated over the past five days. Mr Kadawe has been left for most of that time alone in his cell, with no attention paid to him at all except on three separate occasions when he has been questioned for no more than an hour each time. Subsequent sessions have been almost exact repeats of the previous ones, with nothing new presented in the way of evidence to support his being here under suspicion of this offence. I strongly urge you – in fact, I demand – that you either move this case rapidly forward with immediate effect or release my client. Either way, I will be making the strongest representation to the highest authority about the way this case has been handled. And I shall be making a complaint against you personally, Inspector.”
“Detective Inspector,” Jo corrected. “Thank you for making that very clear, Mr Rockwell. Can we now proceed with the interview?”
She turned back to Mickey, fixing his eyes with hers and feeling remarkably relaxed.
“Okay, Mickey, just to please Mr Rockwell, let’s move this quickly on.”
She turned to Tina.
“Detective Sergeant.”
Tina pulled out the rucksack from behind her chair and placed it on the table.
“Do you recognise this, Mickey?” she said. “For the record, I am showing Mr Kadawe a blue-and-grey Karrimor rucksack.”
Jo noted with satisfaction the brief moment of panic in Mickey’s eyes. He half-turned to his lawyer before recovering himself.
“No, I haven’t seen it before.” The confidence and cockiness were missing from his voice.
“Are you sure?” Tina said. “Absolutely sure?”
“Why?” Mickey said. “Where did you find it?”
“Oh, just around, you know,” she said. “Look at it again. You’re sure you haven’t seen it?”
Mickey turned to Rockwell, who raised his eyebrows, inviting him to answer.
“Yes,” he said.
“You have seen it?” Tina said.
“No. I meant – yes, I’m sure I haven’t seen it. Look, is this some sort of trick?”
“We wondered at first whether it belonged to someone in one of your bands,” Jo said.
“No, it doesn’t. I’m sure it doesn’t.”
“Is that part of what you have to do as a manager, Mickey? Be aware of every single item that each band member possesses. Must be the hardest part of the job, keeping track of all that stuff.”
Mickey said nothing for a while.
“Oh, now I know where I’ve seen it…”
Rockwell leaned forward as if to speak – too late.
“You’ve just told us twice that you’ve never seen it before,” Jo said.
Rockwell sat back again and sighed.
“Well… I’ve just remembered… It belonged to Jack.”
“Jack who?”
“You know. Jack Tomlinson-Brown. The one who died… It belonged to him.”
“Was he in one of your bands?”
“No, of course he wasn’t, but he was…”
“Then we’re pretty sure it didn’t belong to him.”
“Why? How can you be sure?”
“Because of where we found it.”
Mickey did not respond right away. He turned again to his lawyer, then back to Jo and Tina.
“Can I have a word with Rocky – Mr Rockwell?”
“Certainly, but aren’t you going to ask us first where we found it? It might give you more to talk about.”
“Wherever you found it, it’s definitely Jack’s. I’m fairly sure of that.”
“Definitely Jack’s? Fairly sure? You’re mixing up your adverbs, Mickey. Isn’t that right, Mr Rockwell?”
“I would like to speak with my client, Detective Inspector. Please.”
Jo spoke into the recorders. “Interview suspended at ten-forty am.” She switched them off. “Constable Carroll, please find Mr Kadawe and Mr Rockwell a meeting room to use.”
*
“Interview re-started at eleven-twenty am. Now…”
“DI Cottrell, before we go any further can I just clarify some of my client’s previous comments.”
“You can try, Mr Rockwell. Please go ahead.”
“Just to say that Mr Kadawe did not initially recognise the rucksack, but then suddenly remembered where he might have seen it; that is, in the possession of Jack Tomlinson-Brown, who, as I know you are aware, spent a great deal of time with Mr Kadawe at his home in Woking. However, on reflection, my client cannot be certain of this and accepts that it may well belong to someone in one of his bands.”
“Well, thank you for clarifying that.”
“I mean, rucksacks are all pretty much the same, aren’t they?”
Jo beamed back at him.
“Not this one, Mr Rockwell,” she said. “Most definitely not this one.” She turned to Mickey. “You still haven’t asked me where we found the bag. Is that because you know where we found it?”
“Detective Inspector, I have just explained…”
“I know, Mr Rockwell, but you see I don’t believe a word of what you just said. That’s no reflection on you, of course; I’m sure you are just repeating what your client told you. So come on, Mickey, tell us where we found it.”
“How the fuck would I know…”
“Well, because you put it there, of course.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s – not – my – fucking – rucksack!” Mickey was squirming on his chair.
“I didn’t say it was,” Jo said. “I don’t care who it belongs to – you, Jack, one of your band members, Bob the Builder, whoever. What we care about is who used it last. And we’re quite certain we know that. We just wanted to give you the chance to tell us.”
Mickey slumped back and turned away, staring down at the floor next to his chair. Rockwell looked anxious and confused.
“DI Cottrell, would it be possible…”
“Not right now, sir,” Jo said, her eyes fixed on Mickey. “We can’t have a time-out after every question so that your client can invent what he believes is a suitable answer. Detective Sergeant, explain to our guests where we found the bag.”
Tina held up the exhibit.
“This was found in the back of a van used by one of your bands. It was discovered by a sniffer dog during a routine security check at the SRH,” she said.
“The what?” Rockwell aske
d.
“Sweet Rock Hall – it’s a concert venue, at Portman Palace, just outside Woking. It was under the floor of the van’s storage compartment. In it, we found – do you want to take up the story, Mickey?”
Mickey was silent.
“Okay; in it we found some hand-tools – in a side pocket, and in the main section of the bag, a pair of surgical gloves and very significant traces of a banned substance. It is certain – forensically certain, in fact – that at some time, recently we believe, this bag was filled with cocaine.”
Mickey was doing his best to remain indifferent, but his breathing was noticeably louder and quicker. The signs were not lost on Mr Rockwell.
“DI Cottrell, can I please…”
“We are in the process of tracking down everybody who has used the vehicle within the past few months,” Tina continued, “and we shall be taking DNA samples from each of them – to check against the skin residue found inside the gloves. However, that is just to eliminate them from our enquiries, because, as DI Cottrell said, we think we know who used the gloves and hid the rucksack in the van. We think it was you, Mickey.”
“DI Cottrell, I insist…”
“I assume,” Jo said, addressing the lawyer, “that your client won’t object to our taking a swab for DNA testing?”
“Before this goes any further, Detective Inspector, I must speak to my client in private. I am sure you understand that it could be prejudicial to your own interests if you refuse me that opportunity.”
“Interview suspended at eleven-thirty-nine. We’ll reconvene at one o’clock after we’ve all eaten a hearty meal.” She stopped the recording again. “Constable, could you arrange that for Messrs Kadawe and Rockwell, please?”
The two women left and walked back to the MIT room.
“Right,” Jo said, when they were back in her office. “Let’s up the ante.” She looked at the sheets on her desk containing a long list of names. “I asked Jody to get me these.”
*
“Interview restarted, one-oh-five pm. All present as before.”
Mickey looked hard at Jo with the same intensity and menace which had unsettled her at the time of his arrest. For the moment she ignored him and addressed his lawyer.
“Do you wish to say anything before we resume, Mr Rockwell?”
“Yes; I most certainly do.”
Jo and Tina sighed loudly enough to ensure it would be picked up on the recording.
“My client wishes to reiterate that he cannot say for certain whether or not he has seen this rucksack before. What he can say, however, is that he has certainly never used it, and if there is anything in the bag which appears to incriminate him, then it must have been placed there by someone for that specific purpose.”
He leant back in his chair and folded his arms with an air of finality, as if he had just explained away everything.
“Is that it?” Jo asked.
“Yes, for now.”
She turned to Mickey.
“Mr Kadawe, could you tell us where you were on the night of the party at Etherington Place?”
The same look crossed Mickey’s face as when he had first been shown the rucksack; one of momentary panic.
“Why? I wasn’t there. I told your people.”
“Yes, I know you did. Would you like to change your story now?”
“Why should I? That’s the truth?”
“Okay, so let me repeat the question. Where were you on the night of the party?”
“I told your people that as well. It’s no secret. I was with a friend. A woman from South Africa, someone I knew from way back…”
“An ex-girlfriend?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“How old were you when you left Johannesburg, Mickey? Ten? Eleven? Can’t have been all that serious, then, this girlfriend.”
“Look, does that matter? She came over to London; she’d got my address through Milton – that’s my old man – and got in touch. She only had a few hours, so I gave her a lift to Heathrow so we could talk longer. Her plane was delayed so I stayed with her to keep her company. It was really late when I got back so I went straight home. Okay?”
Jo held his eyes. She didn’t speak for a long time. It was Mickey who looked away first.
“What’s her name?” Jo spoke, her voice little more than a whisper.
Mickey hesitated for just a moment. “Olivia,” he said.
“Olivia who?”
“Don’t know.”
Jo laughed.
“Oh, come on, Mickey. Don’t make it too easy for us.”
“I don’t know her last name. She’s married now, and I can’t even remember her name before. That’s the truth. She just phoned and said ‘it’s Olivia’ and asked if we could get together. I only know one Olivia.”
Jo shook her head.
“You’re losing it, Mickey. Where was she flying to?”
“Back to Jo’burg.”
“Direct?”
“I think so.”
“You must remember, surely? When it was delayed, there would have been announcements over the tannoy; information on the display screens. Was it a direct flight or not? Come on, Mickey, it wasn’t that long ago. How many ex-childhood sweethearts from Jo’burg do you entertain at Heathrow in the course of a few months?”
Jo glanced across at Geordie who moved silently behind the two men.
“Look, you fucking bitch!” Mickey was suddenly leaning across the table, shouting. “I don’t know, right! I have a life, you know. A real life. I can’t be expected to remember precise fucking details of insignificant little things that happen to me like talking to an old friend. I don’t care what her fucking last name is or how she was flying back. It’s just not important!”
Jo looked calmly back at him though she could feel her heart beating faster. Rockwell put a hand on his shoulder to pull him away. Mickey shrugged it off, but subsided back in his chair.
“You’re right, as it happens, Mr Kadawe,” she said, dropping her eyes to look at the sheets of paper in front of her. “It’s not important whether you remember or not. Because there were four flights that left Heathrow that evening for Jo’burg. Two direct, one via Amsterdam and one via Frankfurt. And not one of them was delayed. Not even for a few minutes.”
She looked across at him and smiled.
“So what do you say to that? And while you’re thinking of an answer, I’ll check through these lists of passengers to see if I can find anyone called Olivia.”
Suddenly, Mickey was on his feet and leaning across the table. Geordie was ready, grabbing him from behind and pinning his arms to his sides as Jo pressed the alarm button under the table. Even before she had released it, the door was flung open and two more officers raced in to grab the prisoner. Jo and Tina stepped back from the table as Mickey’s face was forced down sideways onto it and the ‘cuffs applied. He was wrestled from the room screaming obscenities and threats at Jo over his shoulder.
Rockwell had retreated to the corner of the room furthest away from the action.
“I think you should have a talk with your client, Mr Rockwell,” Jo said, aware that her voice was shaking. “He’s just suffered a bit of a setback.”
She stepped up to the table.
“Interview ended at one-twenty-five pm.”
She switched off the recorders.
*
The Lochshore cafeteria was large and airy with a long self-service counter separating it from the gleaming stainless steel of the kitchen at one end. At the other end, a small stage faced a double semicircle of around thirty chairs, serving as a lecture facility for meetings, announcements and training events.
Deputy Chief Prison Officer G. Alistair – Gally – McPherson’s imposing presence dominated the
stage and demanded attention. Over six feet tall, with powerful shoulders and barrel chest, his face was battered and scarred from his years of service working with the hardest criminals Scotland could offer.
“Okay, guys; change of plans. Departure has been brought forward and we’ve got to get the wee boat ready for six o’clock tomorrow evening. That gives us twenty-eight hours instead of forty-two.”
Gally shouted above the chorus of groans which greeted the announcement.
“Hold on, it gets real exciting from here.” He read from the screen of his hand-held iPad. “This is due to intelligence received about possible disruption to the journey by a third party organisation.”
“You mean terrorists?” someone asked.
“A third party organisation,” Gally repeated. “The new departure time must be kept to ourselves for obvious reasons. Those of you who had plans for the end of the shift had better start inventing a suitable excuse as to why you’ll be working a further four hours. The overlap will double our resources for half the next shift. And don’t worry; they’ll be working the extra four hours at the end of theirs. That will give us the equivalent of an additional shift’s work before the new departure time. Just think of the extra money you’ll earn, added to the amount you’ll save tonight.”
More groans and a few laughs.
“Big C will be back in just under three hours, so let’s make sure we’re at full speed by the time he gets here. We don’t want him thinking we can’t respond to a crisis without him, do we? And remember – no-one mentions the change of time. I don’t want anyone contacting the next shift in advance either, or saying anything to them when they come in. I want to make sure they get the information from me. Okay? And if I find out anything else, I’ll let you know straight away. Any questions? No? Okay, then let’s get back to work.”
*
Chester Rockwell tapped, almost apologetically, on DI Cottrell’s half-open door, peering into the office as he did so.
“Come in, Mr Rockwell. Please sit down. Is your client ready yet to resume our discussion?”
“I believe he will be very soon,” he replied, taking the seat offered. “In the meantime he has asked me to apologise on his behalf for his behaviour. And as a gesture of goodwill, he has consented to provide a sample of DNA. But he’s someone who’s used to having to fend for himself, you know, Detective Inspector, and when you back him into a corner like you did… Well, you can expect him to fight his way out of it. It’s an instinctive reflex for someone like Mr Kadawe.”
Lost Souls Page 21
