Taylor took Anderson into the custody suite. After a few raised eyebrows the sergeant booked in the detainee.
‘We’re going to have to put you in a cell, Mr Anderson,’ explained Taylor. ‘Until we are ready for interview.’
Anderson said nothing.
‘I’m sure it won’t be long,’ he added on sensing Anderson’s apprehension. Taylor felt for the man. A few seconds of bad driving and his life was over. He’d seen it a hundred times before. Even if they survived the jail sentence, they never got over the guilt, especially when a child was involved. Still, Taylor had a job to do and he was sure Molly Granger’s parents didn’t see it like that.
The steel door clanged shut. Anderson stared blankly at the grey walls. He’d seen the inside of a cell as part of his training to be a recorder – a part-time circuit judge. But this was different. He sat down on the concrete bench and let his head fall into his hands, then flinched, having forgotten the injury to his face. Bereft, he tried to make sense of what was happening to his life. Was he being selfish? Two people had died. Was it his fault? Had he been rushing to get to Will’s football match? With so much going on had he lost concentration? And who was his passenger?
The misery of his contemplation was broken by the sound of the hatch opening, and then the door.
He was joined in the cell by a short man with a ruddy face in a pinstriped suit, thrusting out a fat, nail-bitten hand. ‘Dewi Morgan. Pleased to meet you. Big admirer of yours, you know.’
An encouraging start, thought Anderson.
A bloated-looking Welshman with a love of real ale, Morgan was also a highly respected solicitor, famed for his ruthless defence of his clients. He shot Anderson a mischievous smile. ‘You’ve put a few of my clients behind bars over the years, I can tell you.’
‘Well, let’s see if you can keep this one out,’ Anderson replied.
Morgan laughed. ‘Right, down to business,’ he said, taking out a pad and sitting down on the concrete bench. ‘They’ve given me absolutely no pre-interview disclosure.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘They’re so paranoid about not appearing to do anything that could be seen as favouritism that they have gone completely the other way.’
Anderson shook his head in astonishment.
‘Tell me everything you can remember of the accident?’
‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘Was drink involved?’
‘No way. I’d never drink and drive.’
‘On any medication?’
‘No.’
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
‘Leaving court with my junior and his pupil. Stopping off for a coffee at Starbucks. That’s about it.’ Anderson didn’t see any point mentioning the flirting with Tilly. Was he already being economical with the truth? The realisation sent a shiver down his spine.
‘Right, well. You’ll have to go no comment.’
‘No comment? I’m not doing that!’ Anderson protested, appalled at the suggestion. ‘How can I refuse to assist the police with their enquiries? I’m a prosecution barrister!’
‘Right now, my friend, you’re a suspect. If you tell them you can’t remember anything, firstly they won’t believe you, and secondly, when you do come up with a defence, a jury may wonder why you didn’t mention it in interview.’
‘A jury? You don’t seriously think I’ll be charged, do you?’
Morgan shrugged.
‘I’m still not going no comment.’
‘OK, it’s your funeral.’