On arriving back at the police station, Webb carefully repackaged the knife in a plastic evidence bag and assigned Raymond to make sure that it found its way to the forensic science laboratory without delay. He then made his way down to the cells. It was quiet. The previous night’s consignment of drunks, working girls, and assorted nuisances had long since been dispatched to the Magistrates’ Court to be dealt with, and the remands had not yet returned. He found the duty sergeant, PS Bert Miller, his feet up on his desk, with a cup of tea and a copy of the Daily Mirror. On seeing Webb, Miller threw the newspaper down on the desk beside him, and swung his feet down to the floor.
‘I was wondering when we might see you, Johnny,’ he smiled. ‘You’ve got a right one here, and no mistake.’
Miller and Webb had joined the force at about the same time, more than 20 years before, but their career paths had been very different. While Webb had scrambled for a job in CID as soon as he decently could and worked his way up through the ranks, Miller’s taste was for work in uniform, out of doors, away from the police station, dealing with the public.
His family had eventually persuaded him to apply for promotion to sergeant, which he had done reluctantly, and had regretted ever since they sewed the stripes on his uniform. As duty sergeant he spent far too much time on routine custody matters, which involved endless paperwork. He took every available opportunity to take part in any assignment away from the station, but sergeants were in short supply, and most of the outside jobs these days were entrusted to constables. In cases where a serious crime required a show of uniformed strength, a large drug bust for example, he always volunteered, but there was often some upstart graduate-entry inspector who wanted to prove to the world that he could handle the physical side of policing and pulled rank to take his place. Despite all this, Miller loved and respected the job. Even though he knew Webb well, he would have called him ‘sir’ or ‘guv’ if there had been another officer within earshot.
‘Still not talking, is he?’ Webb asked.
Miller snorted.
‘Not a word. But that’s the least of it.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s some kind of medical problem. I’ve got Dr Moynihan with him now.’
Webb looked at Miller in surprise.
‘Medical problem? What medical problem? We didn’t notice anything when we arrested him. He was quite capable of stabbing his wife violently just a few minutes before that, so I don’t see what he would need a doctor for.’
Miller got to his feet and sipped his tea.
‘All I can tell you,’ he replied, ‘is that I was checking on him every 15 minutes after I put him in the cell. Once the escorting officers told me the circumstances, I took it upon myself to put him on a suicide watch.’
Webb made a face.
‘Come on, Johnny, don’t look at me like that. You’ve known me long enough. I don’t like taking chances, you know that – not when it’s my responsibility. I don’t want some poor sod offing himself on my watch, even if he has just killed his wife. Anyway, as I say, I’m checking on him regularly, and the third time I go in, he’s sitting there on the floor of his cell, shaking. And I don’t mean shivering. I mean shaking, uncontrollably. I go in and ask him if he is all right. No reply. So I approach him and take his arm, and…’
Miller stopped and shook his head.
‘I’ve never felt anything like it. He was freezing, Johnny, absolutely bloody freezing. Talk about Scott of the Antarctic. You could have frozen water on his arms. That was why he couldn’t control the shaking. He was just too bloody cold. And you know what it’s like down here. It can be a bit on the warm side in the cells, even in winter. There would be no reason for him to be cold, much less shaking himself to death like that.’
Miller breathed out heavily and leaned back against his desk.
‘So I grabbed all the blankets I could find and wrapped them around him, and then I made him some very hot sweet tea; lots of sugar. That seemed to help. He calmed down a bit, but he was still far too bloody cold. At which point I thought, I can’t take chances with this. This bloke could be seriously ill. I need to know what I’m dealing with. You couldn’t have interviewed him in that condition, anyway. So I called Dr Moynihan, and we will see what he has to say.’
Webb nodded.
‘All right, fair enough, Bert. How long do you think Dr Moynihan will be with him?’
Miller shrugged.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. He’s been in there for a good half-hour already. Why don’t you take yourself off to the canteen and have a cuppa? I’ll let you know as soon as there is anything to report. The only thing is – I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr Moynihan wants him taken in to Guy’s or Barts for the night, for tests or observation. You know how careful he is.’
‘All right, Bert, thanks,’ Webb said.
He turned to leave, but then swung back abruptly.
‘And he really hasn’t said anything at all?’
‘Not to me. Not a dicky bird. If it hadn’t been for the documents he had with him, I would have had to book him in as “identity unknown”. Don’t we know anything else about him?’
‘Not yet. I have a feeling we will get some more from our eye witness, the welfare officer, eventually. But she can’t tell me any more without getting permission from the High Court. It’s all confidential, isn’t it?’
Miller smiled. ‘Typical.’
‘Yes, well, we’ll get there,’ Webb reflected. ‘But I’m going to be a lot happier once he starts talking.’