Darren had spoken to enough miscarriage of justice victims in his time to have some understanding of how disorientating and scary police cells could be. His relatively short stay in Worthing custody had been positively ambient compared to this. Upon his previous arrest he’d sensed that him being married to a senior, and by all accounts popular, officer played in his favour. However brusque and by the book the Metropolitan Police detectives had been, the Sussex detention officers were not shy in going the extra mile for him.
Now, he could be the worst kind of paedophile the way he was being ignored and treated. Sat in the blanched ten-by-eight-foot cell furnished with just a three-inch-thick, blue, plastic-coated mattress atop a moulded bench, a stainless-steel toilet with no seat and a sink with cold running water set into the wall, he could see why whoever designed these hellholes went to great pains to remove any possible ligature points.
He had nothing but his own thoughts and the din of the invisible drunk, drugged and desperate incarcerated along the same corridor for company. He’d sat through three interviews so far and, for no other reason 188than the duty solicitor had told him to, answered no questions. When he heard that advice, he did question it. Surely incessantly trotting out ‘no comment’ again would merely confirm the police’s suspicions. The solicitor said that until the police had disclosed all their evidence, it was best to let them work for their money and not sleepwalk into the bear traps they were undoubtedly laying. So, he’d kept his counsel and drawn some ironic satisfaction from the detectives’ rising anger as the grilling continued.
He was pretty sure now that they had no more questions, so why the wait?
He happened to be looking at the spyhole in the door when it darkened, and then the security hatch clanked down.
‘Want anything to eat?’ came the voice which, from this angle, belonged to just a nose and a beard.
‘What are the choices?’ said Darren.
‘Now let me see. You can choose between …’ The detention officer paused. ‘Yes or no.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes please, then. Can I have a cup of tea too?’
The hatch was wrenched up as violently as it had been dropped.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ said Darren to himself.
In the brief moment the hatch had been open, the putrid stench of urine, vomit and feet had wafted in to accompany the shouts, screams and slam of metal doors and grilles. He had no idea how long he would have to wait for his meal or any kind of update, let alone release. Given the complete absence of natural light but the constant flood of the artificial alternative, he’d lost all sense of time.
After a while, the hatch opened again and the same humourless oaf called through. ‘Food.’
Darren stretched himself off the bench, took the three paces to the door on the opposite side of the cell and took the airline-style blown-plastic plate and cup. As he did so the spork fell on the floor. He didn’t waste his breath asking to be brought another. The hatch only just missed him as ‘Beard’ racked it shut. 189
Darren looked at the congealed mess masquerading as a lasagne and realised that the fingers holding his tea were not burning as they should. He put both down on the floor by the toilet, his appetite gone.
Desperate to kill time, he went back to the bench and thought he’d try to sleep. The noise, the smell and his own fear would make success unlikely but without anything to read, no one to talk to and none of his personal possessions to occupy him, he had to try to speed this nightmare up.
He was certain it had only been about ten minutes – twenty tops – when the door clanked and was thrown open. For the first time he saw there was more to ‘Beard’ than facial hair and nose, and he realised why he’d chosen a career where looks and charisma weren’t essential criteria.
‘Out you come. The officers need you.’
‘Is my solicitor here?’ It had been drummed into him not to talk to the detectives without legal representation.
Beard just shrugged and stepped to one side so Darren could pass in front of him. ‘Didn’t fancy dinner then,’ he said as he looked at the untouched meal and tea.
As he walked down the corridor, the banging and cat-calling were deafening. He wasn’t sure if it was him the others were sizing up but he hoped he’d never find out.
As ‘Beard’ unlocked the gates and grilles, the custody centre grew more spacious and he soon recognised the futuristic booking-in area. Much cleaner, much lighter and without the gagging smell.
He immediately saw Detective Sergeants Shiel and Jones standing stony-faced in front of a desk, behind which sat an equally impassive custody sergeant. Despite his dread he smiled, hoping to evoke one back. He didn’t.
With no preamble, Shiel locked eyes with him and said, ‘Mr Howe, we have presented the evidence regarding you to the Crown Prosecution Service and they have authorised you be charged with conspiracy to commit misconduct in a public office, so listen to what I have to say …’ 190
Darren’s head swam and he stumbled back. He was aware of Shiel spouting some legalese but he couldn’t take it in. This had to be a mistake. He’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Where was his solicitor? Jones held onto him while Shiel finished. All he took in was ‘Do you understand?’
‘Well no. This can’t be right.’
With no attempt to reply, the custody officer took over. Her sharp Irish accent made it hard for Darren to understand her but he got the gist of it. He was being held in custody to appear at court in the morning where the CPS would object to bail. Something about interfering with witnesses, absconding and committing other offences.
‘But … but … Can I speak to my solicitor? My wife? There must be some mistake.’
‘Later,’ said the custody sergeant who then nodded at ‘Beard’. ‘Back to his cell please.’
He walked in a trance to the same racket he’d received on the way out. Only when his cell door slammed and he found himself slumped on the bench did he allow his world to collapse.