I look up to see him staring at me like a mirror; the frame may be cracked and the glass silvered, but the image is clear. ‘Whatever else, we share a taste for what Oscar described so piquantly as feasting with panthers; and poor Leslie Meacham amended to fighting with alley cats.’
‘Why poor?’ I kick myself.
‘Haven’t you heard? He was caught making a nuisance of himself in a public convenience and went to live with his sister in Torquay … Still, whatever feline metaphor you choose, you must agree that there is no more exciting sight than that of an inarticulate boy grubbing for his pleasure.’
‘Was that what attracted you to Robin?’
‘Who, as you may recall, was exceptionally articulate.’
‘Even at fourteen?’
‘Robin was special. He was thrust in my path. I tried to resist; and yet: Temptation like a plump, pubescent boy …’ A Shakespearian actor at the adjoining table looks startled. My courtesy has been strained to the limit.
‘I really must go. I have an appointment.’
‘About your troubles, I expect? Well, don’t despair. As an old friend – sadly no longer with us – used to say, “Rules are made to be kept and laws to be broken.” It’s a precept to which I’ve adhered all my life. So, break on, dear boy, with my blessing. And next time you need a bolthole, come to Buckstone. It has all the charms of Crierley, plus what I believe are commonly known as “mod cons”.’
I make my escape and hurry home to shave. As I am halfway through one cheek, the phone rings with news that I feel sure is an augur: a woman informs me that her son has found Trouble. I rush through the rest of my beard and drive to Acton. I do not identify myself, and she is nonplussed when I press the doorbell (which offers further assurance that Happy Days Are Here Again). She fails to connect our calls and scans the street for a camera. Only when Trouble bounds into my arms does she give up hope of her fifteen minutes of fame. She asks me in for a cup of tea. I sit in the striped living room, stroking Trouble who purrs with self-satisfaction. I am so relieved that I quite overlook the promise on the collar, until, as I prepare to leave, the boy asks shyly, ‘Is your cat’s name Large Reward?’
Any hope that Trouble’s return marks a revival in my fortunes is dashed at seven thirty the next morning, when I am woken by a knock at the door. Assuming that it is the postman with a package of dubious import, I ignore it … but to no avail. Cursing, I stumble downstairs to be greeted by two police officers.
‘Leonard Young …’ I am not sure whether it is a question or a statement. ‘I’m DI Hopkins from the Special Inquiry Unit at John Street police station in Brighton; this is DC Bridges. We’re investigating the case of Pagan Mulliner. I’m arresting you on suspicion of indecent assault. I must caution you and tell you that you do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence. I’d ask you to come with us to John Street station to continue the inquiry.’
I try to unpeel the layers of my reaction: shock … disbelief, certainly… but also relief, that I no longer have to struggle to prove the truth of my story; although I shall have to struggle even harder to prove the truth of my side. I am entering into a dangerous arena. This is not the children’s bullfight of the family courts, where death is still in training; but a full-blown corrida. Fear gores my mind. I try to focus on the officers. I am unsure of the protocol; do I ask them in or wait for them to push past? In the event, I issue an invitation, which they politely accept and then immediately abuse by calling for reinforcements to search the house.
I am trapped in an episode of The Bill … which reminds me of my right to a solicitor. The Inspector gives me permission to ring Max, who promises to follow us to Brighton, at which point the spectre of Kafka recedes. I ask if I may shower and shave (the beard is too recent a memory). The Inspector has no objections, provided that the Constable accompanies me. I steal a glance at the thickset young man with the thinning blond hair, but his cold blue eyes give nothing away. He stands by the bathroom door, his gaze stripping me of modesty, and I forgo the shower. I resent his morbid interest in my razor.
‘I’m not guilty, you know.’
‘No, sir?’
‘So I’m not going to slit my throat … or try to electrocute myself with the hairdryer.’
‘No, sir.’ He ‘sirs’ me with all the contempt of Cambridge porters.
It is not until I put the blade to my cheek that I realise the extent of my terror. I am trembling so hard that I dare not risk a cut. I retreat to my bedroom to dress. I ask Bridges what to wear; he pretends to ponder. ‘Something casual, I’d say, sir. This isn’t one of your black-tie affairs.’
‘I don’t mean fashion. I’ve never been to a police station before. Are they hot or cold? What will I need?’
‘I think we can take it that you’ll find it hot.’
We go down to the kitchen, where the Inspector has made coffee. However intent she may be on keeping our relations amicable, I find the forced informality unnerving, like a child meeting a teacher out of school. Through the door, I glimpse her men rifling my study.
‘Couldn’t I help? Those are private papers; I don’t want them disturbed.’
‘Don’t worry, sir; leave it to us.’
‘They won’t find anything; there’s nothing to find.’
‘Leave it to us.’
The coffee is wasted, since the Inspector insists on setting out before it has time to cool. As we quit the house, my attendant photographer snaps into action. The officers suspect a tip-off; I explain that he has been keeping watch for weeks. I suddenly feel benign towards him. ‘Well done,’ I shout. ‘Patience pays off.’ Which sounds like another caption.
I search for a police car, only to be told that we are travelling incognito in a Toyota.
‘Nifty little motor, though I say so myself,’ says Bridges. ‘Of course, it eats petrol …’ I feel sure that he cheats on the mileage. In the middle of Brixton, I let out a shout. Bridges swerves. ‘What the fuck! Sorry, guv. Don’t do that!’
‘I’ve forgotten the cat.’
At the station, I am ushered into a cheerless charge room and placed in the hands of the Custody Officer. After taking details of the arrest, logging my cash and removing my belt and tie (I wore the wrong clothes after all), he leads me down a labyrinth of corridors. Reaching a door, he pulls back the wicket and lets me into my cell. It is larger than I expected with heavily glazed white tiles, like a municipal Gents. The only light is a single bulb behind thick, dust-stained glass and the only furniture a broad wooden bench built into the wall. At one end is a mattress with a naked pillow … I think of all the heads that must have greased it and start to itch; at the other is a hole which serves as a lavatory. He seems to take particular pleasure in showing me the button by which I can call them to clear it … the button that is my only point of contact with the outside world. ‘Ah,’ I say caustically, ‘it must be the latest thing in sanitation: an inside toilet with an outside flush.’
He departs in the jangle of bangs and bolts and crashes that accompanies him like a signature tune. I am left alone; and yet I am not afraid. I am apprehensive, which is different. I know that, as long as I keep a clear head, I will clear my name. But it is difficult to think above the oaths, yells and caterwauls that emerge from the neighbouring cells. My only escape is to speculate on the previous occupants. Who were they? Drunks? Murderers? The Grand Hotel bombers? There is no way of knowing … which is where my metaphor breaks down; in a lavatory, there would at least be names scratched on the walls, along with messages to give even the loneliest men hope.
It is midday when the Custody Officer collects me for interview. He takes me into a small room, sparsely furnished with a table, four chairs, a tape-recorder, and microphones on the wall. After repeated requests, I am finally allowed ten minutes in private with Max, who has been waiting for over an hour. Indeed, once he has satisfied himself that I am not suicidal, his chief concern appears to be his own maltreatment
… stuck in the lobby ‘with Joe Public’; kept in the dark; not even offered a cup of coffee. ‘For God’s sake, this is a provincial force!’ I point to the microphones, but he snorts. ‘We’re talking PC Plod not MI5.’ He then dismisses my arrest as ‘a local difficulty. They’ll never get a charge to stick’.
‘I’m innocent, Max.’
‘Even so, conviction in child cases is a lottery. Last year, the police were so hamstrung by a client of mine whom they suspected of buggering his children that they charged him with buggering his wife, about which they couldn’t have given two hoots.’
‘I don’t have a wife.’
The officers return. Now that she has taken off her coat, I am aware that the Inspector is pregnant. I speculate on how her hormones might affect her questions. She switches on the tape-recorder, which emits an ear-splitting hum.
‘This interview is being tape-recorded. We are in the interview room at John Street police station. I am DI BH176 Hopkins of the Special Inquiry Unit. The other officer present is …’
‘DC AB472 Bridges of the Special Inquiry Unit.’
‘It is 12.30 p.m. on Thursday August 11th 1993. I am interviewing … please say your name.’
‘Leo … Leonard Young.’
‘Also present is your legal representative.’
‘Maxwell Isaac Barrowman.’
She explains the recording procedure and repeats the caution.
‘Have you understood everything so far?’
‘Just about.’
‘What didn’t you understand?’ I make a note to eschew irony. ‘As you know, you’ve been arrested for indecent assault on a child. Did you take it in when I told you at the house or was it a bit of a bolt from the blue?’
‘I was aware that you were conducting an investigation.’
‘If I may intervene for one moment?’ Max does so. ‘I have discussed the charge with my client and advised him not to answer any questions.’
‘I’m sure you appreciate that that doesn’t prevent me from asking them.’
Inspector and Constable conduct the examination with the timing of an expert double act. My refusal to participate allows me the chance to admire their skill, although I admit to some disappointment that the roles of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ policeman should be allotted so predictably by sex.
They ask about my relationship with Pagan, concentrating on moments of intimacy. When the Inspector asks if I was strict about enforcing bedtimes, the Constable wants to know if I was strict at other times (‘Did you smack her? Where did you smack her? Did you smack her through the knickers or on the flesh?’]. When she asks whether she wore a nightdress or pyjamas, he asks whether she slept in my bed (‘How often did you touch her? Would you say you were a touchy sort of person? Did you cuddle close?’). When she asks about bathing her, he asks about drying her (‘Did you sometimes give her an extra-special rub? Did your hand ever slip?’).
I am finding it hard not to comment. I start to ration my ‘no comments’. I fail to see why Max is so insistent on my right to silence, although I continue to note his instructions from the corner of my eye.
‘Why did you abduct Pagan Mulliner?’ the Inspector asks. ‘Why did you dress her up as a boy? Did you know that a paediatric examination has revealed tears to her anus?’
‘What did I say?’ I turn to Max. ‘Now will you believe me?’
‘Later, Leo.’
‘No comment.’
‘What would you like to do to someone who tears a little girl’s anus?’ Bridges leans over me. I feel his breath on my cheek. ‘What do you think we should do to someone who tears a little girl’s anus?’ His stance renders any comment redundant.
‘What’s a tongue sandwich?’ The Inspector takes me by surprise.
‘How do you know about that?’
‘That’s better. If we can turn this into a dialogue, we might get somewhere.’
‘I’ve already informed you that my client neither wishes nor intends to answer your questions. So would you produce whatever evidence you have against him or else allow us to leave?’
‘You’ll leave when we’re good and ready,’ the Constable snaps. ‘The sooner he starts to cooperate, the sooner that will be.’
The Inspector adopts a more wheedling tone. ‘No one’s suggesting you’re a monster. It’s easy to see what must have happened. You were left on your own with a little girl. Her mummy was dead; you were all she had left. She came to you seeking comfort; you tried your best to give it. Sometimes she came in the middle of the night … You never planned it. It’s just that one thing led to another. Come on, admit it. Aren’t I right?’
‘No! … no comment.’
‘Tell us about your sex life.’ Bridges edges close enough to become part of it. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ No comment. ‘It must be hard to meet people with a face like yours … I’m speaking professionally, of course. Always looking behind you as it were – in case someone’s shopping you to the tabloids. Whereas, with a six-year-old kid, you knew you’d be on safe ground.’
‘You disgust me!’
‘I disgust you?’
The Inspector insinuates more slyly. ‘I think that you love Pagan, Leo. Truly, I do. And I know that she loves you. Which is why she was willing to do whatever she could to please you. The trouble is that you wanted too much. When did it all start to get out of hand?’
‘May I have a glass of water?’ My throat smarts from the silence.
‘No.’
‘I must protest. My client is not accustomed to this sort of treatment.’
‘Nor was the little girl.’ The Inspector is heavy with her unborn child. ‘Tears to her anus: will you think of that for a minute?’
‘I’ve thought of little else for months! Why do you suppose that I took her away, if not to rescue her from the man who was abusing her?’
‘Leo …’ Max interjects.
‘We know why you took her away: so there’d be nothing to stop you having your way with her.’
‘You were scared, weren’t you, Leo?’ The Inspector’s sympathy is as insulting to my intelligence as the Constable’s bluster is to my character. ‘Her grandparents had started to suspect; they were threatening to blow the whistle.’
‘No, that’s not true!’
‘So, you decided to strike first and at the most vulnerable target … a frail old man. Oh yes, he made no bones about your allegations. “I’ve had my life,” he said; “I don’t care what I’m put through, so long as I can protect my granddaughter”.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Can you give us one good reason why not?’ Bridges asks. ‘A man of seventy-four, well liked, respected. A man who worked in a school for thirty years without one breath of scandal. And, what’s more, has been happily married for fifty. Why would he want to bugger her?’
‘You tell me; you’re the detective.’ I am appalled; this is the first time that anyone has mentioned buggery.
‘What interest would a man like that have in an anus?’
No comment.
They decide to conclude the interview. The Inspector removes the tapes from the machine, asking me to choose one, which she then places in an envelope. I sign on the seal. I assume that I will be allowed to go, but she informs me that I am to return to the cells. Max protests that she has no right to detain me further, to which she replies that, not only does she have every right to hold me for the full thirty-six hours but, if necessary, she will apply to a magistrate for an extension. She and the Constable exit, leaving Max in mid-threat.
The Custody Officer collects me and repeats the ceremony of the keys. The cell has been occupied in my absence and exudes the foetid smell of cornered fox. I gag and rush to the hole, which is rank. I ram the button. An officer appears and peers through the wicket. I shout that the lavatory is a disgrace; he derides my complaint. ‘We’ve got a psycho going ape-shit down the corridor, and you’re kicking up a stink about a blocked khazi!’ He slams the wicket shut. I stand in th
e corner of the cell at the furthest distance from the bench. My despondency takes on a regal note, and I wonder if I am being deliberately baited, like Edward II imprisoned in the bowels of Berkeley Castle. Five minutes later, I am startled by the flush.
The afternoon drags on, marked only by the clatter of the wicket, as uniform faces stare at me like keepers in a zoo. In which case, I must belong to a very rare and exotic species (I am resolved to think positively). Perhaps they are hoping that I will breed in captivity. The image cheers me, while the faces continue to intrude. I have no idea whether they want to intimidate or to humiliate me; but, whatever the intention, the effect is the same.
At five o’clock, I am collected by the Custody Officer and taken to the interview room for a second examination, which repeats the procedures of the first. As they launch the attack, they load their questions with fresh ammunition seized in the search. This includes a selection of your photographs, notably the child whores in Manilla and Mexico (what are to me bitter indictments of sexual tourism are to them clear indication of sexual tastes); the much-chewed dildo that you bought as a bone for Texas (I am only grateful that they never found his collar or they would have had me on all fours); and various remnants of your wardrobe. I blush once, when Bridges pulls out a small pack of American magazines with covers that leave little to the imagination. These I acknowledge (to you, though not to them); they provide me with tame stimulation, tapping into a collective fantasy when I am too exhausted to create my own.
I shall spare you the monotony of my ‘no comments’; not that they spared me the monotony of their commentary. I only hope that Max’s judgement that my silence will secure my release is correct. For the moment, they are determined to maintain the pressure. Bridges pulls out a television and explains that they are going to play me part of Pagan’s video evidence; which, for the purpose of the tape-recording, he describes as Exhibit BPB I, in reference to the fact that he produced it (which he relates as proudly as if it were Citizen Kane). The Inspector adds that it was shot last week in a special room in a local children’s home. She was one of the interviewers and Marcia Dixon, the Welfare Officer, the other. Your parents were present in an adjoining room.
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