Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  ‘Please,’ Parks said, crying. ‘Don’t leave me here. I’ve got money. You can have it all. Just let me go.’

  ‘You don’t have any money.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Parks jabbered, ‘but I’ll get some. I’ll steal it. Just tell me how much you want.’

  ‘Do you feel helpless?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you feel helpless, Darren?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parks said, nodding. ‘I do. I feel very helpless. I’m very sorry for what happened to you. Please, let me go.’

  ‘Imagine how helpless you will feel when the water begins to rise.’ The man smiled. ‘You will be in total darkness, cold, hungry, thirsty, and it will be your decision when you give up struggling.’

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Parks said. He was becoming hysterical. ‘I’m begging you, please!’

  ‘Goodbye, Darren Parks,’ the man said, closing the manhole cover. Darren Parks began to scream. He stayed a while and listened, until the screams subsided and were replaced by incoherent sobbing. He said he was sorry a thousand times before he succumbed to the river. Saying sorry wasn’t good enough. Not nearly good enough.

  7

  Richard Vigne felt his world disintegrating around him as he was handcuffed and led away. It was so cruel. He had virtually convinced the headteacher not to suspend him; he knew he was about to agree to letting him stay in his post until the weekend. He had been so close, he knew it. Things would have been okay if the police hadn’t turned up and cuffed him. They had snatched hope from him at the last minute. This would change everything. Being arrested at work was a game changer. There was no coming back. The headmaster had stared at him, accusingly, shaking his head. The police arriving had changed his opinion. He thought Richard had been lying to him, he could see it in his eyes. As the police led him away, the headmaster picked up the phone; he would be speaking to the school governors before Richard had even left the building. Bill and the other teachers were standing outside the staffroom, watching. They muttered to each other as he passed by, shaking their heads, looking at him with accusing eyes. In their opinion, he was already guilty. The police don’t arrest people for no reason. It was obvious from their expressions; each suspicious glance was like a dagger through the heart. Ted, the caretaker, looked on from his ladders, bemused. He didn’t have a clue what was going on. Mrs Kelly looked horrified as they passed by her office. She shuffled paper around her desk, pretending not to watch him being marched away. Richard couldn’t look any of them in the eye. The embarrassment was too much. Defending himself at this point was useless – no one was listening. Onlookers would know the police don’t arrest people without reasonable grounds; there was some evidence of wrongdoing somewhere, and that was all they needed to know. An unsubstantiated accusation online now looked to be substantiated. Before first break, the entire school would know that Mr Vigne had been cuffed and put in the back of a van for being a paedophile. He could feel hot, stinging tears forming. The thought of the twins being at school was crippling him. They would be under a barrage of abuse. Kids were cruel to each other at the best of times. It would be open season on the twins when word got around. They would be torn apart verbally. He couldn’t bear the thought of them being bullied. This was so unfair and he was totally helpless, unable to stop it. The wheels of justice were in motion and he was being dragged along, like it or not. Guilty until proven innocent. There was nothing to do but hold on tight and hope the end of the nightmare was near. The truth would rise to the surface. It had to.

  Richard heard the policeman read him his rights but he didn’t reply. Saying nothing was better than saying something wrong. Nervous, frightened, confused and anxious was no state of mind to be in when answering questions. He didn’t protest and he didn’t struggle. The officers were unnecessarily rough when they put him in the van; their manner was abrupt and aggressive. He banged his head on the roof and couldn’t help but think it wasn’t an accident. Maybe they already thought he was a paedophile, before he was even questioned. The accusation was enough to colour people’s perception of him as a human being. They sat him in a tiny cell, no bigger than the inside of a wardrobe, and cuffed him to a plastic shelf that acted as a stool. A Perspex screen was closed to confine him. It had holes in it so he could breath. He had seen something similar at the zoo when the twins were young. When they closed the van doors, and he was alone, in silence, the seriousness of his situation hit him hard. Tears ran freely. He had never felt so alone and helpless. What would Celia say about him being arrested at work? She was insecure at the best of times; this would pour fuel on the fire. His guts twisted and he felt physically sick. How would the twins find out, Facebook? Twitter? Or their friends, gossiping about their dad getting arrested for being a kiddie fiddler? He closed his eyes, banged his head on the wall, and choked back a cry of anguish. It turned into a wailing sound. He was hurting like he had never hurt before. No one was there to see him sobbing, so he didn’t try to stop. He let it flow, and at one point he could hardly catch his breath. Snot ran from his nose and he couldn’t wipe it off. What had he done to be treated like an animal? He was thirsty, he needed the toilet, and he had snot hanging from his nostrils. This wasn’t right. He was a schoolteacher, with teenage children of his own. They couldn’t treat him like this, he thought. Unless they have evidence of wrongdoing. What evidence could they possibly have? He had never crossed the line with a pupil and never would. What on earth could they think he had done? The thought rattled around his head. What was it? There must be something for them to be able to do this, but what? A million questions rattled around his head and the same answers came up every time: either they had the wrong man, or someone was lying.

  He felt the vehicle stop and heard voices barking orders. The back doors opened and he was bundled into Huyton police station, where he was processed and searched. His belt and laces were removed and his belongings were sealed in a clear plastic bag. He was offered legal representation and he requested that they call Celia and ask her to arrange representation. The custody sergeant recognised the name of the practice where she worked. His face darkened. They specialised in defending scumbags, scumbags with money, and they were good at it. The best. Celia would get him a brief, a good one. Richard asked for a drink. They reluctantly agreed and he was pushed into a cell to wait. His eyes were sore from crying. The vinyl covered mattress was grubby and the stainless-steel toilet in the corner stank. Urine and vomit tainted the air, masked slightly by the smell of disinfectant. Another prisoner, further down the corridor, was kicking the cell door and shouting a tirade of abuse at anyone who could hear him. He wanted a cigarette and a cup of tea. Apparently, the custody sergeant liked it up the arse, and his mother sucked cocks on Lime Street Station. The prisoner was determined to let everyone know these facts. Richard didn’t think he would be getting either tea or a cigarette any time soon.

  Two hours ticked painfully by, the time dragging until he heard the door unlock. A uniformed officer opened the door and gestured for him to step out. He led him in silence to a row of small interview rooms. The officer stopped and opened a door, standing aside so Richard could enter. He was to sit next to his solicitor, who he hadn’t met before. The man stood and shook his hand. Richard was relieved. He was half expecting Celia to be sitting there, scowling. He was conscious that his eyes were red and swollen; it was clear he had been affected emotionally.

  ‘The detectives will be along shortly,’ the officer grunted. He looked at Richard’s eyes but didn’t show any sympathy. Richard didn’t want, or expect sympathy. Crying didn’t make him look innocent – he realised guilty men cried. Not tears of remorse for their victims, but because they had been caught. They cried for themselves. No one would feel sorry for him until he could prove his innocence.

  ‘Thank you, constable,’ his brief replied politely. He turned to Richard and nodded. ‘I’m Emmerson Graff.’

  ‘I’m Richard. Nice to meet you. Celia has mentioned your name,’ Richard said. ‘Thank yo
u for coming.’

  ‘Celia asked me to represent you.’ The grey-haired man was immaculately dressed in a navy-blue suit, his hair smoothed back. He had a calm manner about him. ‘How are you coping?’ he asked, noticing his client’s distress. It was clear that Richard had been crying a lot.

  ‘Coping?’ Richard said, shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure I’m coping with anything, to be honest. I haven’t got a clue what I’ve been arrested for.’ His voice cracked and he stopped to compose himself. ‘My feet haven’t touched the ground since last night. This entire thing is like a surreal nightmare. If it hadn’t happened to me, I wouldn’t believe it could happen to anyone.’

  ‘The detention process is designed to rattle the suspect. To unsettle them, you understand. It is no disgrace to be upset. It’s completely normal.’ His voice was gentle, well-spoken. ‘You’ve never been arrested before?’ Emmerson asked.

  ‘Not so much as a parking ticket,’ Richard said, frowning. ‘I thought Celia would have told you I have never been in trouble?’

  ‘Oh, she did,’ Emmerson said, smiling. ‘But in my experience, husbands and wives can be frugal with the truth. Just because she doesn’t know, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’m here to represent you at her request, but my working relationship with your wife is now irrelevant. What we say between us will remain between us, unless you decide to tell her otherwise.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’

  ‘Good,’ Emmerson said, nodding. His face became stern. ‘Now we have that straight, I have a question.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you aware of any corroborating evidence the police may have at this point?’

  ‘Corroborating what, exactly?’

  ‘Any impropriety.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything, inappropriate or otherwise.’

  ‘Good. In that case, we won’t be here long.’ Emmerson paused and lowered his tone. ‘Let me explain how this works. I’m here to keep you at liberty if charged with anything, and, if possible, I want to make sure you’re not charged with anything at all.’ Richard nodded that he understood. Emmerson seemed sharp-witted, maybe a little aloof, but at least the man was straight. It made Richard relax a little. ‘We’ll be as cooperative as we can while they are asking questions. I want you to answer anything they ask at this point, however, if they produce any evidence we’re not happy with, I may advise a different course of action.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘A “no comment” interview might be our game plan, but it is only a last resort. We’ll see what they throw at us first.’ Richard felt nervous. It was the not knowing that was the worst of it. He had a million questions for Emmerson, but his mind was blank. The door opened and two female detectives walked in. One of them was superior in rank to the other, it was obvious from the way she held herself. She was attractive, wearing a dark trouser suit, auburn hair to her shoulders. There was a hint of Calvin Klein perfume. Not much, just enough. Her eyes were bright blue, full of life and intelligence. Her colleague was frumpy and overweight. She looked at Richard like he was something she’d stepped in. Emmerson stood up and offered his hand.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Joanne Jones,’ he said, smiling. They shook hands. ‘I heard you’d moved to the child protection unit. Congratulations on your promotion.’ Emmerson turned to Richard. ‘Superintendent Jones was previously a DCI with the drug squad. She’s one of only five females in the Merseyside force to have made Superintendent. Quite an achievement.’ Richard nodded, bemused. He didn’t know if he was supposed to congratulate her, greet her or keep quiet. She eyed him, searching for chinks in his armour. He could feel her analysing him. She studied his face, her eyes looked in his, red and puffy. He felt embarrassed that he had been crying. Her eyes showed uncertainty. Emmerson sensed it too. ‘This is my client, Richard Vigne. A man with no criminal record and a previously untarnished reputation.’ He paused and leaned forward slightly. ‘Clearly this experience has disturbed my client, and I’d like this interview conducted in a manner that will not cause any further upset.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I don’t have a selection of interview techniques, Mr Graff.’ The superintendent said, smiling. There was no warmth in the smile. It was challenging Emmerson. ‘I’ll be asking your client some questions, he’ll either answer them truthfully, or he won’t. The choice is his.’ She pointed to a camera, mounted in the corner above them. ‘This interview is being recorded, Mr Vigne. I’m Detective Superintendent Jones, and this is Detective Sergeant Young,’ Joanne Jones said, ignoring Emmerson’s introduction. Emmerson was talented at smoothing interviews. He could be both charming and articulate, while dismantling the evidence against his client in just a few sentences. Many a detective had come unstuck against Emmerson Graff. Jo Jones wasn’t about to be one of them. ‘You realise you’re under caution? It could harm your defence if you fail to mention something that you later rely on in court.’ She looked at Richard for a response. He was dumbstruck. How had this happened? ‘Mr Vigne. Do you understand?’ she pushed. Richard nodded. ‘Speak for the video, please.’

  ‘Yes. I understand,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do you know this girl, Mr Vigne?’ she asked, placing a photograph on the table. The girl was early teens, maybe younger. He looked and shook his head. Was there something familiar about her eyes? No. He had never seen her. Was he sure? Yes. ‘Do you know her, Mr Vigne?’

  ‘No. I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Richard felt relieved. They had got this all wrong. He was going to sue the pants off them when they released him. He looked at Emmerson and shook his head. ‘I don’t know this girl,’ he said, clearly. Emmerson smiled, thinly. ‘I told you this was all a mistake.’ He wasn’t as sure as Richard that it was over just yet.

  ‘Her name is Nicola Hadley,’ the superintendent said, pushing the photograph closer. Emmerson looked at his notes.

  ‘The name online was Nikki Haley?’ Emmerson challenged.

  ‘So, someone spelled something wrong on Facebook,’ the superintendent said. ‘I’m not online, Mr Graff, and neither is your client. He needs to realise that.’

  ‘Let’s keep this cordial, shall we?’ Emmerson said, smiling. His eyes were light brown and they narrowed when he spoke. He could feel the superintendent winding up to something and he didn’t like what the look of what was coming. She had something. He sensed it. ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

  ‘Nicola Hadley, Mr Vigne?’ the superintendent repeated, ignoring Emmerson. She tapped the photograph again. ‘Take a good look. Do you know her?’

  ‘My client has clearly stated that he doesn’t know her.’

  ‘This is another picture of Nicola Hadley, Mr Vigne.’ She placed another photograph on the table. It was a picture of a pretty woman wearing make-up. The superintendent tapped the new photograph. ‘Think carefully.’ Richard looked from one photograph to the other. It was the same girl, dressed up for a night out. Nicola, the name resounded in his head. She looked much older in the second picture. Her eyes burned into his head. Nicola. There was something about her eyes. He felt his intestines clench in knots. Nicola Hadley, not Nikki Haley. A distant memory whispered to him. It was hidden deep in his mind, just out of reach. A cold chill spread through his bones. Nicola. Her eyes looked at him from the photograph. They said, ‘Don’t you remember me?’ The superintendent placed another photograph on the table. It was a sucker punch in the guts. The memories flooded back like a tsunami. Nicola Hadley. ‘What about now, Mr Vigne?’

  The third photograph was of him. He was standing next to Nicola Hadley, cheek to cheek, smiling while she took a selfie. They were both holding Jägerbombs. He remembered downing them and buying more. Nicola Hadley. The name echoed around his mind, deafening his senses. He felt sick. Emmerson looked at the photograph and then at Richard, a concerned expression on his face. The superintendent had pulled it from up her sleeve. His client was on the ropes and he was struggling.
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br />   ‘This is Nicola Hadley, Mr Vigne.’ She tapped the photograph again and looked into his eyes. ‘You said you had never seen her before.’ The superintendent picked up the photograph and waved it in his line of vision. ‘Is this you in this photograph?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said. He looked at Emmerson for help.

  ‘You said you didn’t know Nicola Hadley.’

  ‘I didn’t connect the name with the face.’

  ‘Really. How does that work, Mr Vigne?’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘You can explain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can explain why you’re hugging a thirteen-year-old girl in a nightclub?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘What?’ Richard nearly choked.

  ‘You heard me, Mr Vigne.’ She held the image up again. ‘Nicola Hadley. A thirteen-year-old.’

  ‘Thirteen?’ Richard said, stunned. He looked at Emmerson again. Emmerson looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t know she was thirteen,’ he protested. ‘She told me she was eighteen.’ He looked from one detective to the other and then to Emmerson. Their faces were deadpan. He realised what they were thinking. They were accusing him. The photographs said it all. ‘Not that it matters how old she was because I never touched her, but I didn’t know how young she was.’

  ‘So, you can remember her now?’

  ‘Yes, vaguely.’ Richard swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. His memories of that night were faded and difficult to recall. Alcohol blurred the images and his brain had conveniently buried the memories. ‘I didn’t know her second name. I never asked her what it was and she never told me.’

  ‘Do you remember where this photograph was taken?’

  ‘It was at a golf club in South Wales, after a charity do.’ Richard held the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. The pressure was immense. He felt sick; it didn’t look good from any angle. No wonder they had arrested him – she was thirteen. The situation was dire at first glance, but he hadn’t done anything and he had to make them understand that. That was the crux of the matter: he had never laid a finger on her. ‘I can’t remember the name of the place.’