The Victory Snapshot (A Chris Tyroll Mystery Book 1)

by Barrie Roberts

  ‘But he did confess on tape, boss.’

  ‘And withdrew that confession to us. You know Gormley, he’s ten per cent subnormal and he tries to please people, to tell them what they want to hear. And you know Saffary — he’s a hard-faced, beady-eyed pig, who exudes the threat of violence without moving or speaking!’

  He drew hard on his smouldering construction. ‘So where next?’

  ‘Superintendent Howard has backed Saffary’s refusal. We can apply to the court if necessary or we can risk putting Miss Worstance in the box at the committal and go for her identification.’

  ‘That,’ he said slowly, ‘would require a bit of thinking about.’

  ‘So think about it, Alasdair. We’ll talk about it in a couple of days.’

  Alan and Claude returned with a tray of coffee. A moment later the front door rattled and Jayne looked around the door of my room. Her black eyes widened at the sight of the four of us.

  ‘Good morning!’ she said. ‘Wet your beds, boys, or have you been partying all night?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘we’ve been drafting an application to the EU for a grant for voice-operated word processors, so we can save on two typists’ salaries.’

  ‘Humph!’ she said. ‘They won’t make the coffee, polish your desk and sort out clients you’ve upset.’

  ‘Alan,’ I commanded, ‘make the lady a coffee. Jayne, fetch six shorthand notebooks and a box of pencils. I’ve got a long job to dictate.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to put it on tape?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I want everyone to hear and comment as I go, including you.’ Another reason was that I hadn’t worked out yet how I was going to break the news to her that I’d let a bunch of thugs firebomb her auntie’s legacy. It might go better with witnesses present.

  We settled again, and I began dictating a complete account of the whole affair, starting with my original dealings with Walter Brown. Occasionally Alasdair or Claude would inject a question for clarification, but basically things proceeded fairly smoothly.

  I came to Saturday night, glossing over the intimate details but still provoking covert smirks and knowing glances among my audience. I began to slow down as I drew towards the firebombing. Jayne, head down, was still scribbling industriously.

  I couldn’t dodge it any longer. As baldly as possible I narrated our evacuation of the cottage and what followed. When I described the twin fireballs that had consumed the bungalow, Jayne’s pencil stopped and she jerked her head up, white-faced and wide-eyed.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is Sheila all right?’

  I could have kissed her for that reaction, but it was taking all my courage to look her in the eye.

  ‘So far as I know,’ I said, ‘Sheila is very well, but I’m afraid your cottage is a heap of ash.’

  She waved her pencil dismissively. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, ‘it was fully insured. They will pay out for arson by government agents, won’t they?’

  ‘I guess,’ I said, ‘that in a day or two the Welsh police will officially inform you that your holiday retreat has been burned by the Sons of Glendower.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The Welsh protestors who burn English-owned cottages in Wales. I have a feeling they’re going to carry the can for this one, so there shouldn’t be any insurance problems.’

  ‘Well,’ she said brightly. ‘I never liked the layout. I can change it when it’s redone, can’t I?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, gratefully. ‘If there’s any excess expense problem, Jayne, I’ll meet it.’

  She gave me one of her expressionless stares. ‘Out of all those legal aid fees the Board withholds when its budget runs low?’ she said. ‘Well, ah!’ and she bent her head again and set pencil to paper to show the topic was closed.

  I went on to the end, leaving out only Sheila’s wild proposal and my stunned acceptance. They’d know if that came to pass. When I signified that I’d done, Jayne left to begin typing a small book. The other three sat staring at me.

  ‘Doesn’t look much like James Bond,’ Claude remarked to Alasdair.

  ‘Hidden depths, old boy, hidden depths,’ said Alasdair.

  ‘Lovely manners, though,’ said Claude. ‘Takes the Aussie lady off for a dirty weekend in Wales, gets her firebombed, half drowned and shot at, leaves her with a pack of tinkers, but still calls her ‘doctor’. You’d think they hadn’t been introduced.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Keep the bad jokes. I made you listen to all that because I’m a target, Dr McKenna’s a target and since we don’t know why, you’d better behave as if any associate of this office is on the list. Walk carefully and avoid dark alleys and strangers.’

  They nodded, sobered. I took advantage of the change of mood. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘let’s try and make a bit of money. What court appointments have we got this week?’

  Alasdair reached for my desk diary. In the instant before he touched it, the morning sun slanting through the windows shone across its shiny plastic binding, and in that instant I saw the teeth of the trap that Queenie had foretold. I slapped his outstretched hand away and pushed the diary away from him.

  He recoiled, startled. ‘Don’t touch it!’ I snapped. ‘Alan, Alasdair, you can go. Claude, I need your services immediately and a bunch of trustworthy experts. I think I know what the bastards have done!’

  The two Als left the room, casting bemused glances backwards. Quickly I briefed Claude on what I needed him to do and what other experts he should involve. All the time the sun crept across my desk, clearly revealing to me that on the back cover of my desk diary were four small rectangular marks, spread in an arc across the lower right-hand corner.

  By lunchtime Claude had gone about his business and at last I could get to mine. I felt greatly relieved now I thought I knew what to expect, and got through a lot of routine work.

  I never left the office without Alan Reilly alongside for days. I took a room at the Victoria and each evening my phone arrangements with Sheila worked. We had quick, anonymous chats. She told me that Paddy had broken camp and they were moving day by day. I warned her not to tell me where she was. Each call made me miss her more, but she was still safer where she was.

  I dined with Alasdair at the Victoria each night. He improved my knowledge of wines enormously. On the night after our office conference, Claude joined us and presented his reports. Alasdair advised on a good celebration bottle when he saw my mood, though he didn’t know what the reports said. I knew that I was ready for the next round of the game. For once I understood what the attack was and where it would come from and I was ready. I gave them a toast.

  ‘To Queenie Connors!’ I declared. ‘May the good Lord give her another ninety years!’

  They laughed and drank and Claude smiled knowingly at me.

  The attack came a few mornings later. I had not long arrived in the office when Jayne put her head round my door.

  ‘There’s two police officers in reception,’ she said. ‘They say they must speak to you personally.’

  I picked up the intercom. ‘Alasdair,’ I said, ‘bring the file I gave you and come to my room. We’ve got visitors.’

  ‘Show them in,’ I told Jayne, and she was back in a moment, ushering them in.

  It was Howard, looking grimmer than usual, and Saffary, the bull-necked Ulster sadist. He and I were old enemies. He suffered from fundamentalist beliefs — that all suspects were guilty and that all defence lawyers were pinko crooks. Now he stood half a pace behind his boss, looking for all the world like a well-dressed toad with curly greying hair. He was having difficulty concealing a smirk.

  I waved them to chairs, but they remained standing.

  ‘Mr Tyroll,’ said Howard, ‘I am Detective Superintendent Howard and this is Detective Inspector Saffary from Belston police station. We are here to arrest you on suspicion of offences against the Theft Act and the Official Secrets Act and of the common law offence of attempting to pervert the course
of justice. I have to warn you that you need not say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention anything which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Saffary’s smile broadened. Alasdair stepped into the open doorway, his briefcase in his hand. I stood up.

  ‘Very well,’ I told Howard. ‘Alasdair, these officers have arrested me. Please accompany me to the police station as my representative.’

  ‘Absolutely, governor,’ he said, apparently unruffled.

  Howard grimaced. ‘Mr Tyroll, in the circumstances of this particular case it might not be appropriate for a member of your own office to represent you. Mr Thayne might have to be called as a witness.’

  ‘So he might,’ I agreed, ‘but the choice of solicitor is mine, unless you are prepared to state that Mr Thayne is an unsuitable person to attend me.’

  His small mouth tightened and he shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘Before we leave,’ he said, ‘there is one further matter. Do you consent to a search of your home?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said affably. I took out my keys and detached a front door key, handing it to him.

  ‘Now shall we go?’ I said.

  21

  The light above the video-camera in Interview Room One glowed steadily. Howard cleared his throat and began the ritual introduction, reciting for the microphone’s benefit the date and time and the fact that this interview was being recorded in Video Interview Room Number One at Belston police station.

  After arriving and going through the custody officer’s form-filling I had been placed in a cell, where Alasdair sat and drummed on his briefcase. After a bit I pleaded with him to roll one of his disgusting cigarettes.

  ‘Do you want one?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but this place smells of old sweat, the chemicals they wipe the plastic mattresses down with and hopelessness, and I’m not feeling hopeless.’

  He rolled one, lit it and sat drumming his fingers and smoking. At one point he asked, ‘What are they waiting for, boss?’

  ‘They’re not going to start the interview till Howard knows the search team is on its way back.’

  He nodded and silence fell again. Minutes later we were invited to the interview room.

  ‘This interview is being conducted by me, Superintendent Howard of Central Midlands CID. Also present are … ’ and he trailed off for us to introduce ourselves.

  ‘Detective Inspector Saffary, Central Midlands CID,’ announced the Ulsterman.

  ‘Alasdair Thayne, assistant solicitor, Tyroll’s, Belston,’ drawled my assistant and Howard nodded at me.

  ‘Christopher Tyroll, sole partner in Tyroll’s, present as unwilling detainee to whom no proper explanation of his arrest has yet been made.’

  Saffary glowered behind his spectacles and Howard pursed his mouth.

  When I had made my statement Howard cleared his throat and started again.

  ‘In view of your remark, Mr Tyroll, I am stating now that you have been arrested on suspicion of possible offences against the Official Secrets Act and the Theft Act and on suspicion of the common law offence of attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  I opened my mouth, but he raised a hand to forestall me and carried on.

  ‘I have to tell you that you have been arrested and your continued detention authorised in order to obtain evidence by questioning. You do not have to say anything, but if you fail to mention any fact on which you later seek to rely in your defence the court’s attention may be drawn to your failure to mention it. Anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  ‘I am still dissatisfied with your explanation of my arrest but I understand the caution. In essence you mean that silence on any point may be interpreted by a court as evidence of guilt.’

  ‘I am not here to argue legal interpretation with you, Mr Tyroll,’ declared Howard. ‘This interview is to obtain evidence by questioning and I believe you will find that, as the questions progress, any doubts you have as to the nature of my enquiries will be cleared up.’

  He opened the folder on the table in front of him and scanned a manuscript document. I could see that it was in the tight, mechanically neat script of Inspector Saffary.

  ‘Now, Mr Tyroll,’ Howard began again, ‘do you agree that on Tuesday 14th May this year you telephoned Detective Inspector Saffary at this police station and had a conversation with him about a client of yours called Darren Gormley?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Your control room tape recorder will have recorded the call.’ They hate you knowing that they tape all incoming calls.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean about tape recording,’ he said. ‘Do you agree that, in the course of that conversation, you requested access to various documents in police custody of which copies had not been supplied to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded. ‘And can you further confirm that an appointment was made for you to meet with Detective Inspector Saffary at this police station the following afternoon in order to examine those documents?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true that, at 3.10 p.m. on the following afternoon, you kept that appointment here and that, in the CID office of this station, Detective Inspector Saffary produced to you two boxes of documents relating to Gormley’s case?’

  ‘No.’

  Both of them blinked.

  I went on to explain. ‘Inspector Saffary had two boxes of documents in his possession. So far from producing both boxes to me, he insisted that I ask for specific items and then, with the exception of one item, produced the specific document requested to me. I have no way of knowing what fraction or percentage I saw of the documents contained in the two boxes, but I believe it to have been very little.’ Saffary’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, but Howard went on smoothly. ‘Do you agree that among the documents that you requested sight of was the incident log and the radio messages log relating to the incident?’

  ‘Yes, but I was not shown them.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because Inspector Saffary informed me that so far as he was concerned I had no legitimate reason to see those documents and that, under the powers of the Criminal Investigations and Procedure Act 1996, he was refusing me a sight of them.’ If you don’t know about that Act, it’s the one they passed after years of the Court of Appeal telling the Crown Prosecution Service that it must make full disclosure of evidence to prevent little problems like the Birmingham Six case or the Bridgwater Three or any of those. It says that it’s up to the police to decide what gets disclosed to the defence, so there. It should keep the Court of Appeal busy for the next twenty-five years.

  ‘Did you at any time see the folder containing those documents?’

  ‘When I first made my request to see the documents, I recall that Inspector Saffary looked in one of the boxes and lifted out a dark-blue ring-binder with the Central Midlands badge embossed on it. He told me that it contained those documents, but since I never saw the contents I have no idea whether he told me the truth or not.’

  Saffary grunted contemptuously. Howard glanced at him and then returned to me. ‘So you never at any time handled that folder containing the incident log and radio log while at this police station?’

  ‘I never at any time handled the dark-blue folder which the inspector said contained those documents.’

  ‘What did you do when Detective Inspector Saffary refused to show you the documents that you had requested?’

  ‘I asked him to refer the matter to you for a decision.’

  ‘Did you give any explanation of your desire to have access to those particular documents?’

  Alasdair intervened quickly. ‘I have to advise Mr Tyroll not to answer that question,’ he drawled smoothly, ‘on the basis that any answer may reveal matter confidential to the defence of Mr Tyroll’s client, Darren Gormley, and that the question i
s thereby an improper one.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you, Alasdair,’ I said, ‘but the fact is I gave Inspector Saffary a complete explanation of my reasons. I have no doubt that my reasons are recorded in Inspector Saffary’s memorandum in front of you, but for the record I told him that I was aware that for forty-eight hours after the rape of Karen Worstance enquiries had been pursued about a suspect whose physical description was totally different from that of my client. It was only after Darren Gormley was arrested for a breathalyser matter and brought to this police station that Inspector Saffary decided to question him in connection with the rape.’

  Saffary leaned forward. ‘Are you implying,’ he asked, ponderously, ‘that I set out to frame your client Gormley?’

  I eyed him steadily because I knew he hated it. In interrogations he liked to deploy the considerably offensive power of his own nasty eyes, not to be outstared by suspects. ‘I am stating, not implying, Inspector, that I found the circumstances under which Darren Gormley came to be charged with rape so unusual as to arouse a suspicion that something abnormal had taken place. Only you know whether that suspicion is correct. Would you like to tell me now, for the record, the reasons why you began to question Gormley?’

  His face flushed and the eyes bulged. ‘You are here to answer questions, not to ask them!’ he snarled.

  ‘Precisely,’ cut in Howard. ‘Mr Tyroll, what happened when you asked Detective Inspector Saffary to consult me for a further opinion?’

  ‘He left the CID office, apparently to telephone you. There being about half a dozen phones in the room we were in, I imagine he wanted to offer you opinions of me that he was not prepared to let me overhear. After a few minutes he returned and stated that you had confirmed that, under the 1996 Act, you were not prepared to give me access to the documents requested.’