by Russell Hill
“Jack, this is D.C. Hoad of the Bournemouth CID. He tells me there’s an investigation into Robbie Barlow’s accident and he wants to speak with you.”
I must have looked puzzled because Alfie added, “Detective Constable Hoad. He’s a policeman.”
The man in the chair didn’t speak.
Neither did I. I tried to keep my face as expressionless as possible, as if I were simply the bloke who had taken care of Robbie at Precious Little.
Finally the man spoke.
“We’d like to talk with you, Mr. Stone. There are some questions about how Mr. Barlow was injured that perhaps you can help us with.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help. I saw Robbie here some time after his accident.”
“But you spent some time at Sheepheaven Farm in Mappowder, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Long before Robbie got hurt.”
He rose, not taking his eyes off my face. “We think you can assist us, Mr. Stone. It would be helpful if you came to the police station with us.”
Who was us? He seemed to be alone. What could Alfie have possibly told him? Why had Alfie been called down to Precious Little in the morning?
“Is it necessary to go to the police station? Why not right here?”
“We prefer that you come with us, Mr. Stone.”
“But I’ve nothing to tell you!”
“You let us be the judge of that, Mr. Stone.” He turned to Alfie. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“Is this because I was working illegally? Is that what this is?”
“No, Mr. Stone. Frankly, I have no interest in your arrangement with Mr. Precious.”
What the hell had Alfie told him? Why was I being taken to a police station? I sucked in my breath, held it a moment, slowly releasing it, and I took stock. There was nothing to worry about. They knew nothing. No doubt I was only another piece of a puzzle. Although Mary the barmaid and Will Stryker had told me Robbie had suffered an accident, apparently for detective Hoad there were unanswered questions. It was better to go along.
“Alfie,” I said. “What about my pay packet? Can I have it now?”
He opened the drawer of his desk, slid the brown envelope toward me. The detective watched with what appeared to be mild interest.
There was a police car outside and a uniformed constable leaning against the fender. He stood when he saw the detective, opening the back door of the car. He appeared to be no more than a boy, fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, but he was obviously old enough to be a policeman. I doubted if he was the rest of the detective’s reference to ‘we’d like to talk with you.’
The trip was silent. It wasn’t until we came to the police station that I remembered my bag and laptop in the kitchen at Precious Little. No matter, I thought, Ali and Joshua would keep an eye on my things.
Inside, the detective stopped to chat with another man, then motioned for me to follow him. He went into a room with a table, several chairs and nothing else.
“Cuppa tea, Mr. Stone?” he asked, drawing a chair up to the table for me.
I sat.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Oliver?” He raised his eyebrows at the young constable who had followed us into the room, and Oliver scuttled out. The detective reached into a box on the floor, took out a recording tape and broke open the plastic sealing it. He snapped it into a tape recorder that was fixed to the end of the table and turned it on
“Today is the fourteenth of August, 2001. The time is eleven twenty-one. Persons present are Detective Constable Barry Hoad and Mr. Jack Stone.” He raised his eyes to focus on me and continued. “Mr. Stone, you don’t have to say anything. If you are charged with an offence it may harm your defense if you don’t mention something during the questioning which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. And, of course, you have a right to have a solicitor present.”
“Am I being charged with a crime, detective?”
“Not at the moment. This is being done under what we call the codes of practice. You can look at a copy of the codes if you’d like.”
“It’s not necessary, detective.”
“Well, then, Mr. Stone, shall we start?”
“You’re in charge here. Like I said, I have no idea what it is that I know that might interest you.”
“Do you know a Miss Mary Bertram?”
“No.”
“Barmaid at the Flying Monk in Mappowder?”
“Oh, that Mary. Yes. I never knew her last name.”
“How about a mister Nick Monaco?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Were you ever in the gypsy camp at the top of the rise above Sheepheaven Farm?”
“I walked up that way once. Robbie Barlow warned me to avoid it when I told him where I’d been. He said they were people not to be trusted.”
“If I told you Nick Monaco lived in that camp, would that jog your memory?”
“Like I said, I walked that way — I never met anyone there.”
“Mr. Monaco says he met you. He says you spent a night in his coach.”
Good God! I thought. The traveler went to the police. Somehow I had missed him at the Kings Head and he had done as he threatened.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Let me explain, Mr. Stone. A police constable questioned Mr. Monaco the morning after Mr. Barlow was injured. It was routine. He was told not to leave the vicinity. Later, Miss Bertram was asked if there had been any strangers in the village and she told the constable that Monaco had been asking questions that day about Mr. Barlow’s accident, so the constable went back to question him again, but he and his lot had disappeared.
“Now I’m of the opinion that people do a runner when they’ve got something to hide, so he went on our wanted list. Two days ago Miss Bertram was in Bournemouth and she told us she went to Precious Care to take a lager to Mr. Barlow.”
He smiled. “Rather a nice gesture, don’t you think?”
I nodded.
“And she saw Nick Monaco across the street from Precious Care. She went to a phone box and called the police. Said it gave her such a start she never went in to see Mr. Barlow. So we were on the lookout for Mr. Monaco and we found him in the Kings Head. Does that ring a bell, Mr. Stone?”
“Does what ring a bell?”
“The Kings Head.”
“I know it. I’ve had a pint or two there.”
“You were supposed to meet Mr. Monaco there last evening?”
“I’m in the dark, here, detective. I left Sheepheaven Farm long before Robbie had his accident. I never met your Nick Monaco and I certainly never spent a night in anyone’s coach. As for meeting this man at the King’s Head, that simply never happened. No reason in the world for it to happen.”
At that moment Oliver showed up with two mugs of tea, setting them on the table in front of us. I was grateful for the interruption. I could feel my temples pounding and the balding man in front of me was beginning to sound like Clive Owen. His measured voice wasn’t accusatory. It was as if he were repeating a story for my benefit, careful not to skip over any details. He leaned forward and said, “Joining the interview is Police Constable Oliver Damory.” Then he turned his attention back to me.
“Mr. Monaco tells us that you came up the field into his camp in the rain, covered with mud, the night Mr. Barlow was injured.”
“He’s a liar.”
“Do you deny you were in that field that night?”
“Look, I don’t know this Monaco, never met him.”
“Bournemouth is peppered with CCTV, Mr. Stone. Closed circuit television cameras, fixed to utility poles, the fronts of buildings, aimed at places where we know things often happen. And there’s one in front of the Kings Head. That’s how we found Monaco. And you’re on tape talking to him two nights ago in front of a chip shop on the prom.”
“I don’t remember every punk who asks me for a fag outside a chip shop!”
“Yo
u haven’t answered my question. Do you deny you were in that field that night?”
Apparently the traveler had told him everything. My mind raced and I seized the story I had threatened the traveler with.
“Yes, I was there. I came back from London and I was coming through Mappowder in the evening and I thought it would be a lark to surprise Maggie and Robbie so I parked the car at the top of the field. But it started to rain and it got slippery so I went back to the car. I surprised someone breaking into it. I heard the window break and I yelled and whoever it was took off.”
Detective Hoad leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea.
“You can check with the car hire agency in London. They’ll tell you the car was damaged.”
“And you didn’t go down to Sheepheaven Farm?”
“It was muddy, my car had been broken into, it was raining and I felt stupid. I didn’t want to show up on their doorstep like that and I was headed back to London that night, so I drove back to my hotel, cleaned myself up and turned the car in the next morning. You can check it out.”
“We will, Mr. Stone. Why do you suppose Mr. Monaco would tell us you spent the night?”
“I have no idea. As you said, he was on your wanted list. I certainly wasn’t.”
“Why you, Mr. Stone? Why would he pick you out for his lie? That part puzzles me.”
“Look, I was a stranger in that village. I stood out like a sore thumb. If he wanted to shift suspicion, why not pick a stranger? And why would I want to injure Robbie Barlow?”
“That puzzles me, too, Mr. Stone. But Monaco has two eyewitnesses who say they saw you in the coach that night and the next morning.”
“Robbie said there were all thick as thieves. They’re lying.”
“There’s that possibility, Mr. Stone.”
“It’s no fucking possibility! It’s the fucking truth!”
“No need for that, Mr. Stone.”
“When can I go back to Precious Care?”
He rose. “Your tea’s getting cold, Mr. Stone. You’ll excuse me a moment?”
Then his voice became formal as he said, “The time is two minutes after twelve, and we are taking a break in this interview.” He reached over and snapped off the tape recorder.
I watched him leave the room. Oliver still stood by the door as if the teacher had asked him to be room monitor and keep order while he was out of the room. Oliver was silent, his hands clasped in front. I looked at my hands resting on the table, and I noticed that the backs had small brown spots, the kind that had been on the hands of my grandfather. When had those appeared, I wondered. My tea was, indeed, cold, but I sipped at it anyway. My throat was dry and I could feel Oliver’s presence behind me. In a few minutes the door opened again and Hoad came back to the table. “You need to go to the loo, Mr. Stone? Sorry I didn’t ask before.”
I shook my head.
He snapped on the tape recorder, saying, “The time is twelve fifteen, continuation of the interview with Mr. Jack Stone. Present are Detective Constable Barry Hoad, Police Constable Oliver Damory and Mr. Jack Stone.” He leaned back again in his chair.
“I’m puzzled by several things. Why would Nick Monaco make up such a story about you? Why would you want to injure Robbie Barlow? Why did you end up at Precious Care in Bournemouth taking care of him? You stayed there until he died, Mr. Stone. And according to Mr. Precious, you were the one who took primary care of him. As I said, it’s all very puzzling. I need a bit of time to sort it out.”
“There’s nothing to sort out! I went down there to see Robbie, there was a job, I was short of money, I worked long enough to make my fare back home. Taking care of Robbie was part of my fucking job!”
“Still, we’d like you to spend the night with us. Tomorrow we’ll sort all this out.”
“You can’t keep me here! Are you accusing me of attacking Robbie Barlow?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything yet, Mr. Stone.”
“Then I’m leaving.” I stood up and was suddenly conscious that Oliver had shifted so that he stood in front of the door.
“I think not, Mr. Stone.” Detective Hoad’s voice was no longer passive. “You’ll be assisting us in the investigation.”
“Are you charging me with a crime? Because if you aren’t, you can’t keep me here and there’s nothing more than that fucking gypsy’s lie for you to go on.”
“You’re confused about where you are, Mr. Stone. Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act in this country I can detain you without charging you with anything. We can arrest you on suspicion of doing actual bodily harm to Mr. Barlow and we don’t have to actually charge you with a crime for another twenty-four hours. And if it turns out Mr. Monaco has, indeed, lied, then you’ll be free to go.” He smiled. “Think of us a free bed-and-breakfast, Mr. Stone. Fish and chips for supper. Breakfast as well.”
“What’s there to sort out?”
“A bit of a chat with Mrs. Barlow. Perhaps you had a falling out with Mr. Barlow. A few more questions for Mr. Monaco. A quick check with the car hire.”
He would talk with Maggie. He would tell her that I had been in the field at Sheepheaven that night. But surely she wouldn’t connect me with the attack on Robbie. All she could tell him was that Robbie and I were friendly. Hadn’t I walked to Stryker’s farm with him? Gone to the pub with Robbie and Maggie? Traded quotes from Shakespeare? He would find no reason to believe the traveler, I was sure of that. The car hire agency would confirm that the car had been broken into.
“Have your chat, detective,” I said. He reached toward the tape recorder, saying, “This concludes the interview with Jack Stone. The time is twelve thirty-three hours,” and he snapped the recorder off. He took the tape out, slipped it in a plastic bag and put a seal on the flap. “Goes into security, Mr. Stone. That way there’s no question in anybody’s mind that you got treated good and proper.”
48.
Oliver took me to the custody officer where I was booked. It was the first time in my life I had been jailed. I would be placed in a custody suite, I was told. They took my belt, shoelaces, watch, wallet, placed everything in a bag and had me sign for it. The custody suite turned out to be a small cell in a corridor walled with great stones, and I thought, holy shit, I’m in the mythical dungeon, only this one has uniformed constables and barred doors on rails that slide open with the ominous noise of steel on steel. I spent the afternoon on the thin mattress listening to the constant noise, men yelling, doors opening and closing, and in the late afternoon another constable came around and asked me, “Haddock or cod, mate?”
I must have looked puzzled because he said, “Fish and chips. Come on, mate, make up your mind. Haddock or cod? Or sausage and chips?”
“Haddock,” I said.
An hour later he returned with a bag, called out something and the door opened. I sat on my cot and ate my supper and wondered if I should have asked detective Hoad to call a solicitor.
That night I turned each scene over in my mind, trying to hear Hoad question Maggie, imagining her answers, trying to get inside her head when she heard I had been in the field the night Robbie had been clubbed. Could she imagine me rising out of the dark to attack him, or would she shut her mind to that possibility? I lay on the narrow bed and listened to the sounds of the jail, occasional shouts, the doors opening and closing, someone vomiting and a constable swearing and then, as the hours grew late the shouts became fewer and finally I fell asleep.
I awoke early, feeling washed out and when a constable brought tea and a biscuit I gulped the tea quickly, asking for another cup.
It was late morning when I was taken back to the interrogation room. Detective Hoad was already seated and another uniformed constable had taken Oliver’s place.
My duffel bag was on the floor next to Hoad’s chair and my laptop was on the table.
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
Hoad ignored me, unwrapping a new tape for the recorder. He turned it on and spoke.
“Where did you get those?” I repeated.
“P.C. Damory collected your things from your former place of employment last evening.”
Hoad slid his hand across the table, lifting it to reveal a floppy disk in a plastic envelope.
“You recognize this, Jack?”
It was the first time he had used my given name.
“It looks like a disk for a computer.”
“It’s yours, isn’t it Jack?”
“I have no idea.”
“It appears to be a film script, Jack. And the main characters are named Jack and Maggie.”
“Where did you find this, Hoad?” I couldn’t remember his given name and I was tired of using his title, angry at myself for not destroying the disk.
“In your bag, Jack.”
“I don’t recall giving you permission to get my things. And I sure as hell didn’t give you permission to search my bag.”
“There you go again, Jack, confused about where you are. You’re not in America, Jack. Rules are a bit different here. Cricket and baseball both have batsmen but it’s not the same game, now, is it?” His hand went to the laptop and he undid the latch, raising the lid. The screen was on, glowing a pale blue. Apparently it had been fixed.
“So, Jack, you were shagging Robbie Barlow’s wife?”
“It’s a work of fiction, Hoad. None of that happened. You think every film you see is the truth?”
“The truth is an elusive thing, Jack. You didn’t answer my question. You were getting a leg over Mrs. Maggie, were you?”
His voice had lost its professional tone and he was edging closer to a Dorset accent, the R’s becoming broader, a playful rise in his voice at the end of his questions.
“I answered it. It’s a work of fiction. Fiction means not true, Hoad.”