by Ian Robinson
‘DS Moretti attached to the same command.’
Nash completed the interview preamble and caution, then Buchanan’s solicitor spoke up.
‘My client has had sufficient time to discuss matters with me. I have seen the CCTV image you gave in disclosure. I have advised him to make no comment,’ she said, as she sat back and waited for the interview to begin.
Moretti had been afforded the opportunity to lead this interview. Nash knew it was a skill that required repetition to be effective.
‘Very well, but I will remind your client that it’s his choice to act on that advice and his alone. This is your opportunity, Mr Buchanan, to answer the questions we put to you. Questions in relation to a murder which, I’m certain, you appreciate is a serious offence,’ Moretti said.
‘No comment,’ Buchanan responded.
‘Can you tell me where you were a week ago today between 5 and 7 p.m.?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you ever been to Thamesmere Heights or in the vicinity of that building?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you ever been to or entered that block?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you ever been to the third floor of that building?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you ever been to flat 33c within Thamesmere Heights? A flat that’s situated on the third floor?’
‘No comment.’
‘Mr Buchanan, I will continue asking questions despite the advice you’ve been given. As I pointed out, it’s your choice to say nothing. Remember that before you try and hide behind your solicitor or barrister, as it will be at court, and under oath,’ Moretti replied.
‘Officer,’ Buchanan’s solicitor interjected.
‘I prefer Detective Sergeant.’
‘Very well, Detective Sergeant, are you insinuating that you have enough evidence to charge? If so, I suggest you do so and desist in this charade. I have stated my client’s position re answering questions and as much as you have the right to ask them – and I’m in no way saying you shouldn’t – my client will not be making any comment.’
Buchanan’s tongue flicked out the corner of his mouth like a snake scenting air. Moretti sat back firm in the knowledge it would be he who would taste victory on this occasion.
Moretti looked at Nash who gave him a nod. She leaned down and picked up a docket from between her feet. A docket the solicitor hadn’t noticed, and whose eyes now zoned in on. She didn’t desist in her tracking as she followed the docket’s path from floor to table like an osprey scans a lake ready for the kill. Moretti continued.
‘Mr Buchanan, when you arrived at this station you had certain items of clothing removed from you.’
Buchanan looked at his solicitor whose face relaxed with the change of direction. Her eyes widened and her brows rose by way of a reminder for him to remain silent.
‘Among those items were a pair of boots. Boots, that have a distinctive silver buckle. Boots that we believe are the same as those seen in the image captured on CCTV.’ Moretti paused, purposely taking his time looking in the docket. He waited to see if the solicitor would respond and she did. As Moretti and Nash expected her to.
‘I’ve seen the CCTV image – a very poor one, I might add. There was nothing else disclosed that forensically links my client’s boots to that grainy still. If that’s where you’re going with this interview then my advice remains the same,’ she addressed Buchanan, as well as the detectives.
Buchanan nodded as he eyeballed Nash then leaned back in his chair.
‘Game set and match, officers,’ Buchanan said. A comment that was met with a pursed set of lips from his solicitor and a look that said all he needed to know: Shut up.
Moretti ignored the comment, but noticed Buchanan’s neck vein had begun to pulse as it had done when they’d flashed the still image of what they both believed was Buchanan, in the previous interview. Moretti took his time as he produced the lab report from the folder.
‘Mr Buchanan, I have a forensic report concerning the examination of your boots. The same boots that were removed from you upon arrest. The same boots this report tells me were also at the murder scene of Melissa Phelps. Boots that have traces of a bath bomb present in the victim’s bathroom. The trace could only have come from inside the flat.’
Moretti waited as the front legs of Buchanan’s chair hit the floor with fierce determination, his mouth agape as he looked at his solicitor then back at Moretti and Nash. His pupils pulsated as though on a timer as his brain assimilated the information he’d been presented with.
‘Would you like a further consultation with your solicitor?’ Nash enquired, with an internal glow of satisfaction she hoped was visible to the two sitting across the desk in front of her.
Buchanan looked at his solicitor who nodded that they should talk. Moretti stated the time and suspended the recording leaving the solicitor and Buchanan in the room to digest the latest disclosure.
As Moretti and Nash exited the interview room, Nash turned to him with a smile. ‘Tick… tick… boom,’ she whispered as she uncurled her fist and splayed her fingers as though showing she carried nothing.
‘New balls please,’ Moretti replied as they walked with an air of confidence towards the custody officers’ podium.
They waited in a vacant consultation room and helped themselves to a pre-packed coffee. Moretti prepped a tea for Buchanan to have on their return.
‘Do you think he’ll talk?’ Moretti asked.
‘No. I think he’ll stick with his solicitor’s advice. That advice will remain the same. Say nothing; see if we disclose anything else,’ Nash said. She put down the brown plastic ridged cup and worked her tongue around her mouth and teeth as though she’d ingested noxious fluid.
‘How you can drink this stuff, I do not know,’ she said to Moretti.
‘I got used to it in custody,’ Moretti replied.
‘Custody?’ Nash said.
‘Yes, custody. I had a year out on promotion, as there weren’t any vacancies in the department for a DS. It was either that or carry on as a DC in a squad that was up for being disbanded. I had a blast. Loved the role but it was hard work,’ he said as he topped up his plastic cup with more hot water.
‘I would have never had you down as a custody officer. I bet you were a right one to deal with,’ Nash replied.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. I was easy to deal with and the DCs loved me. I knew my stuff. You should’ve given it a try,’ he said, knowing full well Nash had never considered that.
‘I was always happiest this side of the desk and getting to see daylight every now and then.’
Moretti smiled. ‘I had to take vitamin D supplements in the end as I wasn’t getting enough sunlight. I’m certain the community at the marina thought I was a vampire.’
‘Very funny. How’s things with you and the dancer?’ she asked.
‘Tabatha? Nothing to report. Haven’t seen much of her since Christmas.’
‘Oh? From what I’ve heard you’ve seen all of her…’
‘Well, your source is shit, ma’am. I suggest you ditch them.’
Nash watched him over her cup, but he remained tight-lipped on the subject.
‘Do you think you’ll see her again?’ she asked.
‘Who knows? We’re both free spirits and this line of work isn’t conducive to a relationship, if you ask me,’ he said as he finished his drink.
‘Neither’s getting your tits out while wrapped around a pole, I’d imagine,’ Nash said, before the gaoler gave a light knock on the door and informed them the solicitor was ready to resume.
Moretti felt the bell had saved him. He realised he’d felt more comfortable in the interview room than being probed by Nash about his sex life over a crap coffee.
They entered the interview room and resumed in their respective seats. The air in the room resonated hostility as the self-close mechanism on the door engaged and sealed them in. The solici
tor had clearly had her work cut out in the time she’d spent with Buchanan since the disclosure. Nash conducted the preamble and it was now her turn to interview.
‘So, you’ve had sufficient time to consider what was disclosed, Mr Buchanan, is there anything you’d like to say by way of explanation? I must remind you that failure to do so in respect of the marks found at the scene may lead to the jury drawing an inference from this, do you understand?’
‘Yeah, my brief explained. I’ve done this statement and that’s it. I’m answering nothing else,’ Buchanan said. He looked at his solicitor and back at Nash.
‘Would you read the statement for me please?’ Nash asked.
Buchanan’s solicitor picked up the sheet of A4 paper. Nash noted the writing stopped halfway down the page. Not a good sign.
‘I’ve been asked to read this on behalf of my client. These are his words. On February 24th at about six in the evening I went to Thamesmere Heights. I needed to go and collect money owed for some tiling work I’d done on a bathroom there – flat 33. I travel by motorbike and dress appropriately for this purpose. I was carrying a brown bag with sealant just in case any tiling needed touching up. I knocked on the door and it opened. I entered and could see the body of the lady I’d met who owned the flat and owed me the money.
‘She was in a bath that was overflowing with water. I could see a lot of water on the floor that was pink in colour. I’ve watched a lot of crime stuff on TV so I didn’t touch anything, but I did step closer to her, as I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The water on the floor was everywhere and splashed as I stepped. I panicked. I tried to wipe it off on a floor mat inside the flat and left closing the door behind me. That’s it. I never called the police, as I knew I was wanted. I knew if I did, I’d be nicked for something I never did. I never saw anyone else while I was there.’ She finished reading and looked at Nash and Moretti as she placed the statement down.
‘So, the door wasn’t locked when you arrived?’ Nash asked.
Buchanan looked at his solicitor.
‘My client has answered that question in his statement, Detective Inspector.’
‘With the greatest respect, I am trying to investigate a murder and quite frankly a prepared statement as brief as this doesn’t help. Was the door open or closed when you arrived at the flat, Mr Buchanan? I would like you to answer, not your solicitor who wasn’t there,’ Nash said, as she shot the solicitor a stare.
‘Open, but pulled shut like it was closed,’ came Buchanan’s reply.
‘Detective Inspector, your tone is putting adverse pressure on my client to talk. I request this interview be terminated as we have assisted by way of the statement,’ his solicitor said.
Nash pressed on.
‘What else was in the bag?’ Nash asked.
‘No comment.’
‘Do you have an app on a phone or other device capable of accessing the building and the flat?’
‘No comment.’
‘How did Melissa Phelps, the occupier of flat 33, contact you in order for the work to be done?’
‘No comment.’
‘When did she contact you and how?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you canvass for work in that area and beyond?’
‘No comment.’
Nash took a breath for a beat before she continued, ‘I can understand how it may appear to you. Let me reassure you, we work on evidence, Mr Buchanan. If the evidence fits, we will use it. If it doesn’t, we will pursue the investigation until we establish it. You are leaving me with little to go on when you admit you were at the scene and we have trace evidence to corroborate that.’ Nash paused. She continued to look directly at Buchanan who just shrugged his shoulders and remained mute. ‘Very well. I have nothing further to add at this stage. You’ll be returned to your cell,’ she said.
‘How long will I be here for?’ Buchanan piped up.
Nash gathered up the papers from the desk and replaced them in a folder before returning her attention to him.
‘For as long as the law has given provision, Mr Buchanan. And I will be applying every measure at my disposal to ensure you’re not released,’ Nash replied, as she terminated the interview.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nash selected a table that provided a clear and unobstructed view of the cafe’s door. DS Harris had contacted her an hour before and called the meeting on. It couldn’t wait – apparently. Not even a double murder enquiry would frustrate the working machinations of the undercover unit. She checked her watch and as expected Harris was on time. The brass bell hooked over the door announced his arrival. His burly frame cast a shadow over the floor as he stood and scanned the room in search of her. He gave a nod at Nash and weaved through the close-knit chairs to greet her.
‘Cheers for coming out. I really do appreciate it,’ Harris said, sitting down opposite her and looking over to the counter that housed cakes and sandwiches.
He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered two lattes as he could see Nash’s was at the dregs stage. Harris took his time to settle in and observed the seating area as he did so. His eyes conducted a final threat assessment of the few who’d decided on the same cafe for a break. Nash was glad she didn’t have to live like that on a daily basis anymore. The undercover role was often glamourised in books and films, but the feeling of fight or flight that was a regular torment of the UC’s mind was often overlooked.
‘I need this hit of caffeine; the traffic was a fucking nightmare,’ Harris said as he accepted the cup from the waiter and ignored the tiny handle that would never fit his sausage fingers as he cupped the mug.
‘I thought your gym was close to here?’ Nash asked.
‘It is, I’m going there after this. Chest today and then I’m having a rest day. The old body’s not taking the damage like it used to when I was younger.’ Harris took a sip of coffee and wiped the milk from his upper lip as he leaned towards Nash.
‘Our piece of work’s going well. Foot traffic’s good and the deliveries are spot on and regular, just like we wanted. He’s a good contact, your man,’ Harris said.
Nash deciphered the words to mean the gang of phone robbers had been active and sending business into the sting shop.
‘Good to hear. So, what now?’ she enquired, with a degree of hesitation in her voice. She had hoped her role with Harris was over.
‘Well… thing is… our associate has been asking after you. Let’s say he liked your introduction and wondered if you had any others, like me, he could link up with to open his distribution network to an even wider audience,’ Harris said, eyeing a protein bar that appeared out of place amongst the cakes.
‘Tell him you haven’t seen me in a while. You’ll pass the message on should I get in touch,’ Nash said.
Harris laughed but not loud enough to encourage unwanted attention from the other occupants of the cafe, all of whom were engrossed in their own worlds. Worlds dictated by their phones. The barista wiped down the coffee machine and selected a mug to dry from a dishwasher.
‘I thought you’d be up for a bit more fun? Like the old days. Well, not like those days but you get my drift. All this death and murder is getting you down, Pip, look at ya?’
Nash side-eyed Harris whose attention was now drawn to the window and a traffic altercation that was occurring outside.
‘Where’s uniform when you need them, eh? Stuck indoors dealing with shite when they should be out on foot dealing with dickheads like these two,’ Harris said, as he returned his attention to Nash.
Nash answered his pearls of wisdom.
‘You need a spell out of your world too. You have no idea the pressures everyone’s under. According to your vision of the Met everyone’s there to serve you when actually you’re here to serve us,’ Nash said.
Harris coughed into his hand and muttered an obscenity at the same time.
‘How are the jobs going anyway? Rumour control says you’ve nicked someone already who’s as good as convicted?
’ he said.
‘I can put him at the scene but can’t say he committed murder.’
‘I’ve charged on less than that, what’s your problem?’ Harris said.
Nash shook her head at Harris’s attitude.
‘It’s remarks like that, Carl, that will ensure you remain where you are,’ she said.
Harris smiled and chuckled to himself. He nodded at the barista and pointed at the protein bar in an expression of appropriation.
‘Look, we’ve all got our strengths and mine happens to be with the criminal elements of society. I get on fine in that world without crossing the line. I know where I stand, which is more than can be said for our organisation,’ Harris said as he accepted the protein bar from the barista.
‘Anyway, the other reason I called was to give you a couple of phones now that I’ve got the bent ones you bought.’ Harris grinned and he delved into the inner pocket of his denim jacket. He produced an old Nokia and passed it to Nash who picked it up and examined it.
‘It doesn’t work!’ she exclaimed as she tried turning it on.
The screen remained blank. Harris sat back like his work was done and he’d earned a holiday.
‘It works a treat, let me tell you,’ Harris said as he leaned closer to her and took the phone in his palm.
‘Consider this a gift from me to you for all your dedication to the cause.’
‘Carl, it doesn’t work, that’s obvious. Where’s the charger, you cheapskate? It may be out of battery,’ Nash asked.
‘It works fine. It gives the appearance to the untrained eye that it’s defective.’
Harris glanced about then spoke. ‘Look, carry this with you and if you’re ever in bother all you need to do is bring up in conversation where you are and what the score is and the cavalry will come running,’ Harris said, like it was all so simple.
Nash decided to play the game and gave him a look that expressed genuine interest but was far from it.
‘So, it’s voice activated and linked to the main control room?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Don’t be silly. I don’t like you that much. Look, I know that one of the reasons you’re reluctant to work with me is that the backup just isn’t there anymore. I get it. The operational teams do their best but more often than not we go in alone. With this gadget you at least have the chance of getting some help should you need it,’ Harris said, with a note of assurance in his voice.