“Yesterday morning at ten forty-five A.M.,” he began, “police were called to an address on Laburnum Way, where a loaded firearm had been reported. Unable to gain permission to enter from the occupants of the house, the Authorised Firearms Officers effected entry, and during the ensuing operation a man was injured by Taser fire. He later died of complications in Eastvale General Infirmary. A loaded gun was recovered from the scene. Now, I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m sure you also understand that my replies have to be necessarily restricted at this point in the investigation.”
Hands went up all over the room, and the man from the Daily Mail got the first question. “I understand that a Mr. Patrick Doyle was the registered owner of the house in question. Was he present at the time of the police assault? Was he the one who died? If so, how did it happen?”
“I must object to your use of the word ‘assault’ as unnecessarily inflammatory,” McLaughlin said. “The officers were dealing with a potentially very dangerous situation. But let me do my best to give you a clear and succinct answer, seeing as you know most of it already. Mr. Patrick Doyle was indeed the registered owner of 12 Laburnum Way. He was on the premises at the time the AFOs entered. He was injured by the discharge of a Taser and has sadly since died of unrelated injuries in Eastvale General Infirmary.”
Reactions buzzed about the room and more hands went up. McLaughlin picked a local reporter next, Annie noticed. “Yes, Ted.”
Ted Whitelaw from the Eastvale Gazette stood up. “You said ‘unrelated injuries.’ Was Mr. Doyle’s death directly caused by the Taser discharge, or wasn’t it?”
“That we can’t say at the moment,” said McLaughlin.
“Can’t or won’t?” someone shouted.
McLaughlin ignored the lone voice. “Mr. Doyle’s body is awaiting a postmortem examination,” he went on calmly, “and until that has been carried out, we won’t be able to say with any degree of certainty exactly what caused his death.”
“But isn’t it likely?” Whitelaw persisted. “We all know that Tasers can kill.”
“This is neither the time nor place to enter into a debate on Tasers,” said McLaughlin. “We’ll have to await the postmortem results before we know any more.”
“I understand that Taser deaths are often related to drug use or pre-existing heart conditions,” Whitelaw went on. “Did Mr. Doyle have a heart condition? Did he use drugs?”
“Patrick Doyle had a heart attack two years ago,” said McLaughlin, “but according to his doctor, he was in excellent shape.”
“Were the armed officers who entered his house aware of this heart attack?”
“They had not been advised of his condition, no,” said McLaughlin. “Why was that?”
“It’s not for me to speculate. That remains to be determined.”
“Was it because you didn’t know about it?”
McLaughlin said nothing.
“So would you say the Taser could have been responsible for his death?” Whitelaw pressed on.
“This was a very unfortunate incident, and it will be investigated thoroughly. Now, you’ve had more than your fair share of questions, Ted. It’s time to sit down.”
Whitelaw sat, smirked and began scribbling on his pad.
“You said the incident would be investigated thoroughly,” said the Daily Mirror man. “Can you tell us who by?”
“The actions of the officers involved will be investigated by Superintendent Chambers, from the Professional Standards Department, who will be working with an outside team brought in by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, according to protocol.”
“But it will be a police investigation, won’t it?” asked the woman from the Guardian.
“The last time I checked, Maureen,” said McLaughlin, “the police were the best qualified organization in the country to carry out such an investigation. Whom do you suggest we bring in? The librarian? A local antiques dealer? The little old lady down the street who takes in all the stray cats?” His Scottish accent grew more pronounced with his sarcasm.
The woman smiled. “I was merely pointing out that it’s simply another case of the police investigating their own,” she said, then sat down.
McLaughlin searched around for another raised hand. He didn’t have far to look. “Yes. You, Len.”
It was Len Jepson from the Yorkshire Post. “My question is a simple one,” he began. “Why was a team of Authorised Firearms Officers breaking down the door of a pebble-dash semi in a nice middle-class street in Eastvale on a quiet Monday morning?”
A ripple of laughter went around the room.
“As I said in my statement, we had reliable reports that there was a loaded firearm on the premises,” said McLaughlin,” and when our duty officers got no response to their requests for peaceful entry, the AFOs were called in. It’s standard procedure, Len. You should know that.”
“How many AFOs were involved?” asked a reporter from the Independent.
“Four. Two at the front and two at the back, as per usual. SOP.” Another hand. “Yes, Carol.”
“You mentioned in your statement earlier that a loaded gun was recovered from the house. Had it been used?”
“The weapon had not been recently discharged.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“That we don’t know.”
“Where is it now?” asked another voice.
“It’s been sent to the Forensic Science Services in Birmingham for further examination.”
“Any idea how it came to be in the house?”
“That matter is under investigation.”
“Was it anything to do with Erin Doyle?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t make any further comment at present.” More hands. McLaughlin picked the woman from the Darlington & Stockton Times. “Jessica?”
“You’ve been singled out before for your rather, shall we say, left wing views on some subjects of public concern, such as racial profiling, overcrowded prisons and the use of police force. Can you tell our readers what your personal thoughts on this matter are?”
McLaughlin managed a tight smile. Some people, Annie knew, called him “Red” Ron, and he pretended not to like it, though she thought he was secretly rather proud. His father, who had worked on the Glasgow shipyards after the war, had been a strong trade unionist, and some of the old socialist ideals had rubbed off on his son. “My personal opinions on the matter in hand are hardly relevant,” McLaughlin said. “The point at issue here is that a life has been tragically lost, and a family is in mourning. I ask you all to respect their grief.”
“Do you respect it?” someone called out. “Isn’t it true that you’ve been interrogating and harassing the Doyle family since yesterday morning?”
“I can’t discuss the details of the ongoing investigation at this stage, but I can assure you that there has been no harassment on our part.”
More grumbles and shuffling, then another voice spoke out. This time it was Luke Stafford of the Sun. “What part did Erin Doyle play in all this?” he asked. “Patrick Doyle’s daughter. Was the gun hers?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss such the detail of an ongoing investigation.”
“So you think it was? She was seen by a neighbor being led out of the house in handcuffs,” Stafford went on. “And isn’t it true that she was mixing with some pretty bad company in Leeds? Drug dealers and such scum?”
Annie could see that this was the first McLaughlin had heard of it. It was the first she had heard of it, too. They must have sent a reporter to dig around. “I can’t comment on that, Mr. Stafford,” said McLaughlin, “but if you have any information pertinent to our investigation, I hope you’ll do your duty as a citizen and come forward with it.” Then he stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. This conference is over.”