Porter’s heart sank.
‘A ringer?’
‘A policeman. Weiss will spill his guts.’
Before Porter could protest, Brant said,
‘And you’ve someone in mind, sir, to play... the ringer.’
The Super, feeling his leadership was intact, said,
‘PC McDonald, an up-and-coming officer, the new face of policing. Plus, he’s street-smart.’
Porter looked to Brant for help but he remained expressionless. The Super continued:
‘Right then, Porter, you can begin interrogation of the suspect and I’ll arrange for McDonald to be nicked.’
He seemed amazed his joke fell flat.
Barry Weiss was sitting in the interview room. Despite the hangover, he was making plans, told himself,
‘Admit to nothing and they can prove nothing.’
The door opened and Porter came in with Brant. They sat down and Porter said,
‘We’re going to tape this, OK?’
Barry seemed to consider, then,
‘I’ll need to know who wins Big Brother.’
The first session lasted two hours and they got nothing. Barry asked for a lawyer and a Diet Coke, saying,
‘I’ve got to count those calories.’
During the second session, Barry had tea and sandwiches, said,
‘The bread’s stale.’
A lawyer came and instructed Barry to say nothing. Barry stared at him, asked,
‘How bright are you?’
They could hold him for 48 hours, then they’d have to charge him or release him. When Porter finally said,
‘Take him to a cell.’
Barry said,
‘Is that your final answer?’
He was surprised to find the cell occupied, asked,
‘Don’t I get one on my own?’
And got shoved inside.
The Super had briefed McDonald:
‘This is your big break, laddie. All eyes are on you. I don’t have to emphasise the magnitude of this case. Crack this and you’re made.’
‘Yes, sir.’
McDonald had been relieved to get away from Roberts. The strain of pursuing the geek murder had been enormous. If he did well now, he might never have to work with Roberts again. The Super was saying,
‘You want him to confess. Don’t be pushy or he’ll smell a rat. Let him come to you. Admit to various crimes slowly. You have to appear almost disinterested so he’ll try to impress you. He’s a psycho, he’ll want to boast, let you know how superior he is. Any questions?’
‘I have the gist, sir.’
The Super appeared loath to stop, then,
‘They didn’t want you.’
‘Sir?’
‘Porter Nash, Brant, Roberts, they said you were the wrong man for the job. Are you, McDonald, are you the wrong choice? Have I made a grave mistake in entrusting this to you?’
McDonald felt like he was being briefed for Mission: Impossible, kept his face solemn, answered,
‘I won’t let you down, sir.’
‘See you don’t.’
He was wearing old jeans, a torn sweatshirt and scuffed trainers. There were two bunks in the cell and he settled in one, made as if he was sleeping. By the by, he heard commotion. They were bringing Barry down, heard him bitching about sharing a cell, then they pushed him in. The door clanged shut and it was quiet, save for Barry’s breathing, heard:
‘Hey, you.’
And his bunk was kicked. He took his time, turned, came awake, rubbed his eyes, asked,
‘The fuck you want?’
Barry was gauging him, assessing his build, said,
‘Let me introduce myself.’
McDonald stared and Barry went,
‘Don’t you get it? Intro to “Sympathy for the Devil”?
‘You woke me up.’
‘Sorry about that, I’ve had a rough day.’
McDonald nodded, said,
‘I’m Pete.’
‘Well hello, Pete. What you in for?’
‘A bit of GBH.’
Barry’s eyes lit up; he asked,
‘Yeah, who’d you batter?’
‘Some tosser in a pub.’
‘That’s it?’
McDonald allowed himself a small smile, said,
‘Perhaps one or two other items.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, a robbery they’re hot on.’
Barry was having fun. His crime books had mentioned this type of scenario. They plant a cop and get you to fess up. This guy was so bad at it, Barry wanted to laugh out loud. Climbed on his bunk, said,
‘Night, night.’
McDonald felt a panic build, asked,
‘And... what about you?’
‘Moi?’
‘Yeah, what are they trying to stick you with?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘Must be something.’
A pause, then:
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot to pay my TV licence but I’m going to front it out, know what I mean?
McDonald was nearly asleep when he heard,
‘Pete?’
Disorientated, he didn’t answer, heard,
‘Pete, you awake, buddy?’
Realised he was ‘Pete’, went,
‘Yeah, I’m awake.’
‘Here’s a question, you listening?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s more a supposition, you with me? Okay, here it is: a stone psycho, a cop killer is celling with a... cop. His speciality if you will, cops being who he kills. My question is, how good is this cop going to sleep?’
McDonald tried to keep his interest low, sound almost bored, asked,
‘You want to tell me something, Barry?’
‘You’re asking the wrong question.’
‘I am?’
‘Sure, the question should be, did they set me up?’
‘What?’
‘The brass — they need a result, so you put a disposable cop in with the killer. They figure the guy has no control. You leave a policeman overnight with him, hey, he’ll off the fuck. I mean, come on, it’s what he does, he can’t help it. The crime books call it the “Irresistible Impulse”. They need a result and badly, the Press are on their backs, here’s a guaranteed winner.’
McDonald couldn’t see clearly: was Barry lying down... or crouched on the bunk, what? He fought the screaming in his head, the desire to peep out of bed, see where the hell Barry was. He asked,
‘You think I’m a policeman?’
No answer. Then a little later, he heard low laughter, a suppressed set of... giggles? Any chance of sleep was shot to hell. Sure, the guy was doing a number, fucking with his head, but he’d killed, what... six people, how conducive to sleep was that?
Bitter experience showed that in their sad country, whistleblowers rarely achieved anything more than their own destruction.
Brant and Porter were debriefing McDonald. Brant went:
‘Christ, you look a mess. What is that, method acting?’
McDonald glared at him and Porter asked,
‘Did you get a result?’
‘He’s the one, he did the murders, it’s definitely him.’
‘He confessed?’
McDonald shifted nervously, said,
‘No, but it’s him, he let me know that.’
Brant moved close, right in McDonald’s face, said,
‘He sussed you, didn’t he? What did you do, show him your warrant card?’
McDonald looked away, then,
‘Yeah, he sussed me.’
Porter slammed the table.
‘Aw, for heaven’s sake.’
McDonald wanted to explain — the fear he’d felt, what it was like to be locked up in close proximity to that animal — but these weren’t the people to whinge to, so he just lowered his head.