‘It wasn’t very easy for the witness.’ Kitson blinked away the memory of something, but managed to crank up the smile again. ‘Should put the wind up his smartarse solicitor, though.’
‘One of those, is it?’
‘You know the firm: Smartarse, Posh and Fullovit.’
‘I know them too bloody well…’
They moved on together, laughing, towards the interview rooms; through the door that separated the rest of the prison from the custody suite.
‘Suite’ was something of a misnomer, suggesting that the area was rather more comfortable and well appointed than it was. In fact, this was where industrial grey carpet gave way to concrete floors, where panic strips ran along the walls, and where an atmosphere of heightened awareness came close to one charged with aggression.
This was where the station became a prison.
A pair of custody sergeants, or ‘skippers’, sat on a raised platform at the centre, booking people in, working at computer screens and monitoring the CCTV images fed from cells and corridors. The ‘cage’ was off to one side, through which prisoners were brought in from the backyard, and where, if necessary, UV light would show up any property-marked items that they might be carrying. Corridors in two directions led to the twenty-seven cells which ringed the suite. Each was tiled from floor to high ceiling, with a metal toilet on one side and a blue plastic mattress along the back wall. A double doorway led through to an exercise yard, to which prisoners were taken if they needed air; or, more likely, nicotine.
Kitson slowed down outside the tiny kitchen, where the jailer on shift could make tea and coffee or prepare one of five different microwaveable meals for prisoners. She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve got DNA as well, Tom.’
It took Thorne a couple of seconds. ‘When did you arrest him?’
‘I acquired a sample beforehand, got it to the lab yesterday afternoon.’
‘Right…’ He drew the word out, still thinking.
‘It’s only a preliminary result, obviously. Ninety-something per cent match so far. It doesn’t eliminate him, which is what counts.’
‘Twenty-four hours is still going some, though.’
Kitson reddened. ‘Somebody at FSS likes me. Owed me a favour.’
‘You flirted with him. I’m appalled.’
‘With her…’
‘You’re fucking shameless,’ Thorne said. He flicked quickly through the disclosure papers again. ‘I can’t see it anywhere in here.’
‘Like I said, it’s just a prelim. We’ve got two more runs before it’s definitive.’
‘You can still put it in here, though. Then you’ll really put the shits up Farrell’s brief.’ Thorne looked up, saw that the colour in Kitson’s face had deepened, and that it wasn’t through embarrassment. ‘When you say acquired?’
Kitson told him about the previous afternoon. She described her meeting with Adrian Farrell by the bus stop, the boy’s reaction to her questions, and the way she’d scraped his spit off the pavement. Thorne stared, astonished and full of admiration. Then, much as he hated to be the one to do it, he pointed out that none of her forensic evidence would stand up anywhere.
‘I’ve got a witness,’ Kitson said, and she told Thorne about the woman in the tracksuit who’d seen Farrell spitting on the pavement. The woman who’d been kind enough to provide Kitson with a cotton bud and a plastic freezer bag when she’d needed them.
‘Even so-’
‘OK, look, I know I can’t use it, and I took a kosher sample as soon as we booked him in, but I just wanted to be sure. D’you understand?’
Thorne handed back the documents. ‘Probably right to leave the DNA stuff out then,’ he said. ‘For the time being.’
‘Yeah.’ She tapped a fingertip against the side of her head and grinned. ‘But it’s nice to know, isn’t it?’
‘Oh fuck, yes,’ Thorne said. ‘Every time.’
They walked round the corner to the interview room – the ‘bin’ – where Farrell was waiting. Thorne took a quick look through the small window.
Kitson nodded across to another room on the far side. ‘You think you’ve got your man in there? For the kidnap, I mean.’
Thorne considered the question. ‘I’m really not sure about anything,’ he said. ‘Right now, if you asked me what my name was, I’d only be able to give you a preliminary result.’
SIXTEEN
‘This room is different,’ Freestone said.
Thorne nodded, as though he were impressed. ‘Can’t fool you for a second, can we, Grant?’ He pointed to a red light on the far wall, informed Freestone that whenever it was lit the interview was being viewed remotely by other officers. ‘You’re very popular,’ he said. ‘Lots of people are keen to say hello, but we don’t want to start cramming them into a small room like this, do we?’
Donovan was obviously eager to make his presence felt early. He leaned towards his client. ‘And they don’t want me claiming that you were intimidated by a gang of hulking great coppers.’
‘Can’t fool you, either,’ Thorne said. He looked at Freestone for a second or two without speaking. ‘Not that you look as though you’d be easily intimidated.’
‘You can’t afford to be, can you?’ Freestone said.
Thorne understood perfectly well. He knew that Freestone had spent a long time on the receiving end of far harsher intimidation than anything he could dish out. ‘You certainly can’t,’ he agreed.
Porter had been staring hard at Freestone across the table. ‘You don’t look too good,’ she said. Then, to Donovan: ‘Are you sure your client’s well enough?’
Thorne glanced up at the camera through which he knew Hignett and Brigstocke were watching. He guessed they’d have approved of the question. Porter was right to allow for any eventuality at this stage.
‘No, as it goes, he’s far from well,’ Donovan said.
Freestone began to nod quickly. ‘I just need a bit of something. I’ll be fine.’
It was obvious to all concerned what Freestone needed. Thorne did not know how serious the habit was, whether he was doing coke, heroin or both, but at best it would have been seven or eight hours since he’d taken anything. If the turkey wasn’t yet cold, it was already tepid. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can, then we’ll get a doctor in to sort you out. It’s really up to you how soon that’ll be.’
‘This is the fourth interview with my client in as many hours,’ Donovan said. ‘And I still haven’t seen much to justify a single one of them.’
‘You were obviously asleep when he threatened a child’s life.’
‘He threatened no such thing-’
‘When he confessed to holding a child against his will, then. That do you?’
Freestone, who didn’t appear to be listening, pointed at the glowing red light. ‘People are watching this, correct?’
‘Correct,’ Thorne said.
‘Well, we can’t meet in here, then. When Mullen comes in.’
‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.’
‘When’s he coming? Is he on his way yet?’
‘You have to talk to us first,’ Porter said.
Thorne was shaking his head. ‘There are no guarantees here.’ He leaned his head close to Porter’s. ‘We’re making no promises at all. We need to be agreed on that. Yes?’