* * *
Swann’s lawyer is old school. A heavy Harris tweed jacket, well-worn tie, well-shined shoes. He looks like he’s just walked straight out of a gracious Georgian office on Woodstock High Street, which perhaps he has.
Gis shows him into Interview Two, where Richard Swann is waiting, babysat by Chloe Sargent.
‘Good morning, Mr Swann,’ says Gis briskly, taking his seat and gesturing to the lawyer to do the same. ‘I won’t bother asking how you slept.’
‘I assume this won’t take long?’ interjects the solicitor. ‘I have another meeting I need to get back to.’
‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ says Gis genially. ‘The sooner we get a full account of what happened last night, the better it will be for all of us. Including your client.’
Swann looks up, his eyes beady under his heavy brows. ‘I’ve already told you. What part of “he broke in” do you not understand?’
Gis grins. ‘No, the big picture is pretty clear. It’s the little picture I’m a bit hazy on.’
Chloe Sargent suppresses a smile.
‘But before we begin,’ he continues, ‘I need to remind Mr Swann that he remains under caution, and that this interview is being recorded. As he was advised last night, he does not have to say anything, but anything he does say may be used in evidence, and it may harm his defence if he does not mention when questioned something which he later relies on in court. We’re all clear on that?’
He looks at the two men opposite: Swann hesitates then nods; the lawyer checks his watch and opens his notebook with a sigh.
Gis reaches for the recording machine. ‘Interview commenced at 11.35, those present, DS Chris Gislingham, DC Chloe Sargent, Mr Richard Swann and Mr Timothy Unwin, Mr Swann’s lawyer.’
He turns to Swann. ‘So, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’
* * *
Telephone interview with Jonathan Martin
22 October 2018, 11.39 a.m.
On the call, DS G. Quinn
GQ: Ah, Mr Martin, Detective Sergeant Quinn, Thames Valley. Glad I finally got through – we’ve been struggling to reach you.
JM: Sorry about that – I’ve been on the motorway – the phone was off. What’s up?
GQ: I believe you made a call to the emergency services at 9.52 last night, is that right?
JM: Yup, I was up near Wytham Hill.
GQ: And what were you doing there? It’s a pretty odd place to be at that time of night.
JM: Not if you’re a photographer it’s not. I was hoping to get some shots of the Orionid meteor shower. The weather conditions were damn-near perfect, and I needed somewhere elevated without much light pollution. Hence, Wytham.
GQ: Right, OK, so can you talk me through what happened? The 999 operator didn’t get much by way of detail.
JM: Yeah, sorry about that, my battery gave out. I’d been listening to a podcast on it and didn’t realize. Bloody thing. Why can’t you carry a spare like you used to? They just want you to keep on buying new models –
GQ: Mr Martin?
JM: Sorry – right – I was just putting my kit together when I heard it. A bang, like a gunshot.
GQ: You’re sure – you recognized it?
JM: Well, I don’t own a gun, but I’ve watched enough crime stuff on telly. And whatever it was, it had to come from that house – it’s the only one for miles.
GQ: And you called 999 immediately? I’m just trying to get a fix on the timings.
JM: Yes, pretty much straight away.
GQ: You didn’t go down to the house? Didn’t you think they might need help?
JM: I couldn’t – there was a bloody great electric fence in the way. I did hang about for a bit, you know, to make sure the police did actually turn up, but then I saw the old boy come outside and he looked fine, so I realized they must be OK –
GQ: You saw him?
JM: Yeah. Sorry, I should have said.
GQ: And you could tell how old he was?
JM: Well, I had my telescopic with me, and the night-sight, so yeah, it was pretty easy to see.
GQ: What was he doing?
JM: I think he was taking out some rubbish – he was holding a plastic bag.
GQ: What sort of bag?
JM: You know – one of those black refuse ones.
GQ: Did it look full? Heavy?
JM: Hard to tell, but he definitely wasn’t struggling with it. I remember thinking that he must’ve shot a rat or something, and he was getting rid of it.
GQ: So he comes outside – what happened then?
JM: He went down the garden with the bag.
GQ: You’re absolutely sure about that?
JM: Oh yeah. He went across the lawn and disappeared into the trees.
GQ: And did he have the bag with him when he came back?
JM: No idea, I’m afraid. I stopped watching after that. I mean, it was obvious there was no harm done. I was a bit embarrassed, actually – if the phone hadn’t died I’d have called you back and told you not to bother –
GQ: Have you not seen the news this morning?
JM: No – like I said, I’ve been on the road –
GQ: That shot you heard – it wasn’t just a rat that got killed.
JM: [pause]
Someone died?
GQ: Afraid so. You didn’t see anyone arrive at the house by any chance? Before the shot, I mean. You were probably in the vicinity at the time.
JM: No, like I said, I was there for the Orionids – it was only after the shot that I focused on the house. Shit –
GQ: We’ll need you to come in and make a formal statement.
JM: Sure, of course. But hang on a minute, this whole thing – it makes no sense – if someone had just been shot, what was the old boy doing pissing about in the garden?
GQ: Right now, Mr Martin, that is the million-dollar question.
* * *
Safe to say, Ian Barnetson has had more enjoyable days. It’s the worst kind of weather for this sort of palaver. Heavy with damp and a vicious chill that grits your bones, no matter how many layers you put on. As his team assemble on the gravel outside Gantry Manor for the second time in a few hours, they look as demoralized as he feels, stamping their feet and breathing gusts of painful cold air.
‘OK,’ he says, trying to get some authority, if not enthusiasm, into his voice. ‘Let’s just get this over with as quickly and efficiently as we can, shall we?’
One of the PCs mutters something under his breath, but not quite quietly enough.
‘And yes, Grover, you’re right,’ says Barnetson, fixing him with a stare. ‘I don’t see how we could have missed it the first time either. But what we know now, and didn’t know then, is that “it” actually exists. Richard Swann was seen out here with a black plastic bag after the shooting took place. A black plastic bag that isn’t in the bins, hasn’t been burned and wasn’t put out for recycling, which by a process of elimination means it must be up here somewhere. So we’re looking for any areas where the soil looks like it might have been disturbed. And if we don’t find anything in the garden, we’re going to widen the search to the woods at the back and the paddock down this side, that all right with everyone?’