The sergeant flipped through Owen’s diary. It was empty apart from a few addresses. Next he looked through Owen’s wallet. “Nothing much there,” he said, placing it in the plastic bag with the other items. He held the pen between thumb and forefinger and said, “Gold-looking fountain-pen.”
“It is gold,” Owen said. “It’s not just gold-looking.”
“Well we’re not going to get a bloody appraiser in, mate, are we?” the sergeant said. “Gold-looking.” He dropped it in the bag.
Before they sealed the bag, a constable patted Owen down to see if he had anything else hidden.
“Shall we have a look up his arse, sir?” he asked the custody sergeant when he had finished.
The sergeant looked at Owen, then back at the constable, as if he were seriously considering the proposition. “Nah,” he said. “I never did like rectal searches, myself. Messy business. Never know what you might find. Take him to the studio.”
Jesus Christ, thought Owen, they’re enjoying this! They don’t need to be rude, violent and brutal; they get their kicks better this way, the vicious tease, the cruel joke. They had already judged and condemned him. In their minds, he was guilty, and the rest would be mere formality. And if they believed it, wouldn’t everyone else?
When they put him jail, he thought with a stab of fear, it would be even worse. He had heard about the things that went on, how people like the Yorkshire Ripper and Dennis Nilsen had to be kept in solitary for their own good, how Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered in prison and Frederick West had hanged himself.
Solitary confinement would probably be better than a poke up the bum from a three-hundred-pound Hell’s Angel with tattoos on his cock, Owen thought. But could he stand the loneliness, the feeling of being hopelessly cut off from everything he held dear, abandoned by the whole civilized world? He liked the solitary life, but that was his choice. Could he stand it when it was imposed on him?
The constable led him into another room for fingerprinting and mug shots taken by a mounted camera. The “studio.” Another cruel joke.
“Now then, mate,” the constable said, “let’s have your belt and shoelaces.”
“What? Why on earth-”
“Regulations. So’s you don’t top yourself, see.”
“But I’m not going to do away with myself. I’ve told you all. I’m innocent.”
“Aye. Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s more than my job’s worth. We’d have your tie too if you were wearing one. Saw a fellow once topped himself with his tie. Polka-dot tie it was. A nice one. You should’ve seen him, eyes all bulging and his tongue sticking out. And the pong, you wouldn’t believe it! Aye, nasty business, it was. Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get your things back-that’s if you’re ever in a position to need them again.”
He had a good laugh at that while Owen took the belt off his jeans and the long white laces from his trainers.
Back at the desk, the custody sergeant gave Owen a pamphlet on legal aid and sheet of paper that advised him of his rights: to call a solicitor, to inform a friend, and to consult the Codes of Practice. Then he went over to scrawl details on the board.
“I want to call my solicitor,” Owen said.
The sergeant shrugged and gestured to the constable again, who escorted Owen to a telephone. He felt in his inside pocket for his address-book, where he had politely jotted down Wharton’s number, but realized it had been taken away along with all his other possessions. He turned to the constable.
“The phone number,” he said. “It’s in my diary. Can I get it back for a minute?”
“Sorry,” the constable replied. “Against regulations. It’s all been entered and bagged.”
“But I can’t remember my solicitor’s number.”
“Best try this, then.” He pulled a dog-eared telephone directory from the desk drawer. “It usually works.”
Owen flipped through and managed to find Gordon Wharton’s office number. He got an answering machine, and even though it was late on Saturday afternoon, left an urgent message anyway, just in case. Then he tried the listed home number, but got no answer. “What now?” he asked the constable.
“Cells.” Another constable appeared beside them. They took Owen gently by the elbows and led him back into the corridor. “Nothing to worry about,” the first officer said. “Quite comfortable really. More like a hospital ward. Most modern part of the whole building.”
Police boots echoed from the greenish-blue walls and high ceiling as the three of them walked down the hallway. At the end, the constable took out a key and opened a heavy, hinged door.
True, the cell wasn’t the dank, dripping dungeon Owen had imagined; it was actually very clean, all white tiles, like a public urinal, and bright light from bulbs covered by wire mesh.
It contained a narrow bed, fixed to the wall and floor, with a thin mattress, a washstand and a seatless toilet made of molded orange plastic. There was only one window, set high and deep in the wall, about a foot square and almost as thick. The door had a flap for observation. A faint odor of dead skin and old sweat lurked under the smell of disinfectant.
“Sorry there’s no telly,” said one of the jailers, “but you can have something to read if you like. A book, maybe, or a magazine?” He turned to his companion. “Jock here’s probably got an issue or two of Playboy hidden away at the back of his desk.”
Owen ignored the taunt. He simply shook his head and stared around in amazement at the cell.
“Owt to eat?” the jailer asked.
When he thought about it, Owen realized that he was hungry. He said yes.
“The special’s steak and kidney pud today. Or there’s fish and chips, sausage and-”
“Steak and kidney pud sounds just fine,” Owen said.
“Mug of tea? Milk and sugar?”
Owen nodded. This is bloody absurd, he thought, almost unable to contain his laughter. Here I am, sitting in a cell in the bowels of the Eastvale police station putting in an order for steak and kidney pudding and a mug of tea!
“You won’t be here long,” said the jailer. “And if it wasn’t a weekend we’d have you up before the beak tomorrow. Anyway, just so’s you know, you’ll be well treated. You’ll get three square meals a day, a bit of exercise if you want it, reading material, pen and paper if you want-”
“We can’t give him a pen, Ted,” said Jock. “He might…you know…Remember that bloke who…?” He drew his forefinger across his throat and made a gurgling sound.
“Aye, you’re right.” Ted turned back to Owen. “We had a bloke once tried to cut his throat with a fountain-pen. Messy. And another jabbed a pencil right through his eye socket. A yellow HB, if I recollect it right.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry lad, you’ll have to wait for writing privileges. It’s our responsibility, see. Anything else you want, though, just let us know. As I always say, just ring the bell and ask for room service.”
They laughed and walked out into the corridor. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.
III
“So what do you think, sir?” Susan Gay asked over the noise, handing Banks the pint she had just bought him.
“Thanks. Looks like I was wrong, doesn’t it?” Banks said, with a shrug.
The Queen’s Arms was buzzing with conversation and ringing with laughter that Saturday evening. Rumors had leaked out that the “Eastvale Strangler” was in the holding cells and all was well with the world. Parents could once again rest easy in their beds; just about every phone, fax and modem in town was tied up by the press; and those police who were off duty were celebrating their success. The only things missing were the fireworks and the brass band.