There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard bench seat running its full length,
‘Take a seat,’ Glenn Branson said.
‘I’m happy to stand,’ Bishop said defiantly.
‘We may be a while.’
Bishop’s mobile phone began ringing. He struggled for a moment, as if forgetting his hands were cuffed. ‘Could one of you answer that for me?’
‘It’s not permitted, I’m afraid, sir,’ DC Nicholl said, fishing it out of his pocket and terminating the call. The young detective studied the phone for some moments, then switched it off and returned it to Bishop’s pocket.
Brian Bishop stared at a laminated plastic notice that was fixed to the wall by four strips of Sellotape. It was headed, in blue letters, CRIMINAL JUSTICE DEPARTMENT. Beneath was written:
ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICERS NOW.
Then he read another sign, above the second green door:
NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.
A third notice said:
YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.
The two detectives sat down. Bishop remained standing. Anger was raging inside him. But, he reasoned, he was dealing with two robots. There was nothing to be gained by losing his rag. He just had to ride this out, for the moment. ‘Can you tell me what all this is about?’ he was addressing both of them.
But the door was sliding open as he spoke. Branson walked through. DC Nicholl gestured with his hand for Bishop to follow. ‘This way please, sir.’
Bishop entered a large, circular room, dominated by an elevated central pod like a command centre that could have been a set for Star Trek, he thought, surprised by how futuristic it looked. It was constructed from a shiny, speckled grey composite that reminded him of the granite work surfaces Katie had chosen for their insanely expensive kitchen. Several men and women, some police officers and some Reliance Security staff, dressed in uniform white shirts with black epaulettes, manned individual workstations around the pod. Around the outside of the intensely brightly lit room were heavy-duty green doors, with some internal windows looking on to waiting rooms.
There was an air of quiet, orderly calm. Bishop noticed the pod had been designed with extended arms in front of each workstation, to create an area affording some privacy. A tattooed, shaven-headed youth in baggy clothes stood dejectedly, between two uniformed police officers, in one of them now. It all felt totally surreal.
Then he was escorted across to the central console, into a marbled portioned space, with a counter that was neck-high. Behind it sat a plump, crew-cut man in shirt sleeves. His black tie was clipped with a gold English Rugby Team pin that Bishop, who was a debenture holder at Twickenham, recognized.
On a blue video monitor screen, set into the face of the counter, just below his eye level, Bishop read:
BRIGHTON DETAINEE HANDLING CENTRE
DON’T LET PAST OFFENCES COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU. A POLICE OFFICER WILL SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT ADMITTING OTHER CRIMES YOU HAVE COMMITTED.
Branson outlined to the custody officer the circumstances of Bishop’s arrest. Then the shirt-sleeved man was speaking directly, from his elevated seating position, down at him, in a flat voice devoid of emotion. ‘Mr Bishop, I am the custody officer. You have heard what has been said. I’m satisfied that your arrest is lawful and necessary. I am authorizing your detention for the purpose of securing and preserving evidence and so you can be interviewed regarding the allegation.’
Bishop nodded, lost for the moment for a reply.
The custody officer handed him a folded yellow A4 sheet, headed, SUSSEX POLICE, Notice of Rights and Entitlements.
‘You may find this helpful, sir. You have the right to have someone informed of your arrest, and to see a solicitor. Would you like us to provide you with a duty solicitor or do you have your own?’
‘Can you please phone Mr Glenn Mishon and tell him that I won’t be able to come to dinner tonight?’
‘May I have his number?’
Bishop gave it to him. Then he said, ‘I would like to speak to my own solicitor, Robert Vernon, at Ellis, Cherril and Ansell.’
‘I will make those calls,’ the custody officer said. ‘In the meantime, I am authorizing your arresting officer, Detective Sergeant Branson, to search you.’ The custody officer then produced two green plastic trays.
To his horror, Bishop saw DS Branson pulling on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Branson began patting him down, starting with his head. From Bishop’s breast pocket, the DS removed his reading glasses and placed them in one tray.
‘Hey! I need those – I can’t read without them!’ Bishop said.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson replied. ‘I have to remove these for your own safety.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘It may be at a later stage that the custody officer will allow you to keep them with you, but for now they need to go into your property bag,’ Branson replied.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid! I’m not about to kill myself! And how the hell am I supposed to read this document without them?’ he said, flapping the A4 sheet at him.
‘If you have reading difficulties, I’ll arrange for someone to read it aloud to you, sir.’
‘Look, come on, let’s be reasonable about this!’
Ignoring Bishop’s repeated pleas to have his glasses returned, Branson removed the man’s hotel key, wallet, mobile phone and BlackBerry, placing each object in turn in a tray. The custody officer noted each item, counting the amount of cash in the wallet and writing that down separately.
Branson removed Bishop’s wedding band, his Marc Jacobs wristwatch and a copper bracelet from his right wrist, and placed those in a tray also.
Then the custody officer handed Bishop a form, listing his possessions, and a biro to sign with.
‘Look,’ Bishop said, signing with clear reluctance, ‘I’m happy to come in here and help you with your inquiries. But this is ridiculous. You’ve got to leave me with the tools of my trade. I must have email and my phone and my glasses, for God’s sake!’
Ignoring him, Glenn Branson said to the custody officer, ‘In view of the gravity of the offence and the suspect’s potential involvement, we are asking to seize this person’s clothing.’
‘Yes, I authorize that,’ the custody officer said.
‘What the fuck?’ Bishop shouted. ‘What do you—’
With each of them holding one of his arms, Branson and Nicholl escorted him away from the console and out through yet another dark green door. They walked up a sloping floor, with dark cream walls on either side, and a red panic strip running the whole length on the left, past a yellow bollard printed with a warning triangle showing a figure falling over, and in large letters the words Cleaning in Progress. Then they rounded a corner into the corridor containing the custody cells.
And now as he saw the row of cell doors, Bishop began to panic. ‘I – I’m claustrophobic. I—’
‘There’ll be someone to keep an eye on you round the clock, sir,’ Nick Nicholl said gently.
They stepped to one side to allow a woman pushing a trolley laden with dog-eared paperbacks to pass, then stopped outside a cell door that was partially open.