‘What’s going on now?’ Jane wanted to know.
‘I’m going to have a preliminary interview with Pearson and then I’m going to hand him over to the local CID to sort out, unless I think he has some involvement in the murder, which I don’t. My priority is still to find Uren.’
‘Who’s second jockey?’ Jane asked, meaning who would accompany him in the interview.
‘No one.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Jane offered quickly, turning Debbie’s face granite-like. Henry said OK, and Debbie looked mortified.
He walked to the custody desk which, for a brief spell, was quiet, with no prisoners waiting. ‘Has the duty solicitor got to Pearson yet?’ Henry asked the custody sergeant.
‘No — for some reason he’s decided not to have one, but I will make sure he gets one whether he likes it or not. For the time being, though …’ The sergeant shrugged and looked meaningfully at Henry. ‘You can have him.’ He reached under the desk and emerged with a set of sealed interview tapes and associated paperwork, which he dumped in Henry’s hands. ‘I’ll sign him out to you. Interview room two. Just make sure you comply with PACE.’
Pearson sat behind the table in the interview room in his white paper suit. His own clothing had been removed for forensic examination. He looked cowed and pathetic, not like the crazed knifeman he’d recently transformed into a few hours earlier. He could not make eye contact with Henry.
Henry held the sealed tapes in his hands, wanting to speak to Pearson off the record. It was a difficult thing to pull off these days, but Henry reckoned he had about four or five minutes grace. Some of the things he wanted to say, he didn’t want recorded. He glanced at Jane, wishing she wasn’t here.
Before Henry could start, though, Pearson blurted, ‘I hope you’re looking after Nigel. If you don’t look after him, I’ll sue you.’
Henry gave him a cold stare. ‘Let me get this straight,’ Henry said. ‘You are more concerned about the fate of a kitten, which you were only too happy to throw at me, than the predicament you’re in? Because, let me lay this right on the line: you are in very serious trouble. Not only have you attempted to murder a police officer-’
‘Yeah, yeah — and look at me!’ he cut in, pointing to his face which was red and swollen from Henry’s slapping. ‘I’ve been assaulted too — by you!’
Henry surveyed the prisoner. ‘Not only have you tried to murder a police officer,’ he reiterated, ‘but a twelve-year-old boy was found bound and gagged in your bedroom, naked, having been brutally buggered, and video-recording equipment was also in the room. I’ve very quickly skimmed the tape found in the camera and yes, you are in very serious trouble, Mr Pearson.’ Henry could not keep the contempt out of his voice or his body language. ‘And yes, I slapped you to defend myself and my colleague. I slapped you as hard as I could under the circumstances and I’ll quite happily tell that to a court … the offender in this case is you, and you need to get that firmly in your brain.’
Their eyes remained locked. Henry’s were hard and unyielding; Pearson’s were initially defiant, then crumbling.
‘He consented,’ he pouted. ‘He was very mature.’
‘Twelve-year-olds can’t consent,’ Henry corrected him. Pearson went silent. ‘And it’s all on video.’
Still no response.
Henry allowed the pause to stretch out a while, enjoying the prisoner’s discomfort as the consequences of his actions filtered through.
‘I’m going to prison, aren’t I?’
‘I’ll say — and for a very long time. You are a danger to young boys and I imagine any judge will relish sending you down.’
Pearson nodded thoughtfully.
‘Whatever happens,’ Henry persisted, ‘you will be going down. That’s a fact — no way round it.’
‘I think I’ve got that message.’ Pearson began to well up.
‘But you can smooth the way.’
Pearson wiped his red, bloodshot eyes. Henry saw the swelling around Pearson’s cheekbone was lovely. He was rather proud of it, never having appreciated the value of a good slap, well delivered, other than in the occasional soft-porn he’d watched.
‘How?’
‘Admit, admit, admit — and help me. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court — and help me.’
‘Why should I help you?’
‘Because I truly can make sure the court knows how helpful you’ve been, how remorseful you are, all that sort of thing.’
He eyed Henry with suspicion. ‘What sort of help?’
‘I need an address.’
Pearson swallowed as though he knew what was coming. ‘Whose?’
‘You already know. George Uren’s.’
‘I don’t know it,’ he said, too quickly.
Henry paused. ‘Yes you do.’
Pearson looked down at his knees. ‘I can’t tell you. It was a mistake to tell you lot I’d seen him around … if he ever found out I’d said anything, he’d kill me.’
‘Violent, is he?’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘I promise he won’t find out and, this is a promise too, if you don’t tell me you’re looking at the difference between five years or ten years in the pokey. That’s what I can do for you.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘ ’Course I can. I have very good contacts in the judiciary. A trial court judge is in my lodge,’ he lied. ‘I can make things happen, Percy, but only if you give …’ Henry’s voice trailed away. Using Pearson’s first name stuck in his throat. He found it almost impossible to be matey with anyone who abused kids. ‘I know you spent time with him in Accy. I know you were his pal.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I was never his pal. I did what I had to to rub along. He is very violent, he hurts people … know what I mean? I don’t. I love people and they love me. I treat people right.’
Henry felt Jane squirm next to him. He glanced at her and saw her face was seething with disgust at what Pearson was claiming.
‘He is a very bad man,’ Pearson said.
‘And I want his address.’ Henry persisted. Pearson touched his swollen face gingerly. ‘And I want to know who he’s running with.’
Pearson gasped, his eyes suddenly filled with terror. He began breathing rapidly and held his hand over his chest. Henry had hit a nerve. ‘I don’t know that. I don’t know who he’s with, honest.’ His rapid breathing continued as he wound himself up.
‘OK, just the address then … think of the difference between a five and a ten stretch.’
Pearson gave him what he wanted.
Henry checked his watch, quickly ripped the wrapping off the tapes and inserted them into the recorder. ‘Now let’s have a quick interview,’ he said.
With Pearson back in his cell, Henry, Jane and Debbie stood in one corner of the custody office having a scrum-down.
Henry was excited, something concrete in his hands at last: an address.
‘Good bloody result,’ Jane said. ‘You dealt with him well.’
‘I lied … because I’ll actually do my best to get him fourteen years, not five or ten … it’s the least he deserves … and I don’t know anyone in the judiciary, except a few local JPs.’
‘And I didn’t know you were a mason,’ Jane teased.
Henry just winked at her and touched his nose mysteriously. ‘Still, good result, but what a creepy bastard.’
Jane shivered in distaste as though she was chewing something sour. ‘All that talk about love.’
‘One thing’s for sure, we’re dealing with the grubby end of policing. Give me a good old drug dealer any day.’
‘Course of action?’ Debbie interrupted, annoyed by the intimate exchange between Jane and Henry.
‘Let’s get a team together and hit this house.’
MONDAY
Seven
00:05 hours. Fortunately the adrenalin was rushing, and despite the fact he’d been on duty since early morning Sunday, Henry was feeling elated, even though he knew it was a sensation that would be short-lived.
The last two hours had been a flurry of activity and he was now revelling in being at the middle of things, unlike earlier when all he wanted to do was hide his head in a bucket. Such were the vagaries of being a cop. Feelings often contradicted themselves within the blink of an eye, and this was often how officers burned out. Lows, followed by highs, followed by lows, then seeking the next high. It was like being on crack cocaine, only it was legal, and far more addictive.