Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle: Chapter 11 (a)

Max was manhandled from the van with a semi-circle of policemen in riot gear around him. This was like some kind of surreal dream. He expected a clown to step out from behind them and squish a custard pie into his face.

‘Don’t underestimate him, people.’

‘I’m about as dangerous as a puppy with a ball of wool. Stop. Listen to me. There’s been a mistake. Whatever you think I’ve done. You’re wrong.’

They didn’t listen and bent him over so that his head was near his knees.

‘Has the reception been cleared of civilians?’ an officer asked.

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

They took him by force into the police station. At the front desk, he was released from the hold, and his handcuffs were removed. He noticed the guards were armed with truncheons, and although he’d never seen one, some of the men had what he thought were tasers.

The desk sergeant was behind a sheet of plexiglass. ‘Michael Jones, you have been arrested on suspicion of murder. Have you been read your rights?’

‘Yes, but it’s Maxwell. Max Jones.’

‘I do apologise. Have you been read your rights?’ He corrected the name on the screen in front of him.

‘Yes.’

‘And do you understand those rights?’

‘Yes, but what’s this all about?’

‘Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, you will be restrained using reasonable force. Some of our specially trained officers are carrying and are permitted to use tasers as per the Home Secretary’s ruling of September 2004. Spitting at an officer is seen as a risk to physical health and will be treated as a common assault. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but you don’t need tasers. And I’ve never spat at anybody in my life.’

‘As you have been arrested under a recordable offence and under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, we have the right to take fingerprints, DNA and other samples with or without your consent. This is only permitted under the authority of an officer of at least the rank of inspector, in this case, Inspector DI Brown. Police are permitted to take an impression of a suspect’s footwear without consent, a DNA sample from a mouth swab as well as swabs from the skin surface of their hands and arms.’

Max was struggling to take in what was being said to him. They must have better things to do than make impressions of his shoes. The desk sergeant was an automaton, reading what they could and couldn’t do from a list in a monotone voice that made understanding it difficult. The only word swarming around his head since the campsite was murder. He didn’t need to know any more than that. These people thought he’d killed Henry, and he’d seen the television documentaries—they would do anything they could to come up with evidence, however flimsy or circumstantial, to substantiate that.

‘I’d like to call my solicitor, please.’ Jeremy Stillman dealt with MJP paperwork and legislation. Max had no idea if he knew the first thing about murder law. He didn’t know if murder law was even a thing. It must have a name, but it eluded him.

‘Once we have finished processing, you will be searched. This is for your own and public safety. Relevant samples will be taken, and then you’ll have the opportunity to call your representation.’ He continued reading from his sheet like a car insurance telesales person as though nobody had spoken and the sergeant hadn’t taken time to inhale.

‘Intimate samples include blood, urine, pubic hair, tissue fluid, and dental impression, swabs taken from the person’s genitals or from any bodily orifice except the mouth. PACE dictates that taking an intimate sample must be authorised by a senior officer, and in this case, the suspect must consent. Do you consent to any or all intimate samples being taken?’

‘Yes, I think so. Of course. Anything to get this cleared up.’ Max didn’t have a clue what he should be saying. ‘But is that in my best interests? Shouldn’t I ask my solicitor first?’

‘Of course, you can wait. We’ll put you in a holding cell until then and halt all proceedings. In this case, you won’t be given any comforts until after processing is complete. It is the inspector’s responsibility to inform you that if you refuse to give consent, it could lead to adverse inferences being made against you in a court of law.’

‘Okay. No problem. Look, I’ve got nothing to hide. Do what you have to do. What about my van?’

‘That has been seized and is being brought back to be impounded as evidence.’

‘Evidence of what? Will you please talk to me like a human being?’

‘Like you talked to your victims,’ another officer piped up, and the sergeant glared at him.

‘Our priority is getting the samples we need and making sure that you and all of our officers are safe. Then you can make any requests you like.’

‘If you’re taking requests, do you know Telephone by Lady Gaga?’

‘I’ve told you, you’ll get your phone call when we’re done with processing.’

Max wasn’t in a condition to be embarrassed by the personal and intimate subjection that screening put him through. They’d driven him back to Barrow from Wales. It was after two in the morning, and he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. He was refused a cup of tea or anything to eat until after the screening was complete, “As per procedure,” but was promised that he could have a meal and as much tea and toast as he wanted when it was done.

He'd seen his share of police dramas and thought that was probably bullshit. The screening, photographing, and sample-taking process took forever, and the officers conducting it refused to talk to him or answer any questions about his arrest. He supposed that made sense. He expected to be taken from screening straight into an interview room for a thorough grilling—with or without police violence, depending on which scenario his imagination was taking him down.

When they were done with him, he found the experience quite humbling. These people—and whatever he thought of them, they were people, just like him, ordinary men and women with lives outside being an officer—thought he’d killed somebody. Presumably in cold blood and for personal gain, and yet they treated him like a person. After the screening was complete, he was taken to a cell where he was allowed to get out of the paper jumpsuit and into a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a matching top. They gave him underwear and socks and even a pair of black plimsolls. All the clothing was individually packaged in see-through bags that were taken away after the paper suit had been bagged. The Duty Care officers seemed nice, and while they couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell him anything about the charges or what he’d supposedly done, they chatted about nothing and were keen to make him comfortable. The cell was small, a box. It had a stainless steel toilet with a sink built into the top of it.

‘We can withhold toilet paper if we think you’re going to use it to choke yourself. You aren’t going to try anything silly like that, are you?’ The lady officer asked him.

‘No.’ Any other time he’d produce an off-the-cuff quip and dial up the sarcasm, but he was so tired he only had a single word to offer. His bed was a wooden slat built into the wall with a piece of foam covered in heavy-duty washable blue plastic. He wasn’t given a pillow, and a single thin blanket was waiting for him on the end of the cot in a sealed bag that was also taken away.

‘Have you been with us before, love?’ the lady asked. She was the chatty one. The warmth in her voice made him want to cry. Given the guard’s presence at the door, she must know what he’d been arrested for. At all times while she was with him, half a dozen people in riot gear waited outside in helmets and with plastic shields, poised and ready to bring him down.

‘No, first-time flyer.’

He was in the holding suite with all the other suspected offenders of the town. He couldn’t grasp what was going on. All this snowflake society talk was crazy.

‘The noise will drive you mad. They always say that’s the worst part. My advice is to have a nice brew and something to eat and then get your head down and try to get some sleep.’ He’d never been in a police cell before. It was too much for him, and she must have seen the tears in his eyes threatening to spill over and drown them all—more murder on his hands. ‘It’ll all look better in the morning.’ She sounded like his mum, and he expected her to pat his hand and say, “There, there.” Well, not his mum but somebody’s mum, a loving one.

‘So, sweetheart. Let’s get to the nicer bit. What can I get you, tea, coffee or a nice cup of hot chocolate?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Couple of rounds of toast with that?’

‘That would be nice, thank you.’

‘And what would you like for a meal? We’ve got chicken curry, all-day breakfast or bangers and mash. I’ll bring you one along in an hour or so. It’s only ready meals, but they’re not bad, and I’m guessing you’re ready for something.’

He sat on the cot and put his head in his hands.

‘I know. It’s emotional. I’ll bring you a sausage and mash. Mashed potato always makes me feel better when I’m upset. See that button on the wall? That’s the intercom. If you want anything, just give us a buzz. You can have tea and toast, meals on tap, and we can bring you books to read.’

This was like the Costa Del Nick.

‘I dare say they’ll interview you first thing. Do you need us to let anyone know you’re here?’

‘My cat?’

‘You want us to ring your cat?’

‘No, I mean my cat’s on his own. He’s all right for now, but will I be here long?’