Hard Landing (4 page)

The paramedic wheeled Macdonald across the room and pulled the pale green curtain round him. The armed cop dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, facing him.

‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ asked Macdonald.

‘I’m not to let you out of my sight,’ said the cop. ‘Not until CID get here.’

‘How about a coffee, then?’

‘Fuck you,’ said the cop.

‘Hey, I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.

‘You were carrying, and the intent was there. The fact that you didn’t pull the trigger doesn’t mean shit.’

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling.

‘I should have shot you when I had the chance,’ said the cop. Macdonald ignored him. The cop kicked the trolley. ‘You hear me?’ Macdonald closed his eyes.

Before he could say anything else, the curtain was pulled back. ‘Okay, lad, we’ll take it from here,’ said a voice.

Macdonald opened his eyes. Two men in suits were standing at the end of the bed. The older one was wearing the cheaper outfit, an off-the-peg blue pinstripe that had obviously been acquired when he’d been a few pounds lighter. He was in his early fifties and had the world-weary look of a policeman who’d carried out more than his fair share of interviews in A and E departments. His hair was receding and swept back, giving him the look of a bird of prey. He smiled at Macdonald. ‘I gather you’re fit to talk.’

The armed cop glared at Macdonald and walked away, muttering.

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Macdonald.

‘That’s how I like it,’ said the detective. ‘Short and sweet. I’m Detective Inspector Robin Kelly, Crawley CID.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘This is Detective Constable Brendan O’Connor. Don’t let the Irish name fool you, young Brendan here is as English as they come. Product of the graduate-entry scheme he is, and sharp as a knife. Isn’t that right, Detective Constable?’

O’Connor sighed, clearly used to Kelly’s teasing. ‘Yes, sir. Sharp as a knife.’ His accent was pure Oxbridge – obviously destined for greater things than riding shotgun to a detective approaching retirement.

‘How about getting us a couple of coffees?’ said Kelly. ‘Mine’s black with two sugars. What about you?’

Macdonald turned to look at the detective constable. He was in his mid-twenties with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes that suggested there was more to his Irish heritage than his name. ‘White, no sugar.’

‘Sweet enough, as my grandmother always used to say,’ said Kelly. He sat down and crossed his ankles as the detective constable left them. ‘I hope I retire before he gets promoted above me.’ He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m missing my beauty sleep, I can tell you that much. Still, no point in brandishing shotguns in broad daylight, is there?’

‘No comment,’ said Macdonald.

‘And if I was in your situation that’s what I’d be saying. No comment until you’re lawyered up and then it’s “No comment on my solicitor’s advice.” But unless you take the initiative here, you’re going to go down with the rest of the scum.’

‘No comment,’ said Macdonald.

‘You see, the civilians are saying that you were the best of a bad bunch. You tried to stop the flaming-kebabs routine. You said it would be better to call it a night and go out with your hands up. And, bugger me, you only went and poleaxed Ted Verity, gangster of this parish. For which you have the thanks of Sussex Constabulary.’

‘How is he?’ asked Macdonald.

‘Like a prick with a sore head,’ said Kelly. He chuckled. ‘He’s in a better state than you, actually. You didn’t do much in the way of damage.’

Macdonald stared up at the ceiling. ‘No comment.’

‘If I was you, and obviously I’m not because you’re the one with the handcuffs on, I’d be wanting to put as much distance between me and the rest of them as I could. A cop was shot. Prison isn’t particularly welcoming to people who take pot-shots at law-enforcement officials.’

‘I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.

‘Which is another point in your favour,’ said Kelly. ‘But it’s going to take more than that to keep you out of a Cat A establishment for the next twenty years.’

O’Connor returned with three plastic beakers on a cardboard tray. He handed the tray to Kelly, then unlocked the handcuff on Macdonald’s left wrist. Macdonald smiled at him gratefully, shook his hand to get the circulation going, then took his beaker of coffee and sipped it.

‘So what’s it to be?’ asked Kelly. ‘Can we bank on your co-operation? Or shall I book you a cell with Verity?’

‘No comment,’ said Macdonald.

Kelly sighed and got to his feet. ‘That’s that, then,’ he said.

The curtain was pulled back and a young woman in a dark blue jacket looked expectantly at him. ‘Jennifer Peddler,’ she said. ‘I’m here for the forensics.’ She jerked her head at Macdonald. ‘This the shooter?’

‘I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.

‘Strictly speaking, that’s true,’ said Kelly. ‘He’s a blagger rather than a shooter.’

Peddler put a large case down on the floor, opened it, took out a pair of surgical gloves and put them on. She was a good-looking woman, with high cheekbones and long chestnut hair tied back in a ponytail.

Kelly chuckled. ‘Not going to give him the full monty, are you?’ he asked. ‘We don’t think he’s got a shotgun up his back passage. We found his weapon at the warehouse.’

The woman flashed Kelly a bored smile. ‘Contamination of evidence,’ she said. She pointed at the handcuff on Macdonald’s right wrist. ‘You’ll need to take that off so he can remove his clothes.’

‘What?’ said Macdonald.

‘Guns were fired, we need to examine your clothing for particles.’

‘I didn’t fire a gun,’ said Macdonald.

‘It’s procedure,’ she said. ‘As these gentlemen will tell you, I don’t need a warrant.’

‘It’s true,’ said O’Connor.

‘Then what am I supposed to wear?’

Kelly smiled. ‘Tell us your address and we’ll send round a car for a change of clothes.’

‘This is madness,’ Macdonald said, annoyed.

‘You can wear a hospital robe,’ said O’Connor.

‘I’m not going into a bloody cop-shop with my arse hanging out,’ said Macdonald.

‘I’ve a forensic suit you can wear,’ said Peddler. She leaned down and took a plastic-wrapped package from her case, tore it open and removed a one-piece suit made from white paper.

‘You’re joking,’ said Macdonald.

‘It’s that or the hospital gown.’

‘What about my human rights?’

‘What about the cop you shot?’ said O’Connor.

‘I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.

‘We’ll start with your footwear,’ said Peddler. She removed his trainers and socks, and placed them in individual brown paper bags with polythene windows. Then she helped him off with his jeans and put them into a bag. She took a marker pen from her jacket pocket. ‘Name?’ she said.

Macdonald said nothing.

‘He’s not saying,’ said Kelly. ‘But we’ll get the full story once we’ve run his prints through NAFIS.’

Macdonald took another sip of coffee. A check through the National Automated Fingerprint Information System wouldn’t help them identify him. His prints weren’t on record. Neither was his photograph. But there was no point in telling them that. There was no point in telling them anything.

Peddler scribbled on the bags, then put down her pen. She took off Macdonald’s leather gloves and bagged them, then O’Connor undid the cuff so that she could take his shirt and jacket. She put them in separate bags, sealed them, picked up her pen and scribbled on them. ‘You can keep the underwear,’ she said, handing him the paper suit.

Peddler swabbed his hands and put the swabs in separate plastic tubes, each of which she labelled. She also took his wristwatch. ‘You haven’t printed him, then?’ she asked Kelly.

‘He was brought straight here. We’ll scan him at the factory.’

‘I’ll take my own set now,’ said Peddler. ‘Give me a head start.’ She inked Macdonald’s fingers and took a set of his prints. Then she handed him a cloth to wipe off the surplus. ‘I need a DNA sample for comparison purposes,’ she said. ‘It’s a simple mouth swab. As you haven’t been charged, I need written permission from a superintendent before I can insist. You can give me a sample willingly now or I can catch up with you later.’

‘Take what you need,’ said Macdonald. His DNA wasn’t on file.

Peddler wiped a swab inside his mouth and sealed it in a plastic tube. ‘Right, that’s me finished,’ she said. She went off with the case in one hand and the bags of clothing in the other.

‘What happens now?’ asked Macdonald.

‘We take you back to Crawley for more questioning,’ said Kelly. ‘You’re charged, we bring you in front of a magistrate and then you’re banged up until trial, assuming you don’t get bail. And I think it’s pretty unlikely that any judge is going to let you back on the streets.’ Kelly stood up. ‘You finished your coffee?’

Macdonald drained his cup and the two detectives escorted him through A and E. Nurses, doctors and waiting patients craned their necks to get a glimpse of him, then quickly looked away. The paper suit rustled with every step and his bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor. Macdonald had a throbbing headache but he didn’t know if it was as a result of the blow to his head or the tension that had cramped the muscles at the back of his neck. Police, court, then prison. He smiled grimly. This was definitely not how he’d been planning to spend the next few days.

Macdonald was driven to the rear entrance of Crawley police station and taken into a reception area where a bored uniformed sergeant asked a series of questions to which Macdonald replied, ‘No comment.’

The sergeant, a big man with steel grey hair and horn-rimmed glasses, seemed unperturbed by Macdonald’s refusal to answer any questions. He asked Kelly if he was going to interview the prisoner immediately and Kelly said that they’d talk to him in the morning.

‘What about a solicitor?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Is there someone you want us to call?’

Macdonald shook his head.

‘Do you want to see the duty solicitor?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Macdonald. He knew that the sergeant wasn’t offering out of the goodness of his heart, simply following police procedure. Macdonald was in the system and everything that happened from now on would be covered by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. They’d play it by the book, one hundred per cent.

A young constable removed Macdonald’s handcuffs and took him over to a desk where there was a machine like a small photocopier without a lid. The constable made him place his right hand on the screen and pressed a button. A pale green light scanned Macdonald’s palm and fingers. Then the constable scanned Macdonald’s left hand. The Livescan system would run his prints through NAFIS within minutes, but they would come back unmatched.

Then Macdonald was taken into another room where the constable took photographs, front and side profiles, and returned him to the reception desk. Kelly and O’Connor had gone.

The sergeant asked Macdonald if there was anyone he wanted to phone. Macdonald knew of at least half a dozen people he should call, but he shook his head.

‘You do understand why you’re here?’ said the sergeant.

Macdonald nodded.

‘You’re going to be charged with some serious offences,’ said the sergeant. ‘I don’t owe you any favours but you really should talk to a solicitor. The duty guy can advise you without knowing your name.’

‘Thanks,’ said Macdonald, ‘but no thanks.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘I’ll need your watch and any jewellery.’

‘Forensics took my watch, and I don’t wear jewellery,’ he said. He’d taken off his wedding band two months earlier.

‘You were examined by a doctor?’

Macdonald inclined his head.

‘Did he say you needed any special attention, anything we should know about?’

‘No. But I could do with shoes.’

‘There’s a bell in the cell. If you feel bad – dizzy or sick or anything – ring it. We can get the duty doctor out to see you. Had a guy die a few years back after being hit on the head. Bleeding internally and nobody knew.’ He called the constable over. ‘Cell three,’ he said, handing him a card on which was written ‘
NOT KNOWN
,
ARMED ROBBERY
’ along with the date and time. ‘I’ll see what I can do about footwear,’ he said to Macdonald.

The constable took Macdonald down a corridor lined with grey cell doors. He unlocked one and stood aside to let Macdonald in. The room was two paces wide and three long with a glass block window at the far end, a seatless toilet to the right, and in the ceiling, protected by a sheet of Perspex, a single fluorescent light. There was a concrete bed base with a thin plastic mattress. Two folded blankets lay at the foot. The walls were painted pale green. Probably Apple White on the chart, thought Macdonald. The paint was peeling off the ceiling and dozens of names and dates had been scratched into the wall, along with graffiti, most of which was along the lines of ‘All coppers are bastards.’

The constable slotted the card into a holder on the door. ‘Don’t put anything down the toilet that you shouldn’t,’ said the constable. ‘The sergeant gets really upset if it backs up. And if he gets upset, we get upset.’

‘Any chance of some grub?’ asked Macdonald.

The constable slammed the door without replying.

‘I guess not,’ said Macdonald. He picked up one of the blankets. It stank of stale vomit and he tossed it into the corner of the cell. He sat down on the bed. The floor was sticky and he swung his bare feet on to the mattress, then sat with his back against the wall. He’d slept in worse places. At least no one was shooting at him. The light went out and he sat in the darkness, considering his options. He didn’t have many. He was in the system now and all he could do was ride it out.

Without a watch, Macdonald quickly lost track of the time. Light was streaming in through the window when the door was unlocked and a constable, a different one from the previous night, handed him a plastic tray that contained a bacon sandwich and a paper cup of tea with the bag still in it.