copper asked was whether
the vehicle belonged to Jack.
'Yes,' he'd replied.
'Can you give me the keys, please?'
'Well, the thing is, officer, I lost them a while back and I've
been using this.' He removed a pocket-sized screwdriver from
the ignition and showed it to the officer.
Incredibly, this version of events was absolutely true (Jack's
van really was a heap of shit), but no police officer in his right
mind was going to let us go having seen that, and because the
police computers were a lot slower in those days and it took a lot
longer to access the registration database, we were promptly
arrested, even though Jack made a manful and genuine attempt
to explain his innocence. I could tell at the time that the police
were quite pleased with their collar. Four arrests in one go
would look good on their record, and the paperwork meant that
they could go back to the station for a while. I could also tell
that they were inclined to believe Jack's story, mainly because of
his pleas and the fact that, when it came down to it, we looked
and sounded like students rather than car thieves.
We were held for a total of four hours, which was the time it
took to process the paperwork, followed by a forty-five-minute
wait while the necessary checks were made. During that time, as
it became obvious that they were only really interested in us as a
statistic rather than for any crime we'd committed, I found
myself relaxing. They didn't bother putting us in the cells but let
us sit together in one of the interview rooms, where we passed
the time playing a cramped game of charades until it was time
to go. With the vehicle impounded, however, for being unroadworthy,
there was no way home, and after drawing lots we
were forced to call my dad for a lift at 4.30 that morning. He
collected us but he was none too pleased about it, and he hadn't
; spoken to Jack for months after that.
I thought back to that time flow as I sat in the interview [ room of a different police station, alone this time, and with the
f Charge of murder hanging over my head. It was, as you can
; imagine, a very lonely place to be. The police officers who'd
j brought me here were most definitely not inclined to believe my
[story, and nor was the custody sergeant who'd booked me in.
They'd done everything professionally, but with the cool, distant
air of men who were never going to be convinced by the
pained, unimaginative pleas of their suspects. I'd demanded my
one phone call and had been taken to a phone in one of the
corridors, where the black officer waited while once again I tried
Kathy's mobile, and once again it went to message. I'd left
another, explaining my predicament and begging her to get in
touch as soon as possible.
I'd also demanded a lawyer. Politely but firmly. I was
beginning to get angry now. I was still scared, of course, both
for myself and Kathy. But I was also extremely pissed off that
I was being held against my will for something I hadn't done,
and with no-one showing the slightest sign of listening to my
story, or of letting me know anything concerning the fate of
my wife.
'Do you have one, or would you like us to call someone?' the
custody sergeant had asked wearily.
Had he asked me that question at any time in the last twelve
years up to three hours earlier, I would have said Jack Calley,
and I would have been sure that he'd sort things out for me. Jack
was like that. He inspired confidence. For the first time in a long
time I needed him, and I was too late.
'I haven't got anyone. I need you to call a lawyer.'
The custody sergeant had nodded and said he'd make the
necessary arrangements.
In the meantime I was taken by my two arresting officers
down to one of the interview rooms, and here I was now - half
an hour, an hour later, it was impossible to tell for sure - waiting
and wondering whether my wife, the mother of my children,
was still alive, or whether I was to be accused of her murder.
Wondering too why Jack Calley had phoned me, and
the vehicle belonged to Jack.
'Yes,' he'd replied.
'Can you give me the keys, please?'
'Well, the thing is, officer, I lost them a while back and I've
been using this.' He removed a pocket-sized screwdriver from
the ignition and showed it to the officer.
Incredibly, this version of events was absolutely true (Jack's
van really was a heap of shit), but no police officer in his right
mind was going to let us go having seen that, and because the
police computers were a lot slower in those days and it took a lot
longer to access the registration database, we were promptly
arrested, even though Jack made a manful and genuine attempt
to explain his innocence. I could tell at the time that the police
were quite pleased with their collar. Four arrests in one go
would look good on their record, and the paperwork meant that
they could go back to the station for a while. I could also tell
that they were inclined to believe Jack's story, mainly because of
his pleas and the fact that, when it came down to it, we looked
and sounded like students rather than car thieves.
We were held for a total of four hours, which was the time it
took to process the paperwork, followed by a forty-five-minute
wait while the necessary checks were made. During that time, as
it became obvious that they were only really interested in us as a
statistic rather than for any crime we'd committed, I found
myself relaxing. They didn't bother putting us in the cells but let
us sit together in one of the interview rooms, where we passed
the time playing a cramped game of charades until it was time
to go. With the vehicle impounded, however, for being unroadworthy,
there was no way home, and after drawing lots we
were forced to call my dad for a lift at 4.30 that morning. He
collected us but he was none too pleased about it, and he hadn't
; spoken to Jack for months after that.
I thought back to that time flow as I sat in the interview [ room of a different police station, alone this time, and with the
f Charge of murder hanging over my head. It was, as you can
; imagine, a very lonely place to be. The police officers who'd
j brought me here were most definitely not inclined to believe my
[story, and nor was the custody sergeant who'd booked me in.
They'd done everything professionally, but with the cool, distant
air of men who were never going to be convinced by the
pained, unimaginative pleas of their suspects. I'd demanded my
one phone call and had been taken to a phone in one of the
corridors, where the black officer waited while once again I tried
Kathy's mobile, and once again it went to message. I'd left
another, explaining my predicament and begging her to get in
touch as soon as possible.
I'd also demanded a lawyer. Politely but firmly. I was
beginning to get angry now. I was still scared, of course, both
for myself and Kathy. But I was also extremely pissed off that
I was being held against my will for something I hadn't done,
and with no-one showing the slightest sign of listening to my
story, or of letting me know anything concerning the fate of
my wife.
'Do you have one, or would you like us to call someone?' the
custody sergeant had asked wearily.
Had he asked me that question at any time in the last twelve
years up to three hours earlier, I would have said Jack Calley,
and I would have been sure that he'd sort things out for me. Jack
was like that. He inspired confidence. For the first time in a long
time I needed him, and I was too late.
'I haven't got anyone. I need you to call a lawyer.'
The custody sergeant had nodded and said he'd make the
necessary arrangements.
In the meantime I was taken by my two arresting officers
down to one of the interview rooms, and here I was now - half
an hour, an hour later, it was impossible to tell for sure - waiting
and wondering whether my wife, the mother of my children,
was still alive, or whether I was to be accused of her murder.
Wondering too why Jack Calley had phoned me, and
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