#196b

When I came around there was a doctor looking down over me like I was a new species of bug. He seemed disappointed I was alive.
“What happened?” I asked feeling very low.
“You fainted. Looks like guilt on top of stress and exhaustion. But you're fine now.”
“I don't feel fine.”
“Well unfortunately for you I'm the doctor and I say you are and you're also fit to be questioned... And confess.”
“Confess??? Never! I've nothing to confess.”
“You will,” he said casually.
I didn't say, “Do you need me to confess?” but that's what I was thinking.

Police cells smell and look like public toilets. They are made as uncomfortable as possible. That may sound normal, but when you think about it they are the first unfair advantage for the prosecution, and the starting cog geared at getting a successful conviction out of anyone – guilty or not. In fact, they probably have a worse effect on the innocent than anyone else. Police cells hark back to the days of absolute corruption, maybe even witch trials. If someone is guilty, and the police have (as they are supposed to have) enough evidence to proove that, then what does it matter if the suspect is comfortable or not? And if a confession is required, shouldn't that confession be based on the fact that the police have carried out a thorough investigation and have enough proofs so as the suspect confesses on that and not to escape a hell?

For an initial eight hour period I was in that shit-smeared, piss-flooded, blood-splattered fucking holding cell. It measured roughly ten by ten with mighty thick walls of hard enamaled brick. Along the far wall was a wooden bench/bed, designed to torture the spine. It was etched in carvings, mostly obscene slogans or football teams. The last thing a man had to say before losing his freedom was: I LOVE GLASGOW RANGERS. I tried to pick John's name into the wood but my nails were brittle and just broke off. Over in a little alcove was a small toilet blocked to the rim with puke, piss, nervous shit, cigarette butts and toilet paper that could have only been useful in scratching open haemorrhoids. I took a piss all over the wall and floor and then sat down on the wooden bench and thought about the next man.

Compared to the police cell the interview room was luxurious. It was warm, with felt on the walls, comfortable chairs and coffee and cigarettes. It smelled like a conference room. When the lights go down, and the interrogator takes up his position, it's like the magic hush before the start of a theatre piece. And as with the theatre it starts with a shadow and at first you don't know if it represents evil or not.

I could tell it wasn't Little Dick Tracy by his size, and then the lights dimmed on, just enough, so as the monster had a face. It was a tall, well built detective in his mid thirties. He had nicely groomed medium brown hair and a confident face – the kind of smug, arrogant look that guys with large cocks often have. He bounced a coffee cup down on the table and an inch of liquid jumped up and splashed out over the rim. This guy was mean. He saw me looking at his hand and discretely clenched it into a fist.

“Mr Tristram Alan Spencer?”
I didn't respond. I was expecting him to say more.
“Are YOU Mr Tristram Alan Spencer!” he then demanded with an incredulous tone, as if I didn't even understand my own name.
“Yes.”
“Good. So we've got the right man?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what? 'Yes' we've the right man who killed Mr John McManus, or 'yes' we've the right man Tristram Spencer?”
“Yes, that I'm Tristram Spencer.”
“Well, you need to be careful with that,” he warned, pointing as if something existed. “I could take that as an official confession and charge you on the spot! But I'm a fair man - if you treat me well - and so I won't. I knew what you meant. Just lucky for you I did... next time I might not.” He clenched his fist again and inspected it, pretending he was looking at the bulky gold ring he was wearing.
“Ok, lets hope you tell me what I want to hear and this can be one of my painless ones. As I've a very short fuse, PC Philmore is here to protect you.”
I looked around and saw that a uniformed officer had somehow gotten into the room and had become a part of the back wall.

“Er..have we started yet?” I asked
“Started what?”
“Have we started the interview? I though it was...”
“Hold it right their Mr Spencer. Didn't I just fucking warn you about playing fair with me? Now don't start up with all the fucking 'Rights' malarkey! We do things properly here. And don't ever fucking interrupt me. Is that clear?”
“Yes. It's clear.”I said
“But no, we haven't started. You'll have to give me a fucking minute to get US both settled. I've come in off duty and had to desert my family because of you! So just be fucking patient with it. ”

I already felt drained. The questioning room didn't feel too luxurious anymore. The detective looked at a piece of paper, pressed a single button on a dual recording unit and then changed his voice. He said that the interview was being recorded, explained who he was (Detective Inspector Crapaud), who the other officer present was, where I was, why I was here, the date and the time, and finished by asking if I understood. After I said “yes” he cautioned me again and reminded me I had the right to a solicitor. For the third time I waved the right. Then Detective Crapaud said, “Well, if you change your mind, then say so, ok?” I nodded, which he dictated into the machine.

For more than 3 hours I sat in front of Crapaud as he grilled me over the murder, but even more, over tiny details that seemed to have no relevance. Every twenty minutes he would pull a fresh coffee and every third or fourth cup he would offer me one too. I know I was not consistent in my answers and I didn't care to be. My only consistency was in denying I had killed John. Why I still even bothered to do so I do not even know. Probably just out of pure spite, or some base instinct not to lay down and die. Twice during the interview Detective Crapaud switched off the recording device. The first time it was to have a major freak out where he threatened to rattle my head in the metal bin, and the second was to "go and take a crap”. When he returned he elbowed me tremendously hard in the back of the head, said “Sorry!” and then started firing more questions at me.

I thought it would end far worse than it did, but as it was all part of some intricate plan designed to extract a confession I should have known better. How it ended was with Crapaud calmly rewinding the tape recorded interview back to start and leaving me to listen through it and contest anything I didn't hold be true or had been mistaken on. After twenty minutes I said I was fine with it and signed a few pieces of paper. Crapaud shot me a smile and disappeared.

When I got back to the pissy, scatty, vomit filled cell it felt like heaven. Anything was better than comfortable chairs, warm lights, coffee and questions. Sitting in the cold I closed my eyes to trap the tears. When I next opened them the cell door was open and two policemen had entered to fetch me. My first thought was that I had blacked out again, but then realised it was just sleep. I made a semi-unconscious effort not to be moved, shrugging off the first officer and trying to lay back down.

“Get up Spencer, Inspector Tracy has some questions to put to you.”
“But I've already been questioned,” I said, “I don't want to answer any more.”
“You wasn't questioned you fool, you was plucked and stuffed... thats all. The real questions will come from Little Dick, now fucking get up, get smart and confess!”

Now I let them drag me up. I must have been hot because the odious smell of my pyjama bottoms suddenly became apparent. I was taken back down to the interrogation room and pushed in. The room was dark but for a small light. Two figures hung against the back wall. A chair was already pulled out for me to sit on. Lit up yellow, on the opposing side of the table, was the evil face of Inspector Little Dick Tracy. He smiled and said “sit down” and then the Devil pressed 'record' and the real ordeal began...