Chapter 2
“The time is now 10.18 hours. It is Sunday, the 18th of January, and we are in Brompton Custody Suite. I will introduce those present for the recording. I am DC DeAngelo, also present is…” DeAngelo waved his hand at Maydew.
“Allister Maydew, Legal Advisor for Winchestern Solicitors,” mumbled Maydew in a jaded, I’m-way-too-important-to-be-here tone.
DeAngelo looked at the prisoner.
“Can you please give your name?”
“No comment.”
“For heaven’s sake, old boy,” Maydew chided. “The no comment is for the questions. You can give your name; they know your name.”
“No comment,” repeated the prisoner, jaw set, eyes cast firmly down towards his lap.
DeAngelo continued.
“Can you please give your date of birth?”
“No comment.”
“Ughh...” Maydew sighed, shaking his head, as if talking to a simpleton. “They know your date of birth. You can give—”
“Mr. Maydew,” said DeAngelo, tired of the interruptions. “This is the prisoner’s interview. You’ve been invited to give him legal advice, which it seems he is taking. May I ask you to stop interrupting? If you and your client wish to confer further, we can stop the interview and adjourn whilst you do so.”
Maydew sat upright, tight lipped, quietly seething.
“Continue.” He swept his pen at the room.
“Thank you.” DeAngelo looked at the prisoner. “Are you happy to continue? Did you want to confer further with your Solicitor… sorry,” looking to Maydew. “Could you confirm, are you a Solicitor or Legal Advisor?” knowing full well that the man didn’t have the broader training of a Solicitor.
“Legal Advisor.” Maydew spat, tightening his lips into a thin line.
“Thank you,” DeAngelo turned back to the prisoner. “Are you happy to continue?”
The prisoner nodded.
“I am now going to caution you and then explain it’s meaning. OK?”
The prisoner nodded again, head down, his gaze boring into his lap.
“You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later reply on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The prisoner shifted in his chair.
“To explain, you don’t have to talk to me or answer my questions. Anything you do say will be given as evidence via this recording, but if you don’t answer my questions today, and it does go to court, the court may wonder why you waited until then to answer my questions. They may also wonder if you’re telling the truth. Do you understand the caution?”
The prisoner nodded.
“For the benefit of the recording, you are nodding your head. Is that correct?”
“No comment.”
“Last night you were arrested for the offences of GBH, grievous bodily harm, and possession of indecent images of children, what can you tell me about this?”
“Bollocks.”
Maydew sniggered.
DeAngelo didn’t flinch.
Maydew held up a hand to stop DeAngelo’s next question. He opened his briefcase with a smart double click of the locks and took out a piece of A4 lined paper.
“My client has written a prepared statement,” he announced triumphantly, dropping the briefcase to the floor and placing the paper on the table in front of him.
The statement consisted of a handwritten short paragraph with Maydew’s large black spidery letters scrawled across the page and the prisoner’s tiny, meticulous signature along the bottom. DeAngelo noted that for a large, unkempt man, the prisoner had surprisingly small writing. Controlled, heavy pressured, narrow letters, all sloping to the left and making contact—suggested to him a highly cautious, intelligent, inhibited personality with authority issues.
“Would you like me to read it out to you, Officer?” Maydew tapped his pen on the table, smug that he was back in control.
“Yes, thank you.” DeAngelo gave him his full attention.
Maydew swept up the statement with a theatrical sweep of his hand, and read to the gallery in a loud thespian voice. Enjoying the drama.
“I, the above-named person, categorically deny the offences against me. With reference to the GBH offence, I do not know of the victim, have never met the victim, and was at home, alone, watching football during the date and time disclosed. I know this because it was an important Chelsea V Manchester United match that day. With reference to the indecent images offence, my computer is shared by many friends and acquaintances, and is left alone when I am at the local library, acquiring coffee. If there are images on my laptop, I do not know who put them there.”
Maydew triumphantly placed the paper in the middle of the table and slid it over to DeAngelo.
“Thank you, Mr. Maydew.”
DeAngelo picked it up and quietly reread the text, taking his time as the two men waited in silence. He opened his file and placed the exhibit statement to the back, seemingly unbothered by its contents.
“I would first like to talk to you about the assault. I would like you to look at Exhibit Numbers AD06 to AD011, which are five images taken of the victim after the attack.”
DeAngelo carefully pulled out five full-colour, A4 photographs and slowly placed them, one by one, in a line down the middle of the table, facing the two men. He took extra care to align each image, placing them equidistant between each other and the table’s edges. Giving the two men time to absorb the horror. The colour red oozed before them.
Silence.
Maydew leaned forward to get a closer look, at first not understanding what he was seeing. When he realised he was looking at skin and muscle torn from a man’s face and that the patches of bloody white were skull bone, he shot back in his chair in shock, swallowing back a retch.
“What the fuck!” He said dropping his pen to cover his mouth with disgust.
The pen rolled slowly across the table and settled between DiAngelo and the prisoner.
In less than three seconds, the prisoner picked up the pen, snatched Maydew’s hand from his mouth, slammed it palm down onto the table, and stabbed the pen violently three times into skin, crunching through flesh and bone, the final stab given with such force it pinned the quivering hand to the wood. Blood spurted across the file and exhibit images.
Maydew screamed like a banshee. He scratched at the prisoner’s face with his free hand, trying to make him stop. The prisoner’s yellow, jagged teeth snapped at two of the flaying fingers, gripped hard and crunched down with a grunt. Maydew howled with pain as blood seeped from the corner of his client’s sneering mouth and splattered the pristine white of his shirt cuff.
“For the benefit of the recording,” sighed DeAngelo. “For no apparent reason, the suspect has stabbed his Legal Advisor in the hand with a pen and is now chewing his fingers.”
DeAngelo hit the panic alarm.
All hell broke loose.