My holding cell is six paces long and four paces wide with a polished concrete floor that is tinted green. There is a lavatory, a sink and two benches with thin vinyl cushions. Graffiti has been scratched and gouged into every wall, although valiant attempts have been made to cover it up. Above the heavy metal door, chipped into brickwork, is the message: Send out a search party, I can’t find my self-esteem. Another says, I don’t have a problem with drugs. I have a problem with the police.
I am being held at Paddington Green police station, which is the protocol when police officers are arrested. The officer is separated from former colleagues to remove any possibility of favouritism or interference.
Leaning back, I rest my head against the wall and listen to doors clanging, toilets flushing and inmates either sobering up or kicking off along down the corridor. The custody suite has been busy all morning, processing the usual parade of drunks, drug dealers and addicts; the homeless and the unhinged. Some don’t want to leave or complain about being woken so early.
There are footsteps outside. The observation flap opens. Eyes peer at me. After several seconds, the hatch shuts and I go back to staring at the ceiling light. I don’t know the time. They took away my mobile phone, along with my belt and shoelaces.
There are more footsteps. This time the door unlocks. A tall figure appears, half in silhouette. Detective Fairbairn.
‘We’re ready for you.’
I am handcuffed to a uniformed officer, who grips my forearms as we leave the cell. I am led down the corridor towards the custody suite. Doors are opened by unseen hands. More officers are watching from alcoves and intersecting corridors. I can sense their hatred. One of them spits on me. The warm phlegm hits my forehead and runs down the side of my nose.
Fairbairn reacts angrily, threatening to discipline anybody who ‘pulls a stunt like that again’。 I deserve the same respect afforded to any other prisoner, he says, but he is a lone voice. Most of these officers think I’m scum, the lowest of the low – a cop killer.
We enter Interview Room 1. The handcuffs are unlocked.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ says Fairbairn, handing me a tissue to wipe my face.
He is wearing a cheap cologne but hasn’t shaved since yesterday, or maybe earlier. I doubt if he’s been home to shower or change his clothes. Another detective joins him, who is younger and chubbier, with a port-coloured birthmark on his neck that his collar doesn’t fully hide.
Fairbairn turns on the recording device.
‘This is the first part of a recorded interview with Philomena McCarthy at Paddington Green police station. The date is August twenty-fourth. I am Detective Inspector Martyn Fairbairn. Also present is Detective Constable David Briggs. What is your full name?’
‘Philomena Claire McCarthy.’
‘Can you confirm your date of birth for me?’
‘November twelve, 1993.’
‘And your full address?’
‘115 Marney Road, Clapham Common, London.’
‘Can you confirm that you have been cautioned and that you understand what that means?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are entitled to free and independent legal advice either in person or by telephone at any stage. Do you wish to speak to a legal adviser now or have one present during the interview?’
‘No.’
‘All right, Phil, by way of background, you were born in London, and educated at St Ursula’s Convent in Greenwich. You studied English and history at Leeds University, and applied to join the London Metropolitan Police four years ago.’
‘Yes.
‘And for the past two years, you have been stationed in South London.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your current employment status?’
‘I am suspended from duty, pending a misconduct hearing.’
There is a small square window high up on one wall. It gives me a glimpse of blue sky and a vapour trail that looks like a skywriter has forgotten what he wanted to say. Elsewhere in the room is a mirror, behind which there will be a camera videoing the interview. I will not look at the mirror. I do not want to see my reflection.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ says Fairbairn, adopting his game face. ‘Tell us how you met Tempe Brown.’
It is strange being on this side of the table, being interviewed rather than asking the questions. It feels like I’m back at the training college, doing role-plays, where we practised the various interrogation techniques and learned how to handle difficult suspects.
The key to any successful interrogation is to get as much as possible from a suspect before they demand to see a lawyer. Experienced crims will ‘lawyer up’ from the outset and ‘no comment’ every question, forcing the police to do all the work. They will stonewall and prevaricate and refuse to concede even the most obvious of facts. The sky is not blue. Water is not wet. The truth is not the truth.
In contrast, ordinary, law-abiding people get arrested because of stupid mistakes, or mind-fades, or anger issues. They want to talk to the police, to explain, to make their excuses, hoping to negotiate their way out of trouble, but the tape recorder is getting it all down – every inconsistency and falsehood.
Fairbairn uses open questions to begin with, followed by closed inquiries, trying to pin down exact details. He rarely repeats himself or attempts to speed me up. He is trying to establish a rapport, hoping I might accidentally reveal some detail that will prove my guilt. But the clock is ticking. He has twenty-four hours to either charge me or to seek an extension or to let me go.
Eventually, he will start to introduce the physical evidence. This is what I’ve been waiting for – the smoking gun that got him warrants to search my house and seize my car. In the meantime, he spends a lot of time establishing my movements on Friday night. I tell him about my hen night; and how somebody must have spiked my drink because I can’t remember leaving the nightclub, or going back to Tempe’s place.
‘Did you go to the hospital?’
‘No.’
‘Undergo a drug test?’
‘No.’
‘What is the last thing you remember?’
‘I was sitting at a bus shelter.’
‘How did you get back to Tempe Brown’s flat?’
‘We caught an Uber.’
‘You remember that?’
‘I was told about it afterwards. I vomited. Tempe had to wash my dress.’
The DC is making notes. Each of these details will be checked.
‘Did you leave her flat again?’
‘No.’
‘Where was Tempe Brown?’
I hesitate. ‘We were together.’
‘You shared a bed.’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s cosy,’ says Briggs, smirking.
‘Your mobile phone stopped transmitting just after midnight,’ says Fairbairn. ‘Why was that?’
‘I must have turned it off. I don’t remember doing it.’
‘You told me the phone had been lost.’
‘I left it somewhere. Tempe found it.’
‘And today, when we arrested you, we discovered the contents had been wiped – every address, photograph, text message, email and app.’
‘I had a virus.’
‘Your laptop and iPad were also wiped clean.’