Conference room 2C sat on the far edge of the second floor of Scotland Yard. Hidden away on the end of a long line of opposing, glass-fronted meeting rooms, it had a secluded waiting area with a few cloth-covered chairs and a table loaded with tabloid magazines of every ilk.
Neil found himself fidgeting uncomfortably as he waited for the hearing to begin. He knew the tactics employed on those to be questioned were designed to make them feel as uncomfortable as possible, but that knowledge did not help. There was every reason to feel uncomfortable. He was about to be interviewed by Internal Affairs about his role in…
Neil sighed. He had to focus on something else. There was no point lingering on what occurred. There would be plenty of time to do that once the interview began.
Neil reached across, picked up a glossy mag from the table, and flipped it open to a random page. Jodie Marsh. How did this woman keep getting column inches? He ran his thumb across the pages and arbitrarily stopped again. Miley Cyrus. Disgusted with what passed as newsworthy, he flung the magazine back on to the table, and allowed his head to slump into his hands. He ran his fingers across his bald scalp in a comforting manner, letting out a deliberately calming expel of air. Soon, all of this would be over and he would have his answer. Absolved of any wrongdoing or fired, there really was no in-between.
After another twenty minutes, at least fifteen minutes beyond the designated start time of the interview, the door to the conference room opened and Neil’s superior, DCI Henry Blackwater, strode out.
“Sorry for the wait, Detective.” said Henry, extending a hand. “We were just going through the particulars and preparations over-ran. Apologies.”
Henry’s palm was sweaty, and Neil noticed an involuntary curling of one side of his lip as he spoke. Something was bothering him. “No problem, sir. We all know the benefit of good preparation.”
Henry’s eyes flicked around, attempting to avoid Neil’s gaze. “Let’s get started then.” He extended a hand toward the door, ushering Neil inside.
Neil exhaled deeply, buttoning his jacket as he walked toward his fate.
The massive room was sparse. A large oval table, probably the only one made of actual wood in the whole building, lay surrounded by chairs just inside the door. To its rear, a series of banked windows opened out to an impressive view of London.
Henry motioned Neil toward a lone chair, on the opposite side of the room, and moved to take up his position next to two other people.
Neil strode round the table, catching his nerves and pulling the chair out slowly. Waiting for his heart rate to settle, he closed his eyes and raised his head. Before finally, ready to accept whatever happened, he looked at the interview panel.
Henry was sitting to the right of a woman in a tightly fitted black suit, her auburn hair pinned into a bun that looked wound by a corkscrew. Her lipstick was deep red, and her eyeliner some kind of purple come mauve. Here was a woman entering the last years of her forties, attempting to look like a woman of power in her early thirties, and failing badly. She took notes, barely noticing Neil’s arrival, shuffling papers as her scribbling continued.
As Neil stared, he was mortified to realise he was shaking his head, Henry giving him uncomfortable glances from the opposite side of the table.
Neil quickly changed focus to the last figure in the room. The old-ish man, perhaps early sixties, dressed in a navy blue jacket with a red and white sash. Around his neck, clasping the stub lapels of the official garment, a red lanyard with spikes of gold allowed an eight pointed cross to dangle onto his chest. His peaked hat, banded in red, bore another golden symbol, and his shoulders held up yet more official livery Neil could not instantly distinguish. He was a high-ranking official, but whom or what he represented was not immediately obvious.
The man was staring straight at Neil. His piercing gaze, unwavering underneath his greying, bushy eyebrows, was strong and true. He did not even seem to blink, forcing Neil to turn away.
“Detective Townsend.” the woman said, lifting her head from her notes. “I assume DCI Blackwater has already apologised for the late running of this interview, but we had to accommodate additional requests at the last minute.” She turned toward the strangely attired man, who simply continued to stare. “With that disruption in mind, I feel it only fair to ask if you are ready to begin?”
Neil swallowed as the reality of the situation hit home. “I am.” he managed, meekly.
“Then I shall start the recording.”
The woman reached over, grabbing a digital recorder from the table and plugging it into a bound knot of cables connected to small microphones in front of each person.
“For the record, it is ten seventeen on the fourth of April. This recording is of the preliminary hearing into the alleged wrongdoing in relation to the events of Scotland Yard case number one-one-seven-four-eight dash six-five-three. In the room with me on the interview panel I have Detective Townsend’s superior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Henry Blackwater, and to my right is the honourable Sir Jeremy Saint-Phillip Collingham-Smythe, Lord Lieutenant of London.”
‘What the hell is a man of that kind of importance doing here?’ thought Neil, twisting to appraise the man.
Sir Jeremy noticed his movement and just for a split-second, Neil was sure he saw a smile forming before it vanished back into the man’s harsh gaze.
“My name is Special Supervisory Consultant Vanessa Broadbent of Internal Affairs, and our interviewee today is Detective Neil Desmond Townsend.” Vanessa reached over and grabbed a set of papers, tapping them against the table as she pushed her glasses up her nose. “For the record Detective Townsend, can I ask for confirmation that you are aware who is in the room, and also that you are fully conversant with the list of allegations made that have led us to this point, as described in the documents before you?” she asked, skidding the stack of paper over to Neil.
Neil picked up the hefty bundle and flipped through it, their pages already memorised verbatim. “I am fully aware of the contents of these documents, yes. In regards to your first point, I can only confirm that I now know each of the people in the room. However, I will accept they are who you say they are, even though I can only state with truth that DCI Blackwater’s name and title are accurate, because he’s the only person I have met before.” Shit. Neil’s heart skipped a beat and his breathing paused, as realisation of his comments dawned. He froze, afraid even to blink as puzzled stares emerged around him. What had he done? He tried to smile, but retracted it when he realised just how forced it must appear. Reaching forward, he clumsily grabbed the glass decanter from the centre of the table, poured himself a drink, and gulped it down with a trembling hand.
“Are you ready to continue, Detective?” said Henry, a mixture of worry and pity in his voice.
“Sure, fire away.” said Neil, scrunching his eyes shut and taking another large gulp of water as he heard himself say the words.
Vanessa glanced at Henry who shrugged, motioning toward Neil. “You heard the man SSC Broadbent, let’s get on with this.”
“Very well then.” said Vanessa, flipping to a blank sheet in her notebook. “I would like to start this investigation with a question, if you would indulge me Detective Townsend.” Vanessa’s tone was calm, laced with a commanding air that could only come from knowing the question following would be difficult to answer potentially undermining any evidence coming after. “Having read the official report submitted into the events that occurred after the conclusion of case number one-one-seven-four-eight dash six-five-three, it is clear that actions were undertaken by yourself that were not motivated by the case. Would you agree this was a fair assessment?”
Neil took another sip of water and drew a long breath. He nodded, not in agreement, but out of acceptance that the tone of the interview was set. Vanessa was going straight for the jugular. He looked up, measuring the woman behind the thin-rimmed spectacles. You want to play rough? OK. I can play rough. He steeled himself, exhaling and pursing his lips as his resp
onse formed. “I completely disagree with the statement that your comment was a fair assessment on three grounds.” Neil could see Vanessa go to speak, but continued, cutting off any challenge. “One, the case is entirely relevant to the events that followed it. Two, I did not act alone. And possibly most importantly, three, if I had not acted after the case in the manner I did, you would probably not be here to ask that question.”
Neil held his nerve, staring impassively at Vanessa, as querying looks returned from the far side of the table.
“Are you saying,” said Sir Jeremy, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowed, “that your actions in some way saved SSC Broadbent’s life, directly?”
“I posit nothing of the sort.” said Neil, impassively. “I merely restate what I have already committed to record in my original deposition into this matter.”
Vanessa began to laugh. “Are you seriously asking us to accept this fairy story as truth?” she said, waving a stapled wad of paper in the air dramatically.
“I would not have written it unless it was truth. Whether you accept that as reality or not is irrelevant.”
“Detective Townsend!” said Henry, standing. “I do not think backhanded insults are going to grant you the outcome you expect from this hearing.”
Neil nodded, but inside he was pleased his words were understood. “I apologise for any insult.” he said, pouring himself another water, his trembling a long forgotten foe. “I meant simply to point out that if you do not look at the facts of the case as I experienced them, the truth of this situation will always appear to be… what did you call it?.. a fairy story.” He put as much emphasis on the last words as he could, barely able to mask his contempt.
“Then why don’t you try to explain your side of the story to us?” said Sir Jeremy, shooing the protests of Vanessa away dismissively. “If we understand what happened, maybe your deposition will make more sense.”
Neil appraised Sir Jeremy as he sat back into his seat. “From the beginning?” he asked, placing his glass of water on the table and crossing his fingers as his mind wandered back to how this all began.
“From the beginning.” said Sir Jeremy. “Take your time.”
Neil closed his eyes. If this really was going to be the basis of his defence, he needed to cover everything; every single conversation and event. Sighing, he relaxed his mind, and allowed himself to drift back to the morning of that first, fateful call…
DAY 1
Chapter 3
Boxing Day Blues