It had long been Smith’s view that sometimes you have to poke a stick into a wasps’ nest to see what comes charging out. You can, of course, get stung, but on this occasion there would be no Detective Inspector demanding an explanation. And if Milton Othonos hadn’t got the message earlier on, he certainly had now.

  A hundred yards down the road, Smith pulled over, left the engine running and pressed start route guidance for the second time that day. The location had been stored from his previous visit, saving him the bother of looking it up again. The screen told him everything he needed to know – the distance he had to travel, his estimated time of arrival, and there was even a warning telling him to avoid an alternative route because of roadworks. If you were doing this sort of thing on a regular basis, all this technology would mean you could run a pretty smart operation.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anthony Hills had agreed to take the tranquillizers for one more night. They help with sleep but the cost is too high in every other respect, he had decided. Yesterday morning he’d sat on the lounge sofa and watched his two young children play, watched his wife play with them and he had felt as if he was observing it all from fifty yards away. From time to time, Emma had spoken to him, at first encouraging him to join in and then just to see if he was all right, but their conversation had been muffled and strange, as if the pair of them had their heads enclosed in separate cardboard boxes. The solicitor had not minced her words at their last meeting – if he was charged and convicted, he would probably go to prison. Its being a first offence would not outweigh the seriousness of a conviction for smuggling Class A drugs.

  In that case – literally – he would rather have the time left with his family be fully as himself rather than in this chemical fog, and Emma had agreed. She’d said take them tonight, then, and we’ll see, we’ll manage.

  He must have been dreaming. There was a banging sound and a Scottish voice saying ‘Who’s that knocking? Knock, knock, knock…’ It’s a play. It’s all a play! Relief had flooded through him – all of it had been a dream. Somehow memories of a school performance had become mixed up in a nightmare about being arrested and interviewed for hours and hours. Such a relief, to be swimming up to the surface now, where he could break into the light and it would be over at last…

  Emma opened the door and walked into the bedroom. His mouth tasted awful but he reached up an arm – he wanted to pull her down and kiss her anyway. She put her own hand on his chest and gently stopped him. She said, ‘Are you awake?’

  He was, of course he was, and so happy he couldn’t begin to tell her. He nodded, and she said, ‘OK. Get dressed, then. The police are here.’

  There had been an awkward scene in the kitchen, again. The two uniformed officers were not unfriendly, and they were clearly aware of the young children in the house, but they wanted him to go with them to Kings Lake Central police station. They said they didn’t know why. Anthony refused their request – and that’s all it was at this point. Emma was by his side and he saw the look of concern on her face. But the meetings with Christine Archer, though brief, had been useful. He had learned more about his rights in the past ten days than in the previous thirty years, despite having a policeman for a dad. The solicitor had made it plain he was to do and say nothing without her prior knowledge, and as far as Anthony was concerned, that included going unaccompanied back to the police station.

  The older officer, a Sergeant Holt, tried a fatherly approach, and Anthony had to wonder if the man knew who his actual father was – surely most of them must know by now; these were local men, some of whom must have worked with Charlie Hills. He said, ‘It’s better to come in without an argument, lad. There’s no need to upset your Mrs, is there?’

  Anthony’s answer to that had been, ‘Are you going to arrest me if I refuse?’

  The officer looked genuinely uncomfortable as he said, ‘That was not the plan this morning, sir. But if you’re giving me no alternative…’

  The ensuing standoff had lasted several seconds before the officer said, ‘Tell me what’s going on, then. I’ll have to make a call.’

  There was too much going on to explain it all. He could not say that he wasn’t properly awake because of the tranquillisers, that he needed time and some coffee before facing more questions. He could tell them he hadn’t showered or shaved in two days, and that if they would allow him that little bit of dignity – and a few minutes with his children – he would be at Lake Central at an agreed hour this morning. But he would have representation with him, and if he was arrested now, he would say nothing until his legal advisors were present anyway.

  The sergeant heard him out and then left the house to make his call – the other, younger man stayed in the kitchen. Emma offered him a mug of tea – it had just been made – and to the officer’s credit, he accepted. He spooned into it a couple of sugars, took a long pull and said they had a lovely house. Then there was an embarrassed silence because, of course, his presence meant they might not have it much longer.

  They heard footsteps and then the sergeant was back in the room. He said, ‘Eleven o’clock at the station. Can you let me have your mobile number, sir? If it gets to a minute past, I’ll be coming back here. I’ve sort of vouched for you…’

  He went to the station alone. Emma had suggested calling Charlie but the strain on his father had been showing, and anyway, in the end he had to face this on his own. The receptionist at Fraser and Metcalfe had told him Christine Archer was unavailable when he called but she assured him the message would get through – someone would meet him outside Lake Central police station at ten minutes before eleven o’clock.

  Anthony could see the someone now – it was the young woman, Annie Cater. She was wearing jeans – smart, tight-fitting ones, but jeans nonetheless – trainers and a casual, waisted tweed jacket, all of which made the briefcase look incongruous. When she reached him, she was a little out of breath. She said, ‘Sorry, Mr Hills. I know this looks last-minute but I was expecting to be back-office today. We have a major files audit going on. Then Christine was called to Norwich Crown Court. She phoned me on her way there, so I am up to speed.’

  He was looking at his watch, remembering the sergeant’s warning – he had less than five minutes to get inside and register his presence here. As they climbed the steps, he asked whether they had any idea what this was about.

  Annie Cater said, ‘We don’t. We’ve heard nothin’ more.’

  Occasionally she dropped a final ‘g’ in a very Irish way. He held the door open for her, and she continued, ‘When I spoke to Christine, we decided the most likely thing is more questions. We can’t see why they would charge you out of the blue when nothin’ else has been disclosed. I have to ask – have there been any developments you haven’t made us aware of yet?’

  Anthony answered no to that, and then spoke into the box on the wall in the reception area – in front of him was the notorious one-way screen which had brought about his father’s retirement from this place. After a pause, an impersonal male voice told him to wait there – an officer would be along to collect him shortly.

  There were benches around the walls, so they sat down – mercifully, no one else was waiting to be seen. Annie Cater said, ‘How are you feeling?’

  He replied that he wasn’t so bad – perhaps he was getting used to being viewed as a hardened criminal, and she smiled. She said, ‘It’s not unusual in these cases for there to be lots of to-ing and fro-ing. The inquiries have probably thrown up somethin’ they want to ask you about, that’s all.

  Anthony crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. ‘I can’t tell them anything I haven’t already told them. That’s not going to change. I just need my life back. I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow. They’ve been understanding but people can only cover you for so long.’

  She didn’t say anything, which he preferred to hearing platitudes. Then the internal door opened and two women entered. The one in front, shorter, slight of build, fixed her gaze upon him straight away, looking directly into his own eyes without preliminaries, as if she had no time to waste. She said, ‘Mr Anthony Hills?’

  He confirmed that and then she was establishing the identity of his solicitor, too. With a frown, the officer said, ‘I was expecting Christine Archer.’

  Annie explained once more. The information was noted by the second officer and then the first one said, ‘Thank you for coming promptly Mr Hills. We’ll take you into the station, then. I should say, this is Detective Sergeant Sterling, and I’m Detective Chief Inspector Freeman. Follow me, please.’

  She took them up one flight of stairs, along a corridor and into an interview room. In it was a table and two chairs – Anthony Hills remembers thinking this was going to be a short meeting as there was no opportunity for them all to sit down. From somewhere the senior officer had produced an iPad. She tapped and swiped a couple of times, read something, nodded to herself and said, ‘Anthony Hills – I am arresting you in connection with offences under Section 170 of the Customs and Excise Management Act of 1979. You do not have to say anything at this point but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  He looked at the solicitor and realised that for just a moment she seemed as surprised as he felt. Arrested again? For what sounded like exactly the same offence? What was going on?

  The detective chief inspector said in a friendly, matter-of-fact way, ‘That last bit doesn’t apply today. There won’t be any further questions. You’re going to be charged and you have to be under arrest before we can do that. We’ll take you down to the custody suite-’

  ‘Excuse me? I do have a couple of questions.’

  Annie Cater had stepped half a pace forward, putting herself between her client and the detective who had just arrested him. The officer didn’t seem at all perturbed by the interruption – she shrugged as if to say, fire away, then. Anthony Hills was in a state of shock for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that the woman who had arrested him – a detective chief inspector – appeared to be no older than he was.

  Annie Cater had placed her briefcase on the table. She too had produced an iPad, as if they were about to conduct some sort of digital duel. Annie said, ‘DCI Freeman, I think you said?’

  This produced a nod, and another introduction to Detective Sergeant Denise Sterling.

  Annie tapped that in, and said next, ‘And you’re based here, at this police station?’

  ‘Yes, both of us.’

  ‘Thank you. And I assume you’re the senior investigating officer in this matter?’

  ‘No. I’m not.’

  The fingers paused above the touchscreen, and the two women stared at each other. It was Annie Cater who ended that with, ‘You’re not the SIO? Can you tell me who is, please?’

  Freeman seemed genuinely uncertain. She turned to the detective sergeant and said, ‘You took the last call. Do we actually know?’

  Apparently not – at least, no name was forthcoming. Freeman smiled and said, ‘Sorry!’

  Annie Cater wasn’t smiling. She said, ‘This is a serious charge you’re about to make. We’re entitled to know the name of the officer conducting this investigation.’

  Freeman said, ‘Are you? I’m not aware of any regulation that says so.’

  The thought occurred to Anthony that Christine Archer might have been a better champion at this moment, but Annie held her ground.

  ‘Someone is going to be gettin’ calls about this, beginning in around an hour’s time. In the absence of an SIO – and I have to say I’ve never heard the like – I guess that’s goin’ to be you, then.’

  The DCI didn’t need to consult further with the detective sergeant, nor with her iPad. With her eyes firmly fixed on Annie Cater, she said, ‘All right. For now you can direct your questions to Detective Inspector Marcus Revel of the Regional Serious Crimes Unit. He’s based in Norwich.’

  Anthony remembered the name – this was the man who had entered his home that Monday morning, the one who had watched as he was arrested for the first time in what increasingly felt like a recurring nightmare.

  Freeman said, ‘If we’re done here, let’s go down to the custody suite. I’m sure we’re all busy people.’

  The custody sergeant stood behind a tall counter and you spoke to him through an opening in a Perspex screen, as if you were here to send a parcel or to buy a book of second-class stamps. Anthony guessed this was the moment when a percentage of the clientele lost control and tried to murder a police officer in addition to their other offences. He didn’t feel like that at all. Instead, there was a profoundly disappointed numbness spreading out from the centre of his chest; someone had concluded they could make this charge stick. It would have been a lawyer he would never meet in person, someone who spent their days at a desk, sifting through evidence before deciding whether to proceed with a court case. Court cases, he knew, are phenomenally costly things. What evidence could the police have found which would make him seem guilty?

  He had to stand there while the bored-sounding custody officer read out the charges once again, but this time in considerably more detail: first, that he, Anthony Hills, had, under Section 170(1) of the Customs and Excise Management Act 1979, knowingly acquired possession of goods with respect to the importation or exportation of which a prohibition or restriction was for the time being in force, and second, that under the second provision of the said Act, he had been knowingly concerned in a fraudulent evasion of duty.

  The custody sergeant paused and looked up as if the charged man might have something to say about all this, but he did not. Then the officer pushed a wad of official documents through the hatchway and suggested Mr Hills pass these straight on to his legal representative. When that had been done, the sergeant said, ‘As to the matter of bail, this is not a summary offence, which means that even though your first court appearance will be in front of a magistrate, the case will automatically be transferred to the Crown Court. A senior officer has examined the case against you and decided on the matter of whether you should be given police bail…’

  Now the silence was absolute. Anthony Hills understood perfectly what he had just been told – that in a few minutes he could find himself in a police cell, and an hour or two after that he could be on his way to Norwich prison. He had stopped breathing.

  ‘… due consideration given to the lack of previous convictions and to your family circumstances, it has been decided to grant police bail, with certain conditions attached’ – another set of papers appeared in the hatch – ‘which your legal representative should read and explain to you before you leave the station this morning. Please confirm for me, Mr Hills, that you understand what I have said to you as regards the charges against you and in the matter of police bail.’

  Mr Hills nodded and was then told that he must, as a matter of legal form, answer aloud. He did so in a monotone and then turned away. The two detectives stood there with blank faces, and he thought, this is what they do, every day. I sell people expensive motor vehicles and they shatter people’s lives. Then they go home and play with their kids or take the dog for a walk.

  Annie Cater took charge. She asked the detective chief inspector if they could use that room again while she took her client through what had just happened, and the answer was yes – DS Sterling would take them there. Then Annie said, ‘Thank you. And I would like a number for Detective Inspector Revell.’

  This took a little longer but then there was a nod to the detective sergeant, which plainly meant she should hand over a means of contacting the officer in question, even though, as Annie Cater well knew, he was not in reality the senior investigating one.

  DS Sterling, a woman of few words it seemed, was already walking away. Annie put her hand on Anthony Hills’ arm and gave him a gentle push in that direction. No one had anticipated this.

  When they re-emerged into the May sunshine, the road outside the police station was busy with lunchtime traffic. Annie asked him where he was parked, and then said she would accompany him to his car, as if her legal responsibilities in the matter suddenly included a duty of care for his safety and emotional wellbeing. Anthony’s mind was beginning to clear again, but he couldn’t find the will to object to what she had just suggested. The two-minute walk was conducted in virtual silence.

  He had the car door open when Annie Cater’s mobile began to ring. She took it out of her bag and said, ‘It’s Christine. I sent her a text while we were in the station.’

  She answered it. He heard “Yes, I know’ and then ‘Absolutely not’ from Annie before she pressed the loudspeaker button and held the phone up midway between them. He could hear Christine Archer’s voice saying, ‘… our policy is always to be completely frank with our clients, just as we ask you to be completely frank with us. We did not see this coming, and I apologise for that.’

  What could he say? He muttered something but the senior solicitor was already speaking again.

  ‘However, odd as it might seem, we now know exactly what we’re dealing with – we haven’t before this. We can begin to push them for disclosure, and we will be doing so. We can now begin to prepare a specific defence against the charges. Your relationship with Mr Othonos; is that typical in your business?’

  He said he wasn’t sure what she was asking and Christine Archer said, ‘The socialising, the wining and dining. Do you do that with other clients?’

  ‘Not most, no, not for one-off sales. With corporate clients, it happens sometimes. Why?’

 

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