Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

There was a third scenario, of course, and one that was truly scary — that, in spite of being innocent, you were nevertheless convicted, and hence facing the same long sentence as the guilty.

I tried hard not to dwell on option three, but without much success.

The hours passed and I started to imagine the DCI finding all sorts of incriminating evidence on my computer hard drive.

After what seemed like an eternity, the cell door was opened by a young policeman who handed me a musty blanket and a far-from-fragrant lumpy pillow.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Ten-thirty,’ he replied.

Too late to place an order from the Thai Orchid.

‘Is there any more food? I’ve only had a single cheese sandwich to eat all day. According to this...’ I tapped the cover of the code-of-practice booklet, ‘... I’m entitled to a main meal.’

‘Main meals are served at lunchtime,’ he said. ‘Midday.’

When I’d still been on the road from Wales.

‘Are there any more sandwiches?’

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ he replied, and he slammed shut the door again.

But, true to his word, a few minutes later the hatch opened and another sandwich was passed through — egg this time — and another bottle of water.

‘Eat it quick, though,’ the policeman said through the gap. ‘Lights out in five minutes.’

That was a great relief. The overhead strip lights, built flush into the ceiling, were particularly bright and I had wondered how I would ever get to sleep with them on.

However, when the main lights did go out, it was far from being completely dark in the cell as there were several night lights built into the same fitting. But it was a huge improvement and I snuggled down beneath the musty blanket for my seventh restless night in a row.

At least it was warmer here than in Llanbron Castle.

Wednesday morning started much the same way as Tuesday finished, with me lying awake on the cell bed staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell was going on, and why was I here?

The bright overhead strip lights were turned on without warning and, presently, the hatch in the door opened and my breakfast was passed in — an individual small packet of cornflakes, a small half-pint cardboard carton of milk, a plastic bowl and a flimsy plastic spoon. What did they think I’d do with a metal one? Dig a tunnel through the concrete floor?

‘What time is it?’ I asked through the open hatch.

‘Eight,’ came the reply just a fraction of a second before the hatch was slammed shut again.

Eight o’clock. I’d been arrested at the castle just before nine. So in an hour’s time their twenty-four would be up and I should be released.

Either that or I would have to be brought before a senior police officer or a magistrate.

I ate the cornflakes, drank the rest of the milk, and wished I had a toothbrush.

The isolation was beginning to get to me and I’d been here less than a day. I couldn’t imagine what it was like for those in long-term solitary confinement — no wonder it was considered to be torture by the United Nations.

It was not being aware of what was going on outside the cell door that was causing me the most distress. That and also not knowing the time.

My whole life was normally determined by the clock — meeting times, appointments, race-start times, train departures — everything. Yet here I was, trying to estimate the passing of a single hour without one, and getting it hopelessly wrong.

When I was certain it must be at least nine o’clock, I leaned on the cell-call button and kept on pressing.

I was fed up doing nothing. It was time to fight back.

First an eye appeared in the peephole and then the hatch was opened.

‘What do you want?’ shouted an irate voice through the slot.

I took my finger off the button.

‘It’s nine o’clock,’ I said confidently. ‘I’ve been in custody for twenty-four hours.’

‘It’s only eight-forty and you haven’t. So shut up.’

Oh! Damn. But I wasn’t giving up.

‘I demand to be released.’

The hatch was slammed shut again.

Once more I leaned on the cell-call button, but no one came for a long time.

Finally, the hatch opened again.

‘Be quiet,’ came the order.

‘I know my rights,’ I said, holding up the code-of-conduct booklet. ‘I demand to be released.’

The hatch shut again and no amount of call-button pushing made it open again. Perhaps they had a way of disconnecting the bell for ‘difficult’ prisoners. And I intended to be ‘difficult’. My detention beyond twenty-four hours, for something I hadn’t done, was an outrage and I was becoming incensed by it.

In frustration, I banged on the metal cell door with my fist, but that did nothing more than give me a sore hand.

In the end, I sat down on the bed and almost cried.

Amelia, my darling, where are you when I need you?

In a mortuary; cold and lifeless.

I rather wished I could join her there.

By the time the cell door was finally opened some considerable time later, I was totally depressed and suicidal. Perhaps it was a good thing there were no hanging points after all.

‘Out,’ said the policeman, jerking his thumb at me.

I was escorted back to the custody-suite lobby and told to stand in front of the high desk, across from the custody sergeant.

‘Why have I been detained for more than twenty-four hours?’ I asked before he had a chance to speak.

‘You haven’t,’ the sergeant replied.

I looked up at the clock on the wall. It indicated half past eleven.

‘I was arrested at nine yesterday morning. I make that twenty-six and a half hours ago.’ I stared at the sergeant with my angry face on.

He ignored it. ‘The relevant time from which the twenty-four hours run is the time you were booked in at the police station, which was...’ He consulted his record. ‘... twelve-thirty yesterday. We are well within the time limit.’

‘So being confined in a police car for three and a half hours wearing handcuffs doesn’t count?’ My voice was full of irony.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said the sergeant firmly. ‘The twenty-four hours started when I authorised your detention here on your arrival.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I said.

‘It’s the law. Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, section forty-one, subsection two-point-A-one.’

He rattled off the provision without having to look it up and I was sure he must know. He would deal with this many times every day.

But I still wasn’t happy.

‘I wish to see my solicitor.’

The sergeant sighed.

‘As you wish,’ he said, ‘although you have been brought out here now to be processed for release.’

‘Release?’

‘Yes,’ said the sergeant. ‘You are being released under investigation. Sign here.’

He pushed a piece of paper and a pen over the desk towards me.

‘What does “released under investigation” mean?’ I asked.

‘It means exactly what it says. You are being released from custody but the investigation of your involvement in the murder of your wife continues and you may be required to return at some time in the future for further questioning, or to be charged.’

‘So it’s like being on police bail?’ I said.

‘Similar, but there is no fixed date to report to a police station, and no conditions.’ He handed me an envelope. ‘The details are in here.’

‘But I’m free to go now?’

‘As soon as you sign this paper.’

I signed quickly before he changed his mind.

‘How about my stuff?’ I asked.

He passed across the grey plastic tray from yesterday. I put on my watch, shoes and belt, and placed my wallet and handkerchief in my pocket along with the loose change and Douglas’s front-door key.