Paul Grzegorzek - The Follow

I crossed my arms and sat back. Who the hell did they think they were to imply that I’d had anything to do with something that would hurt Jimmy? I glared at my interviewers across the table, daring them to challenge me.

Angela tried to sound calming, despite the colour in her cheeks and the annoyance showing clearly in her eyes. ‘So you’re saying that you won’t answer anymore questions on this matter, is that correct?’

I just stared, knowing full well how frustrating it was as the interviewing officer to have nothing but silence on the tape.

Barnett leaned forward, taking his hand from the pepper spray it had strayed to during my outburst. ‘Come on, Gareth, we’re only trying to find out what happened. You can’t blame us for that. We’re trying to help Jimmy.’

I stared at the wall behind his head as I counted silently to ten. They tried a few more times, but I was having none of it, and at 08.43 hours they wrapped up the interview. Six minutes was probably the shortest PSD interview ever, but I didn’t feel particularly special as I was led back to the consultation room and left there with my solicitor.

When we were alone I looked at Kerry, trying to gauge her mood.

‘Uh, look, I’m sorry about that but this is bullshit and they know it. They’re just wasting time in the hopes of an easy outcome while the person that did it is laughing at us.’

She sighed and shuffled her notes. ‘We all know that but I really don’t think you helped yourself in there. You don’t respond well to pressure, do you?’

‘Actually, I do. It’s just bullshit that makes me lose my rag.’

‘I see. Well, all we can do is wait and see what happens. I can only assume that you’ll be suspended pending further investigation. With something this serious at least we can hope for a short bail date.’

I didn’t really listen to anything past the word ‘suspended’. My stomach tied itself up in knots again as I thought about the grief that Davey had wrought. Every time I thought the slimy little bastard had gone too far, he somehow managed to go still further. He couldn’t have had a better result if he’d planned it this way.

A few minutes later I was hauled in front of the custody sergeant again. This time he had a bail notice for me. I was to return to Worthing custody at 11.00 a.m. the Wednesday after next. Kerry had been right about the short date, usually bail was for a month or more while they, or should I say we , tried to put together a convincing case. Kerry said goodbye to me at the doors and after taking my mobile number she drove off, leaving me with my arresting officers.

‘You’re okay getting back to Hove I take it, mate?’ Barnett asked, his voice sweet as he turned and closed the door, shutting me outside with no hint of remorse.

Cursing under my breath, I began the long walk back to the train station, adding Barnett to the mental list I keep of people who will get their comeuppance come judgement day.

Two hours later I was sitting at home in my front room, enjoying the space that I hadn’t refilled since my ex-wife, Lucy, had taken all of the furniture, apart from the sofa and my widescreen TV. I flicked idly through the channels, unable to concentrate on anything in particular as I tried to ignore the frustration that was nagging at me.

They had taken my warrant card before they chucked me out of custody and I felt more than a little naked without it. It had been a constant companion for eight years, a shield that I could use to help people without being dragged through the court system myself. Some use it had turned out to be.

My phone rang for the fourth time since I’d been back and I didn’t even bother to take it out of my pocket, knowing it would be Kev Sands trying to make sure I was okay. I couldn’t face talking to him right then; I felt like I might dissolve into tears if anyone showed me the slightest sympathy.

Eventually the ringing stopped, and I got up to go into the kitchen, tripping over the worn patch in the grey carpet that I kept meaning to get around to replacing. One day. I’d intended to make a cup of tea but one look at the mess I’d left the kitchen in put me off. I’d been working so much recently that I had been literally dumping stuff on the worktops and running and it looked like a group of students had moved in. Dishes and takeaway boxes littered the worktops and the sink was piled high with dirty crockery. Just looking at it depressed me even more. I grabbed my jacket from the end of the banister and headed out, not sure where I was going but needing to get away.

I got into the car and drove on autopilot, fairly unsurprised when I ended up sitting outside my dad’s bungalow on Farm Hill in Woodingdean, where he’s lived alone since my mother died of cancer ten years ago. It’s a pleasant street, set back from the main road and dotted with a mixture of houses and bungalows that stretch up the hill towards the fields that separate the village from the A27.

I got out of the car and crunched up the gravel driveway, hearing Lily – my dad’s German shepherd – begin barking as I intruded on her territory. I walked up the side of the bungalow, past the half-finished shed that has been in that state since before I joined the job, and was greeted at the back gate by a whirling dervish of black-and-tan fur. Lily’s lips were pulled back to show her impressive teeth as she barked and snarled, but we knew each other of old and I knew that she was just showing off. As soon as I was through the gate, she turned the snarls into little yaps as she jumped up, trying to growl and lick my face at the same time.

True to form, my dad was ignoring the noise, trusting Lily to get rid of anyone who wasn’t welcome, no matter how many times I told him to listen to her just in case. I tried the back door handle and found it unlocked. Sometimes I wished that he would get burgled, just so that he’d take a little more care in future.

I kicked Lily’s football up the lawn, and she chased after it, grinding the leather with her back teeth as I walked into the kitchen. It was cleaner than mine and I set about figuring out the coffee machine as my dad finally came in from the front room to see who had invaded.

‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ he asked, sounding old and tired.

‘Now there’s a story. Let me make coffee and I’ll tell you about it,’ I replied, turning to look at him over my shoulder.

He looked as tired as he sounded and had dark circles under his eyes, presumably from lack of sleep. He isn’t a tall man, only five foot six if he stretches, but he’s stocky, with a belly that has always inspired me to fight my genetics, most of which I have inherited from him. His shock of white hair was sticking out in all directions, the same as it always does, and several days’ worth of snowy stubble made him look older than his sixty years.

‘If you keep growing that beard, you’ll end up looking like Papa Smurf!’ I warned him, as the coffee machine finally yielded to my ministrations and began to make the right noises. ‘You having trouble sleeping still?’

He nodded, moving to the cupboards and getting out a couple of battered but serviceable ceramic mugs. ‘Yeah, I’ve been having the nightmares again.’

‘About Mum?’ She passed away while holding his hand, lying in a hospital bed with dozens of tubes coming out of her and he hasn’t been the same man since. When she died, something indefinable but vital went out of him at the same time. Then my brother Jake, already hooked on heroin, had disappeared without a trace, and it was a wonder the man hadn’t fallen apart completely.

‘Yeah. Anyway don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. What’s your news?’

More and more, my father had begun to live vicariously through me. He still worked when he felt like it, but he had made an absolute mint in the first dotcom explosion and he probably had more money squirreled away than I would earn in ten years. He’s always wanted to be a copper though, ever since he was a lad, and I had honestly thought he would cry with joy the day I passed out of Ashford Training School.