A Death in Custody Page 2

  As he neared Nottingham, however, Andrew’s anxieties began to fade. He thought of Delroy and found it impossible to imagine him capable of violence. The idea of him as a dangerous killer seemed absurd. He thought of Ella and remembered her quiet discretion. He was sure that nothing he told her in confidence would go any further. By the time his train pulled into Nottingham station he felt more relaxed. He was happy to be home.

  Operation Fleece continued. Dr Mudd, an analyst at the Forensic Sciences Laboratory, carried out an analysis of the contents of the exhibits bag labelled W/1 and bearing the seal number C8707325, and confirmed them to be ‘2.95 grams of a white substance containing cocaine in the form commonly referred to as ‘crack’.’ More undercover police officers made more ‘test purchases’ from unsuspecting drug dealers on Railton Road. Andrew made two more visits to Brixton, but his forays into Railton Road were not successful. There was no sign of Delroy, and Lewis and the others at the entrance to the alleyway opposite the electrical goods shop pointedly ignored him. Andrew felt, at the same time, disappointed and relieved. He wondered what had happened to Delroy.

  Delroy had gone to ground.

  The cause of his disappearance was not any inkling on his part that he had sold drugs to an undercover police officer, but an unhappy development in his domestic life. Althea, with whom he had lived, on and off, for about five years and with whom he had two children, and Bernice, with whom he had lived, on and off, for about a year and a half and with whom he had a baby son, had finally become aware of each other’s existence. There had been a nasty scene outside Althea’s house. At first, the two women had directed their anger against each other, but, when Delroy had intervened to try and separate them, both had turned on him. Althea had long, strong fingernails, and Bernice was wearing boots with hard leather toecaps.

  Delroy retreated to nurse his wounds and, for a few weeks, stayed away from his usual haunts.

  As a result, he remained blissfully unaware of the arrests made as, in the middle of August, Operation Fleece moved into its second phase.

  DC Matthews finally caught up with Delroy late one fine afternoon early in September.

  Delroy was making his first cautious visit back to Railton Road and wondering where everyone was, when he became aware of a car pulling up beside him. He jumped back nervously and then, as he recognized Matthews (with whom he had had a number of previous encounters), he breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you, Mr Matthews,” he exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start.”

  Matthews grinned. “Delroy Brown,” he said, “I’m arresting you for supplying a Class A drug, namely crack cocaine. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence, if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “Come off it, Mr Matthews, I’m clean,” Delroy protested. “Go on, search me.”

  “No need for that,” said Matthews. “Get in the car.”

  “This is all a terrible mistake,” complained Delroy, but he did as he was told. He knew better than to make a fuss.

  In Custody

  “This interview is being tape-recorded,” recited DC Matthews. “We are in the interview room at Brixton Police Station. I am DC Matthews and the other officer present is…”

  “DC Jones,” contributed his colleague.

  Matthews continued, “We are interviewing… Please state your name for the tape.”

  “Delroy Brown,” volunteered their interviewee obligingly. He had been here before – both metaphorically and literally.

  Reading carefully from a laminated card, Matthews advised Delroy of his right to have a solicitor present during the interview.

  Delroy was not really listening. He had noticed the television set and video recorder standing on a trolley to the side of the table across which the two officers were interviewing him. He did not remember seeing these the last time he was in this room, and wondered what they were there for.

  “Is it right that you’ve agreed to be interviewed without a solicitor?” enquired Matthews.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” replied Delroy confidently.

  “Would you like to say why? You don’t have to give a reason.”

  “Don’t need no solicitor, Mr Matthews. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” said Delroy, with an air of bravado.

  Matthews gave a faint smile. He was enjoying this. “OK,” he said. “Well, first of all, I have to caution you.” He recited the words of the caution and asked, “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK, then, do you know why you’re here?”

  “You said somethin’ about arrestin’ me for supplyin’ crack, but, like I told you, I’m clean. You searched me when we got back here and you didn’t find nothin’, did you?”

  Patiently Matthews explained. “Delroy, I’m investigating an allegation that, at Railton Road, on the 23rd July of this year, you supplied crack cocaine to a man called Wes.”

  “I don’t know no Wes,” protested Delroy. “What kind of a name is that, anyway?”

  “You may not know his name,” conceded Matthews, “but you must remember him.” He gave another faint smile. “A black guy in a whiter than white T-shirt.”

  Something stirred uneasily in Delroy’s memory, but he could not quite place what it was.

  “No. Sorry. Can’t help you,” he maintained defiantly. But a note of uncertainty had crept into his voice.

  “OK,” said Matthews soothingly. “Do you remember being in Railton Road on the 23rd July?”

  A look of relief came into Delroy’s face. “Don’t think I was,” he said, regaining his confidence. “I’ve been away for a bit. Women trouble. You know how it is.”

  In the course of his efforts to find Delroy, DC Matthews had met both Althea and Bernice, and had learnt all about Delroy’s domestic problems. He felt some sympathy for him, tinged with more than a little envy. (“Keeping two women on the go like that!” he had commented to DC Jones. “I wish I had the fucking time.”)

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard,” he said, “but I think you may have got your dates a bit mixed up here. I’d like you to have a look at this video.”

  He stopped addressing Delroy and pronounced, “For the tape, I’m showing the suspect exhibit BM/1B.”

  He turned on the television and the video recorder and began to play the video tape.

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the television screen. “There’s the date, the 23rd July, and the time, 15.13. That’s just before quarter past three in the afternoon.”

  But Delroy wasn’t listening. He was totally absorbed in the picture on the screen. Like Andrew, he had never seen himself on film before.

  “Hey, that’s me,” he exclaimed.

  Matthews nodded with satisfaction. That was what he had wanted to hear. There was now no risk that an over-scrupulous jury might acquit Delroy because they felt he was not sufficiently recognizable on the film.

  The screen showed the group of men standing in Railton Road at the mouth of the alleyway. Delroy was at the front of the group, facing towards the camera.

  A few moments later Andrew entered the picture.

  “That’s Wes,” said Matthews quietly.

  Delroy sat very still in his seat. He watched as the film showed him going to meet Andrew and the two of them standing together – obviously in conversation.

  Matthews pressed the pause button on the remote control unit.

  “What’s going on there, then?” he asked mildly.

  Delroy’s self-confidence had left him. The interview room felt very hot. His mind was racing.

  “The geezer’s stopped to ask me the way,” he improvised.

  “Where to?”

  “I can’t remember. Maybe it was the Tube. Yeah, that’s right. It was the Tube station.”

  “I see,
” said Matthews quietly. He restarted the tape.

  The film showed Delroy leaving Andrew, rejoining the group at the entrance to the alleyway, and then returning to Andrew. To Delroy’s relief, his back had shielded what had gone on between him and Lewis from the camera.

  Matthews stopped the film again. “What’s that all about?” he asked.

  “I was just checkin’ out the best way to the Tube station for the geezer.” A note of desperation had crept into Delroy’s voice.

  Matthews looked at him. “You don’t know the way to the Tube station?” he asked with exaggerated incredulity.

  Delroy said nothing.

  Matthews restarted the tape. They watched the exchange take place between Delroy and Andrew.

  “And how do you explain that?” enquired Matthews gently.

  Delroy was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “The geezer was grateful for my help, so I thought I’d ask him for a fag. He gave me a fag. We shook hands, and then he left. That’s all there was to it.”

  This seemed to him like a good explanation for what they had just seen on the screen, and he sat back, feeling pleased with himself.

  “I see,” said Matthews. “And why, just before you shook hands with him, did you put your hand to your mouth?”

  “Cold sores,” replied Delroy. “I get these terrible cold sores round my mouth. I put this cream on them, but they still itch. I would think that’s why I was rubbin’ my mouth.”

  Matthews looked at him thoughtfully. “Thing is,” he said, “Wes says you sold him a rock of crack which you took out of your mouth to give to him.”

  Delroy experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. “The geezer’s having you over, Mr Matthews,” he said desperately. “I never sold him no crack.” He decided that perhaps the best form of defence was attack. “To tell the truth, I don’t think he was all there.” He tapped the right side of his forehead with his right forefinger. “Know what I mean?”

  Matthews decided that this game, though entertaining, had gone on long enough. “Delroy,” he explained wearily, as if speaking to a small child, “Wes is a police officer.” From under the desk he produced a cellophane exhibits bag. “And this is the crack you sold him,” he said, adding, “For the tape, I’m showing the suspect exhibit W/1.”

  Delroy knew he was beaten. “How long will I get for this?” he asked, his voice scarcely audible.

  “Three years, perhaps four,” replied Matthews cheerfully.

  Delroy looked at him in horror. He had been in prison before and had not enjoyed the experience. He was a free spirit, a man used to coming and going as he pleased. The longest that he had spent in prison until now had been six weeks and that had nearly destroyed him. He knew that a four-year sentence would mean two years inside. The thought was unbearable.

  “What if I helped you?” he suggested. “Gave you some information?”

  DC Matthews was interested, but at pains not to show it. He was only too aware that Delroy and the others netted by exercises like Operation Fleece were almost invariably small fry – small-time dealers right at the bottom of the supply chain selling small quantities of drugs to customers on the street on behalf of their suppliers in exchange for a few pounds or a free fix. The major dealers kept off the streets, using others to do their selling for them. So, to bring these bigger players in, the police relied largely on informants. An informant would give the police details of an address used by a major dealer and the police, having obtained a search warrant from a magistrate, would raid the address, finding, if they were lucky, a significant cache of drugs, together, increasingly often, with alarming numbers of firearms, usually automatic or semi-automatic weapons. The informants who gave this information to the police risked their lives by doing so and the police went to great lengths to protect their identities. Normally, an informant’s identity was known to only two police officers – his ‘handler’, the officer to whom he supplied his information and his ‘controller’, the senior officer, usually a detective chief inspector, who oversaw the relationship between the informant and his handler. Even so, despite these precautions, some informants would be identified by those they had exposed, or by these men’s associates, and, as a result, would be badly beaten up or killed.

  Matthews wondered if Delroy, who must know the risks involved, was seriously offering to become a police informant, as he really seemed unlikely to have the stomach for it. The officer also very much doubted whether Delroy would have access to any information which would be of any real use to the police. He calculated that Delroy’s supplier was likely to be another small-time dealer, one link, at most, above Delroy in the supply chain. He decided to test him out.

  “OK then, Delroy, who’s your supplier?”

  Delroy shuddered slightly. “I ain’t got no supplier,” he replied quickly.

  “What, make it yourself, do you?” enquired Matthews with heavy sarcasm.

  Delroy ignored this. “I got information ’bout a bad, bad bastard,” he persisted. “Yeah, he’s a dealer, a supplier, but he’s into so much more than that.” He paused for effect, before pronouncing dramatically, “Goes by the name of ‘Ice’.”

  These theatrics were missed by DC Jones who had bent down to pick up a pen which he had been fiddling with and had dropped under the table, while Matthews, partly distracted by his colleague’s movements, misheard.

  “So, what kind of information can you give us about this character ‘Eyes’?” he asked sceptically, as DC Jones’s head reappeared above the table.

  But Delroy was not listening. “No disrespect, Mr Matthews,” he said, “but I ain’t tellin’ you no more. Fact, I’ve said too much already. I’m only talkin’ to your top man – chief superintendent, chief constable or whatever.” He looked at the tape recorder which was still running. “An’ it’s got to be off the record.”

  Matthews pictured Delroy in conference with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, in effect London’s chief constable, and struggled to keep a straight face. “Detective chief inspector do you?” he asked sarcastically.

  Delroy looked dubious, as if being offered goods of an inferior quality. “Yeah, OK,” he agreed hesitantly.

  “Right, then, I’ll see what we can do, but, for the moment, we’ll be charging you in the normal way.”

  The officers brought the interview to an end, and took Delroy, by this time thoroughly chastened, back to the custody suite, where he was charged and placed in a cell to be taken to Camberwell Green Magistrates’ Court the following morning.

  DC Matthews and DC Jones went to the canteen. The only other officer there was DC McKinnon.

  Michael McKinnon was a relative newcomer to Brixton Police Station and was not liked by his fellow officers there. He was a big man with an arrogant air and a surly manner. He avoided the company of his colleagues, and rarely spoke to them, unless they spoke to him first. He was rumoured to have a violent temper if crossed. As Matthews and Jones came into the canteen, he was sitting at a table staring morosely into a cup of tea which he was stirring with a teaspoon. Matthews greeted him, but received only an incomprehensible grunt by way of reply.

  Matthews and Jones each collected a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits. They did not feel like sitting at the same table as McKinnon, but, equally, they did not feel that they could sit too far away from him. They sat down at the next table.

  They spoke in low voices about the interview which they had just conducted with Delroy.

  “What do you make of it?” asked Jones. “This stuff about having information about this man ‘Eyes’ that he’ll only disclose to a senior officer?”

  Unnoticed by either Matthews or Jones, McKinnon stopped stirring his tea.

  “I don’t know,” said Matthews. “I’ve never heard of anyone going by the name of ‘Eyes’, and I don’t see any major villain letting a mouthy little runt like Delroy Brown in on his
activities.”

  McKinnon began stirring his tea again.

  “And you know what the DCI is like,” continued Matthews. “Doesn’t like to have his time wasted. If Delroy just gives him a load of shit, we’re the ones who are going to get it in the neck. I think I’ll leave it for now. Maybe come in early in the morning and have another word with Delroy before he goes off to court. See if he’s sticking to his story.”

  “Makes sense to me,” agreed Jones. He looked at his watch. “Well, I’m off home now,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Matthews. “Mustn’t keep the wife waiting.”

  They got up and made for the door, leaving McKinnon stirring his by now cold cup of tea. This time neither of them said anything to him.

  About four hours later, just after eleven o’clock in the evening, DC McKinnon turned up in the custody suite.

  The custody officer, Sergeant Leach, was surprised to see him. He had had few dealings with McKinnon, but knew of his reputation and eyed him warily. “What brings you down here?” he asked.

  McKinnon attempted a friendly smile. “I believe you’ve got a man by the name of Delroy Brown here,” he began.

  “Yes,” agreed Leach slowly.

  “Well, thing is, Skipper,” continued McKinnon, “I think he may have some information on a case I’m working on and I was wondering if I could have a quick word with him.”

  Leach looked unhappy. Visits by officers to prisoners in the cells were heavily frowned upon.

  “It’ll only take a couple of minutes, Skip,” urged McKinnon insistently.

  “Oh, all right, then,” agreed Leach grudgingly. “But you can only stay in there for five minutes, the door stays open, and your visit’s going in the custody record.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks, Skipper.”

  Leach led McKinnon down the corridor to Delroy’s cell, unlocked the door, pulled it open and walked back to his desk.

  When McKinnon entered the cell, he found Delroy curled up asleep on the bed running along the far wall, with his back to the door. Although tired out by the events of the day, Delroy had not been sleeping well. He was growing increasingly distressed at the prospect of spending two years in prison and increasingly alarmed as he began to contemplate the possible consequences of his offer to give information to the police about Ice. He decided to say no more, but he was terrified that he had said too much already. He had heard of people who had been killed because they were rumoured to be police informants when they were not.