I was taken back to cell seven and, shortly afterwards, some reading material in the form of a thick booklet was brought in and handed to me.
They must be having a laugh.
The booklet was entitled Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984: Code of Practice for the Detention, Treatment and Questioning of Persons by Police Officers.
I lay down on the thin blue mattress and stared at the ceiling.
What was happening to my life?
I watched as the daylight coming through the small frosted window diminished to darkness. It was exactly one week ago that I had left to go to Birmingham on that fateful day, with Amelia waving to me from the garden as I’d driven away.
Just a single week. It felt more like half a lifetime.
And the time went on dragging as I lay on the bed feeling sorry for myself. Eventually, in desperation, I sat up and read through the code of conduct booklet. At least then I really did know my rights, which I’d previously signed for, one of which was that I was entitled to have access to this very document.
So they had done me no special favour in supplying it. I was not surprised.
However, another thing of interest that I discovered was that I should be offered three meals within every twenty-four hour period, two light and one main. And, if I had special dietary requirements, I was even be permitted to have food brought in by my friends or family, at my own expense, as long as it didn’t conceal drugs or weapons.
So far today, I’d had absolutely nothing to eat, not even breakfast, and I was hungry, very hungry. That was surely a special dietary requirement. Maybe I could order a super-size takeaway from the Thai Orchid restaurant in Banbury town centre — I was on particularly good terms with the head waiter and I’m sure he would deliver it as my ‘friend’.
If only I could contact him.
I pushed the cell-call button set into the wall next to the door.
I waited for five minutes but nothing happened, so I pushed the button again. This time an eye appeared at the peephole in the door and then the hatch beneath was slid open.
‘What do you want?’ said an unfriendly voice.
‘I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat all day.’
Before I had the chance to say I’d like a double portion of Thai green chicken curry with sticky rice, the hatch was slammed shut again.
Damn it. Are they trying to starve me into submission too?
But I hadn’t been ignored.
After a while, the hatch reopened and a cheese sandwich in a cardboard container was held through it. I took it and the small plastic bottle of water that followed. It wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind but it would do.
‘Thanks,’ I said through the hatch just before it was slammed shut again.
It must have taken me all of two minutes to eat the sandwich, although I managed to stretch out drinking the water for just a fraction longer.
Now what?
I lay down again on the bed and once more stared at the ceiling.
At least I knew I’d done nothing wrong and was totally blameless of the crime for which I had been arrested.
I tried to work out in my mind which was worse: to have done something really bad and be facing the prospect of a long stretch in prison, or to be totally innocent but hopeful that this was only a short-term incarceration until innocence was established.
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.
15
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.