From report to court, part two – Meeting CID

I hadn’t thought I’d sleep, but I woke from a dreamless blackness. I looked at the clock, 06:42. Tonight there’d be police here. The woman who took my call said they’d get to me between 17:30 and 19:00. All I had to do now was get through the next twelve hours.

Throughout the day my sister kept finding me vacant, staring. I was living in two time zones at once, the past and the future. That meant I wasn’t in the present. She never asked if I was okay, just kept offering me coffee or food, or asking about my favourite pastime of watching TV. She made plans for dinner at 19:30, and we sat, watching TV, while I studied the clock beneath it. 5 o’clock came and went, 6 o’clock, then 7 too. At 19:30 Jen asked, “What time did they say?”

“I’ll call them.”

I dialled 101 and picked the piece of paper off the table with my reference number on it. As I went to give it to the operator, she told me she didn’t need it, my phone number was linked in the system. I didn’t know what to say to that. Now my number was logged against what I’d told them. My name, under Tim’s.

“I was told officers would be out before 19:00 and I was just wondering if they’re still coming?”

The operator put me on hold while she checked and I was then told they’d be out before 21:00

Shortly after 21:30, the intercom for the door went and I jumped off the sofa like I thought it was the kebab delivery guy. “You get it,” I said turning to my sister. She looked at me as she went past, her eyes saying, ‘I’ll get it shell I?’. What followed was a Morecombe and Wise like sketch of my sister pressing buttons on the intercom and saying, “How about now?” then pressing buttons again. Eventually she said, “I’ll come down.”

I paced the room, and turned to face the L-shaped sofa, I had a vision of me and two policemen nestled together on it. I took a chair from the dining table and placed it near the end I wanted them to sit, then got back to pacing. I heard Jen’s cheery voice reaching the front door. I moved to the sofa and plonked myself down. Me pacing the living room would make me look unstable. Crazy people pace, sane people sit comfortably and wait patiently.

I looked to where I’d put the extra chair. I’d instinctively put the seats for the officers to one side, leaving a clear path of exit for myself. Jen led two men in. I kicked myself for not requesting a female officer. Now, I was going to have to sit there and talk about what had happened to me with two straight men.

The officer directly behind my sister was small, but his suit was big. It wasn’t that it was oversized, it was just the wrong size, giving him hints of a kid wearing his dad’s clothes. Behind him loomed a giant. His suit fit, but probably because clothes don’t come much bigger. Jen led them into the sitting room, then went to hide in her room. The little guy in the big suit introduced himself as Greg, and the giant as Ross. Greg took a seat on the end of the sofa and Ross picked up the dining chair with one large hand, placing it opposite me, blocking off my exit. I turned my body towards Greg, literally giving Ross the cold shoulder.

Ross had presence. He occupied all the space by simply existing, and it made me want to pretend he wasn’t there. Greg on the other hand, spoke so quietly that I had to focus to hear him, and his sparse ginger hair, stretched across his balding scalp, combined with his poorly sized suit… it wasn’t comforting, but it was disarming. Greg started talking and opened a faux leather binder and note pad. I was expecting an interview, but it was more of a chat. I could see Ross in my peripheral vision taking notes, and I stole glances at him when I knew he’d be looking at his notepad.

Greg I could read, he knew what he was doing but had an air of discomfort, and he was reading off a preprepared list of things to ask me. Why I’d called. What was it about. What did I know about the person I was making allegations about. Ross interrupted Greg to explain what they meant by allegations, the word simply being accurate at that point and no reflection on me.

So, that explained why Ross was taking notes and not talking. He was running this meeting, just doing it from behind the curtain.

Greg got to the end of his questions, and Ross sat back and said, “I have to ask, what’s that thing you’re smoking?”

I told him it was an Iqos. It was tobacco based, but no second-hand smoke, 97% less bad stuff for me to breathe in, and most importantly, no residual odour, so I could smoke it in my sister’s apartment.

He blinked slowly, “Did what happen to you, affect you?”

I snorted a derisive laugh, and before I realised it, I was talking about my destructive behaviour. My coping mechanisms. The actions that I could now describe as self-medicating. Then the penny dropped, and I saw the first question about my Iqos for what it was. Lube. I stopped myself from babbling.

Ross closed his notepad, gave me his business card, told Greg to give me his too, then talked about what would, and could, happen next. They’d contact me in a few days, and if I wanted to make an official statement, we could go from there. I showed them to the front door, where Greg told me I could text him if I had any questions in the meantime.

I text Greg the next day. I couldn’t remember if I’d told him about Tim’s past in the military, and the payout he claimed to be living off at the time. Greg text back thanking me, and saying Ross was now in charge of the investigation and I should text him. I was pleased I’d read the situation correctly, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about having to liaise with the grumpy giant.

I didn’t have to think about how I felt for long. Ross called that day, two days ahead of schedule. I was supposed to take the time to think about if I wanted to make an official statement, and if I did, if that would be on paper or on video. I already knew I wanted to make a statement. Even if it went nowhere, at least I would have done everything I could. I’d never be able to wash my hands from having waited decades to do it, but I would have tried.

Ross was cheerier on the phone, he chatted about how I was feeling, and asked if I knew what I wanted to do. When I said I wanted to make a written statement, he explained if the case went to court, I’d have to be on the witness stand and be questioned about what I’d written. If I did a video recorded interview, then that would be played to the court, and the evidence within it would count as testimony.

I’d been in a police interview with a camera before, I was fifteen or sixteen, I had my mother sat beside me, and although I had no information to help the police, they’d still requested I attend. It’d been a light and airy room, on a high enough floor that the windows along one wall looked out across the tops of the trees below. I could still remember the feeling of seeing the large camcorder, that if it wasn’t on a tripod, would have needed to be supported on a shoulder. It’s presence in the room made me awkward. The idea that there was some imp inside recording not just everything I said, but how I looked when I said it. And that would be passed to one, two, however many other people who I’d never know to scrutinise and claw over. The idea of reliving that experience, talking about what had happened to me, knotted my insides. But, would doing it in a room with Ross be better than doing it in a court with twelve jurors staring at me? I agreed, he said he’d send me the date, and, “Don’t worry, you’ll forget the cameras are there.”

I gave him another snort of derision. The vocal nod that, in conversations with Ross, was rapidly becoming my trademark.