“Could you put that down, please?” asked Warren carefully.
Sutton had found the radio and switched it off at the wall socket; the clatter of the metal tool against the concrete floor echoed loudly through the shed.
“What do you want? I’m not due a visit until next week.”
“We’re not with the Probation Service. We’re here to ask you some questions in connection with an ongoing enquiry.”
“Am I under arrest? I ain’t going back to prison.” The man’s eyes darted wildly around the barn as his voice started to rise. His hands started to shake and his foot tapped. The man was clearly terrified at the prospect of prison. Were his fears justified?
Warren appraised the man standing before him. According to his file, Richard Cameron was days shy of his sixtieth birthday. The photograph in his file, taken just before his release, could have been of a man ten years older. Greying and stooped, the face in the picture was creased and lined. The man in front of him could pass for fifty. The green wax jacket that he wore was loose around the waist, suggesting recent weight loss, and his back was straightened. His face, though still craggy and battered, had more definition. His complexion had lost the greyish pallor of the long-term smoker and inmate and was instead pink, with a ruddiness to the cheeks that spoke of time outdoors. His beard, although grey and tinged with yellow around the mouth, was neatly trimmed. The man’s hands, he noted, were dirty and scabbed, but underneath the oil were the faint remnants of a summer tan. Life on the outside clearly agreed with Richard Cameron far more than life on the inside.
Warren spoke carefully. “At the moment, we just want you to answer some questions. However, I remind you that you are required to co-operate with the police under the terms of your parole. I have a warrant here for your arrest if necessary.”
“What’s going on here?”
The voice came from behind the officers and belonged to a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, Warren judged.
“And who might you be, sir?”
The question was unnecessary; the man was clearly his father’s son. Although taller and slimmer, he had the same broad shoulders and strong jawbone, visible despite a thick goatee beard. His hair was a dark brown, cut short, in an unfussy but neat style. Unlike his father, he wore grey suit trousers and smart leather shoes, his jacket an expensive-looking Gore-Tex affair. A collar and red tie peeked out above the partially unzipped front.
“Michael Stockley. I own this farm.” The man’s accent was clearly the same as his father’s, but his diction spoke of a better education and years spent in university and managerial workplaces, rather than low-paid, menial jobs and prison.
So he still went by his mother’s maiden name, Warren noted.
“We are inviting your father to attend a voluntary interview at Middlesbury police station.”
Stockley curled his lip. “And you say that he hasn’t been arrested?”
“Not unless he refuses to co-operate — in which case I’ll serve the arrest warrant and contact his parole officer.”
Acknowledging his father for the first time since arriving, Michael Stockley nodded in his direction. “You aren’t under arrest, Dad. You don’t have to answer any questions. In fact say nothing until I’ve arranged a solicitor.”
The older man nodded mutely, looking scared and bewildered. Stockley turned back to Warren.
“I didn’t catch your name, Officer — nor have I seen any identification.”
Warren locked eyes with the man for several long seconds, before fishing out his warrant card, which he held up in front of the man’s face. Stockley nodded once.
“What’s this about?”
“Just some questions relating to an ongoing enquiry.” Warren had no intention of giving away any more information than he had to. He wanted to keep the man on the back foot for as long as possible.
“I believe that my father is entitled to have somebody with him during this questioning and that a solicitor may be present,” he all but smirked.
Warren didn’t like the way that this was going; he had to do something to shift the balance of power away from this smartly dressed amateur lawyer.
“Of course, assuming that Mr Cameron has something to hide, we can wait for a solicitor to arrive.” Warren nodded back to the older man, who paled slightly.
“The exercising of his legal rights should not be inferred as any admission of wrongdoing on my father’s part. And I believe that any attempt to deter him from seeking representation — or indeed questioning him before his solicitor arrives — would be contrary to the rules laid down in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.” This time he did smirk.
On the other side of the barn he could see Tony Sutton rolling his eyes in disgust. Warren agreed. Spare us from barrack-room lawyers, he thought.
Sensing a victory of sorts, Stockley pressed on. “I suggest you return to your cars, officers, whilst my father and I go into the house and call for his lawyer. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”
Warren shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr Stockley. I was rather intending to do this at the police station. You can wait for your lawyer there.”
Richard Cameron shook his head violently. “No, I’ve always said I’d rather die than set foot inside another prison cell and I mean it.”
“My father is undergoing questioning voluntarily,” Michael Stockley reminded them. “You cannot force him to attend the police station and you certainly can’t put him in a prison cell whilst he awaits his lawyer.”
Warren was getting impatient. “First, nobody has said anything about your father being placed in custody, let alone a cell. Second, I would remind you that I have a signed arrest warrant, so I certainly can compel him to attend the questioning. I’ll let you decide how you want to do this.”
The two men glared at each other. Finally, it was Richard Cameron who spoke up. “All right. Let’s get this done with. But I ain’t saying nothing until my brief arrives.” With that, he slouched out of the door, heading for the parked cars. At a signal from Warren, one of the uniformed constables opened the rear door of his patrol car.
“Mind your head,” he grunted, pushing down on the older man’s unruly mane.
Stockley stepped towards the car.
“Hold on, Michael.”
Now that he had them, Warren’s instinct was to minimise contact between father and son as much as possible. He didn’t like the way the younger man was calling all of the shots. Stockley blinked. “I’m accompanying my father to the police station.”
“Not in there, you’re not. Health and Safety,” he lied, motioning towards the remaining patrol car, whose driver stood by the open rear door like a chauffeur.
“Health and Safety? Bollocks!” He made as if to protest further, but Warren merely waved the arrest warrant in the air. With a sound of disgust, the younger man turned on his heel and marched towards the waiting car.
With both men locked in separate cars, Warren addressed the remaining officers.
“DI Sutton will co-ordinate the securing of the property and then return to the station. I want a search team standing by and ready to go in case he gives us enough to raise a search warrant. We need to move fast before his lawyer starts putting up the roadblocks.”
He turned to Sutton, who was smiling. “I liked the way you handled that, boss. His lawyer will be pissed, though.”
Warren shrugged. The man was a convicted rapist out on licence. His complaints would fall on deaf ears.
“Tough.