‘Does your mother know what you do for a living?’
It was the first thing he’d said in nearly half an hour, apart from the occasional utterance of ‘no comment’, prompted by almost imperceptible shakes of the head from his brief.
That kind of remark shouldn’t get under my skin any more. But for some reason, it did. I was mildly irritated.
Obviously, I’ve had far worse than that over the years. I’ve learned to blank it all out. I usually just pull down the invisible mask that defends against all verbals. All those nasty shards of vitriol bounce off it like hailstones off a windscreen. And I calmly go on with my questioning, come what may, Besides, all that aggressive, confrontational stuff, it just isn’t our style any more. Being interviewed about a serious crime is more like going to see your bank manager nowadays. ‘Cept it isn’t ‘cos I haven’t seen a bank manager round here in years.
I stared at him for a moment.
‘She does. And she’s proud. Does yours?’
He sneered. Not like I’d got one over on him. It was hardly the most cutting of responses. His look was more one of mild contempt. He didn’t come back at me though.
The natural course of the interview was interrupted. The choice was mine now. Should I continue with the sequence of questions I’d planned to ask him, or take a leap into the unknown? I got a memory flash of those Choose Your Own Adventure books I used to love when I was eleven or so. ‘Turn to page 34 if you think this or page 36 if you think that’. What did I think now? This, or that?
Where had we got to? I should be asking him next about the mobile phone calls we have him making regularly to another suspect who is right now waiting and sweating in the interview room on the other side of the wall behind me. But I know the answer to that will be the same as I’ve heard at least a dozen times so far.
Sod it. Let’s follow our noses for a change.
‘So does she then? Does she know what you get up to when you’re out of her sight?’
Bit of a daft question really. He was at least in his mid-forties. Hardly likely to care what his mother thought of what he did. But we’re all a bit strange about our mothers aren’t we? It’s all that unconditional love that does it. All those memories of sacrifices made. Always likely to make the lip go a bit quivery or bring a lump to the throat, even those of the hardest of criminals, perhaps.
‘What my mother thinks or does is none of your business.’
This was progress. Anything other than ‘no comment’ had to be considered as such. The lawyer knew it too. A momentary shift in the chair signified that. Replies other than ‘no comment’ were always likely to bring unexpected problems for the old brief. He coughed nervously.
Me-laddo adjusted himself too. He’d adopted the slouch position favoured by most TV suspects throughout the interview so far, but now he rose in his chair, held either side of the seat and pushed his ample buttocks towards its back. The techtonic plates were shifting. Now his body was no longer relaxed. Its language suggested he was preparing to defend a position.
‘I bet she’d prefer you to be doing something a bit more respectable. You know, something she could tell her friends about. Bet she’s not enjoyed having to tell lies about you for all these years.’
He was steaming. A nerve had most definitely been touched.
‘I mean, we all know what mums are like. If you’re doing well, they love to embarrass you by telling everyone about it. Trouble is, with you that’s never been possible. Must have hurt her a lot …you know … deep down.’
‘You don’t know my mum,’ he spluttered. ‘You know nothing about her. You are not …’ he was shouting now, ‘… you … are not fit to mention her name! My mum … loves …’
Get in there fast now. Still didn’t know what was really happening here but I had to keep it going.
‘… oh yes, well of course, she loves you! No question. I mean, all mums do, don’t they? I’m not doubting that she loves you. Not at all. What I’m saying is … she probably doesn’t … well, she probably doesn’t … like you very much. Doesn’t much like the things you do. That’s all.’
So what does he say now? No comment? That’s what his lawyer wants him to say. ‘No comment’ would have been a very good repost.
‘She’s dying.’
Bingo. Don’t say a word. Nothing to react on. Nothing to stop his flow.
‘She’s got that motor neurone disease. It’s only taken a year. One day she fell over and almost thought nothing of it. Now she can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t even swallow her own food. She’s not got long left now.’
He was bent over now. Forehead resting on fat fingers, a thumb occasionally reaching round to wipe beneath his eyes. No longer the tough man, he now adopted the pose of the little boy lost and alone in the crowded supermarket. Only this time, it would be permanent.
I knew I had him now. But what I said next was crucial. One wrong word, and he’d recover. Regain composure. Move on.
‘I know all about MND. I know how bad it gets. I know that the last thing to go is the mind. She might not be able to talk to you, but she still understands everything. That’s the best thing. It’s the worst thing too. If you want to put things right with her, make her proud, there’s still time.’
He nodded slowly, dripping snot and tears.
‘Now. Let’s start with these mobile phone calls.’
It was the first thing he’d said in nearly half an hour, apart from the occasional utterance of ‘no comment’, prompted by almost imperceptible shakes of the head from his brief.
That kind of remark shouldn’t get under my skin any more. But for some reason, it did. I was mildly irritated.
Obviously, I’ve had far worse than that over the years. I’ve learned to blank it all out. I usually just pull down the invisible mask that defends against all verbals. All those nasty shards of vitriol bounce off it like hailstones off a windscreen. And I calmly go on with my questioning, come what may, Besides, all that aggressive, confrontational stuff, it just isn’t our style any more. Being interviewed about a serious crime is more like going to see your bank manager nowadays. ‘Cept it isn’t ‘cos I haven’t seen a bank manager round here in years.
I stared at him for a moment.
‘She does. And she’s proud. Does yours?’
He sneered. Not like I’d got one over on him. It was hardly the most cutting of responses. His look was more one of mild contempt. He didn’t come back at me though.
The natural course of the interview was interrupted. The choice was mine now. Should I continue with the sequence of questions I’d planned to ask him, or take a leap into the unknown? I got a memory flash of those Choose Your Own Adventure books I used to love when I was eleven or so. ‘Turn to page 34 if you think this or page 36 if you think that’. What did I think now? This, or that?
Where had we got to? I should be asking him next about the mobile phone calls we have him making regularly to another suspect who is right now waiting and sweating in the interview room on the other side of the wall behind me. But I know the answer to that will be the same as I’ve heard at least a dozen times so far.
Sod it. Let’s follow our noses for a change.
‘So does she then? Does she know what you get up to when you’re out of her sight?’
Bit of a daft question really. He was at least in his mid-forties. Hardly likely to care what his mother thought of what he did. But we’re all a bit strange about our mothers aren’t we? It’s all that unconditional love that does it. All those memories of sacrifices made. Always likely to make the lip go a bit quivery or bring a lump to the throat, even those of the hardest of criminals, perhaps.
‘What my mother thinks or does is none of your business.’
This was progress. Anything other than ‘no comment’ had to be considered as such. The lawyer knew it too. A momentary shift in the chair signified that. Replies other than ‘no comment’ were always likely to bring unexpected problems for the old brief. He coughed nervously.
Me-laddo adjusted himself too. He’d adopted the slouch position favoured by most TV suspects throughout the interview so far, but now he rose in his chair, held either side of the seat and pushed his ample buttocks towards its back. The techtonic plates were shifting. Now his body was no longer relaxed. Its language suggested he was preparing to defend a position.
‘I bet she’d prefer you to be doing something a bit more respectable. You know, something she could tell her friends about. Bet she’s not enjoyed having to tell lies about you for all these years.’
He was steaming. A nerve had most definitely been touched.
‘I mean, we all know what mums are like. If you’re doing well, they love to embarrass you by telling everyone about it. Trouble is, with you that’s never been possible. Must have hurt her a lot …you know … deep down.’
‘You don’t know my mum,’ he spluttered. ‘You know nothing about her. You are not …’ he was shouting now, ‘… you … are not fit to mention her name! My mum … loves …’
Get in there fast now. Still didn’t know what was really happening here but I had to keep it going.
‘… oh yes, well of course, she loves you! No question. I mean, all mums do, don’t they? I’m not doubting that she loves you. Not at all. What I’m saying is … she probably doesn’t … well, she probably doesn’t … like you very much. Doesn’t much like the things you do. That’s all.’
So what does he say now? No comment? That’s what his lawyer wants him to say. ‘No comment’ would have been a very good repost.
‘She’s dying.’
Bingo. Don’t say a word. Nothing to react on. Nothing to stop his flow.
‘She’s got that motor neurone disease. It’s only taken a year. One day she fell over and almost thought nothing of it. Now she can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t even swallow her own food. She’s not got long left now.’
He was bent over now. Forehead resting on fat fingers, a thumb occasionally reaching round to wipe beneath his eyes. No longer the tough man, he now adopted the pose of the little boy lost and alone in the crowded supermarket. Only this time, it would be permanent.
I knew I had him now. But what I said next was crucial. One wrong word, and he’d recover. Regain composure. Move on.
‘I know all about MND. I know how bad it gets. I know that the last thing to go is the mind. She might not be able to talk to you, but she still understands everything. That’s the best thing. It’s the worst thing too. If you want to put things right with her, make her proud, there’s still time.’
He nodded slowly, dripping snot and tears.
‘Now. Let’s start with these mobile phone calls.’