‘Who?’
Jarvis pulled out a photograph and pushed it across the table. ‘This man, Billy Evans. How do you know him?’
Bailey was on his guard now; the arrogant smile had gone from his lips and had been replaced by a slightly puzzled expression. He clearly hadn't expected this at all. ‘Who said I did?’
Jarvis pulled out another photograph, this time one of the ones taken at the Globe. It clearly showed him with Fitchett and Evans. ‘I do.’
Bailey picked up the photograph and looked at it before dropping it down on the desk. ‘So, I met a bloke in a pub, big deal. Christ, is that a crime as well now?’
‘But you said you didn't know his name?’
‘I didn't. I knew his first name was Bill but I didn't know his second name. Why should I? And what's all this got to do with me anyway?’
Jarvis looked at him across the table. He could tell by the look in his eyes that he'd finally got him rattled. He left the silence hanging for a second and Bailey took the bait. Jumping in again unprompted and slightly agitated. ‘We met a bloke in a pub and went for a beer together to watch the England game. That's all there was to it. Anyway, why were you taking pictures of me? I've done fuck-all and you know it.’
Jarvis began flicking through his notes and left another long pause. He had Bailey on the defensive now and he wanted to leave him hanging there for a bit. He had one last thing to throw at him and he wanted to time it just right, for maximum effect. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Now or never, he thought. Opening his eyes, he fixed them on Bailey. ‘We have evidence to suggest that Billy Evans is involved in the supply of illegal substances and that he uses known hooligan groups to distribute those drugs around the country. That's you and your mates, Alex.’
He could have sworn he heard Williams draw a deep breath but Bailey's reaction was instant and explosive. ‘Drugs!’ He exclaimed, slamming his hands on the desk and standing up. ‘No fucking way!’
Williams was on his feet like a shot. ‘Sit down!’
‘You're not getting me on anything like that. That's total bollocks.’
‘Sit down now!’ shouted Williams.
Bailey fell into his seat and crossed his arms. His brief leant forward to speak to him but he pushed him backwards and sprang forward again. Jarvis noted with some relief that this was the first sign of aggression he had shown throughout the entire interview. ‘You cunts, so that's what this is about, is it? You want to fit me and Fitch up. What for? To boost up your arrest figures? Yeah, well fuck you. If you think I'm selling dope then fucking well prove it. I ain't saying nothing else.’ He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms again.
Jarvis raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and smiled. ‘Hit a chord there did I, Alex? A bit too close to home maybe?’ The glare from Bailey was so vicious it almost hurt but Jarvis knew he'd got him rattled. ‘So come on Alex, you tell me. Why did you meet Billy Evans?’
‘Fuck off. I told you, I ain't saying nothing else.’ Jarvis looked at Bailey and knew he'd got as far as he would for now. It was time to leave him to stew for a while and let him do some serious worrying. He gave Williams a nudge on the leg and the young DC stood up. ‘This interview is terminated at 11.48 a.m.’ He reached over, switched off the tapes and handed one to Bailey's brief, adding, ‘We may well want to speak to your client again.’
Jarvis didn't relax until he was back in the briefing room. It had been a battle of wits but in the end he'd left Bailey seriously concerned about his fate and that was exactly what he had wanted. Maybe he would be a bit more forthcoming when they spoke to him again. But now he turned his mind to Fitchett. In truth, he'd used the interview with Bailey to sound out a few ideas and get himself into the swing of things. He had always believed that, of the two men, Fitchett was the key to getting at Evans. The photographs found in his home had been a good indication of that. But they also had more on Fitchett than they had on Bailey. The wounding of Barry Morgan for one thing and the stuff from Dublin for another. The West Midlands Police had also given them a few more odds and sods to throw in, but everything depended on how he would react under questioning. If he was half as cocky as Bailey had been, then they would be in for a hard time. Somehow, they would have to get him rattled. And they might only get one good crack at doing that.
Chapter 7
Saturday, 2 October
13.45
Jarvis and Williams sat impassively as Fitchett talked through the events of the fight in Camden High Street, his Brummie accent interrupted only by frequent whispers to the smartly dressed middle-aged woman sitting on his left. It came as no surprise to the two policemen that his version of events matched that of Bailey almost perfectly, although there was one notable exception.
When he had finished, Jarvis leant forward and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘That's all very good Gary,’ he said, ‘but aren't you missing something out?’
‘Like what?’ asked Fitchett.
‘Well, why don't you tell us? But before you go on, I have to tell you that we have CCTV film of this incident and everything that took place.’
Williams gave Fitchett a grin and a broad wink and Fitchett, seeing this, cursed under his breath. His brief leant forward and they began a whispered conversation. After a minute or so, they sat up and the woman spoke: ‘My client has told you everything he can remember, Detective Inspector. Perhaps we could see the film to refresh his memory.’
Jarvis reached into the folder and pulled out some photographs. ‘All in good time,’ he said, ‘but at the moment, I don't think there's any need. For the benefit of the tape, I am handing Mr Fitchett a set of photographs taken from the CCTV film. Can you describe what is on those photographs please Gary.’
Fitchett looked at the photographs and swallowed. Jarvis waited for a response and then, when none came, he continued. ‘You have already admitted to taking part in this affray, Gary, but these photographs clearly show you attacking someone with an offensive weapon. The hospital who treated the victim of that attack confirms that the weapon was some kind of pepper spray, which is illegal in this country. That's at least two more charges you will be facing.’
Fitchett shrugged his shoulders again, settled back in his chair and stared up at the small window above the door. There was nothing else he could do.
‘So you have nothing else to say?’ asked Williams.
‘He attacked me first; I was defending myself, that's all. I know I shouldn't have had the spray but I'd found it in the street and didn't want to throw it away.’
Jarvis took back the photographs and put them in the folder. ‘It may interest you to know that the gentleman you assaulted was the son of a senior police officer and he was almost blinded by that spray.’
Fitchett reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Well I'm sorry and all that, but to be honest, it's tough luck,’ he said arrogantly through a cloud of smoke. ‘He shouldn't have come for me should he? He won't press charges though.’
Williams looked up from his notes, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘What makes you so sure of that?’
Fitchett drew on his cigarette. ‘Two reasons: first, he's the son of a copper and you lot will want to bury it just in case the press make a big thing of it. Secondly, I've been going to football for long enough to know that people who go looking for trouble don't use the law to fight their battles. That's all.’
‘So you go looking for trouble then?’
‘That's not what I said, is it? I said I know people who do but I'm not one of them.’
‘People like Alex Bailey for example?’ Jarvis stared hard at Fitchett as he said it, to see what reaction there would be, but he merely laughed out loud. Not what Jarvis had hoped for.
‘Al! He's my best mate. I've told you that already. He doesn't go looking for trouble and neither do I. Still, I'm sure you've spoken to him so he'll have told you that himself.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke across the table towards the two policemen. Despite the fa
ct that he was in serious and deepening trouble, his air of arrogance was still quite annoying. He was obviously enjoying this. Jarvis rustled through his papers for a moment and then looked up again.
‘Tell me about the Selector’
A look of puzzlement passed briefly across Fitchett's face. ‘What about them?’
‘Well, tell me what you know.’
‘They're a group of lads who follow the Blues. That's all.’
‘So you're not a member, then?’
‘You don't become a member, you either are one or you're not.’
‘Well what does that mean?’ Jarvis's voice was calm but his mind was racing. He was circling, looking for a way to attack and wipe that arrogant look off the face of his prey.
Fitchett rocked back on his chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘Well, it's hard to explain really. It's sort of, an unofficial supporters’ club. Yeah, that's a good way to describe it.’
‘So it's not an organised group as such?’
‘No.’
‘And are you a part of this group?’ Williams cut in.
Fitchett rocked his chair back onto its feet, exhaled and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I suppose I am.’
Jarvis reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of polos. He unwrapped one and took it before passing the packet over to Williams. He sat there, sucking and slurping on the small round mint for a moment and then crushed it. He noticed with some satisfaction that the noise registered a momentary flicker on the tape machine's sound meters. ‘So the Selector isn't an organised and very well-known group of football hooligans then?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘And you are not the leader?’
Fitchett laughed. ‘No … no way.’
Jarvis sniffed and then scratched the side of his nose. ‘Well that gives me a problem, Gary,’ he said. ‘Because when I asked Alex Bailey those questions this morning, he answered them completely differently to you.’
Fitchett's face remained unmoved but his eyes registered a brief moment of shock. Williams saw it and smiled to himself.
‘Why, what did he say?’
Jarvis noted the change in the tone of his voice. The arrogance was still there but this time it contained a very slight tremble. ‘I'm afraid I can't tell you that, but suffice to say his answers were not the same as yours.’
Fitchett ran his hand over his forehead and then leant over to talk to his solicitor. After a brief few seconds, she spoke up: ‘My client cannot answer questions relating to something someone else has told you if you will not even tell him what that is. Surely, Inspector, even you can see that.’
Jarvis smiled. ‘Of course. Then let's move on shall we?’
The solicitor, however, hadn't finished. ‘My client would like to use the toilet first and so would I if that is acceptable.’
Williams reached forward. ‘Interview suspended for toilet break and refreshments at 14.15.’ He turned off the tapes and stood up, adding, ‘Wait there a moment will you, and I'll get everything sorted out,’ as he left the room. Jarvis remained seated, his eyes fixed on Fitchett and a broad smile on his face. He'd ruffled him a little. At last he was winning.
Gary Fitchett stood at the urinal and stared at the white tiles in front of his face. He'd always wondered what it was like being interviewed but he'd never imagined it would be like this. All this twisting and turning, jumping from one thing to another, it was getting too confusing and he was finding it hard to keep track of what he had said. One thing he did know though, if he made a single mistake then that bastard copper would jump on it. The other thing that was getting to him was the room. It was too small and badly lit. The window above the door was a lifeline but it was getting harder to bear. The stupid thing was that every time he lit a cigarette, he made it worse, but what could he do? He had to avoid letting the coppers know he had a weakness. Do that, and he was fucked. He shook his head and turned his thoughts to Alex and the things the coppers had said. It was all bollocks, the copper was bluffing, he had to be. He would trust his mate with his life. But surely the copper couldn't try stuff like that while his solicitor was sitting there, could he? He didn't know and couldn't even guess. He tried to remember what people had told him in the past and even what he'd seen on The Bill but his head was spinning and so he gave up. What if Alex had grassed him up to save himself? Or had made a mistake and dropped them both in it? No, no way. His best friend wouldn't have grassed him up, not in a million years. He was certain of that - or at least he thought he was.
He shook his head and moved across to the wash basin. He had to calm down, get his head together. ‘Jesus!’ he muttered as he caught sight of his face in the mirror. He looked totally drained and suddenly realised he was shattered. Spinning the cold tap, he began filling the sink with cold water but kept his eyes firmly fixed on his reflection. ‘What if they've got more stuff to throw at me?’ he thought. ‘Christ almighty! What else do they know?’ There was so much more. Stuff he'd probably forgotten about. If it all came out he could go away for ever. He turned off the tap and lowered his face into the water. It felt fantastic and he felt the tension draining out of him but when he could hold his breath no longer and lifted his head up, the reflection in the mirror looked even worse than before. This was all too much, too confusing. He took a few long deep breaths before shaking his head and moving across to the hand dryer in the corner; stealing a wary glance at the uniformed policeman by the door. He didn't like this, not one bit. This was one part of the game that he clearly wasn't any good at.
‘Shall we begin again?’ Williams reached forward and restarted the tape. After the formalities, Jarvis again went on the offensive. He'd been surprised how easy it had been to unsettle Fitchett but now he had him on the run he wasn't going to let up. ‘Time to throw him another curve,’ he thought.
‘Let's leave the subject of Camden High Street and this group of so-called supporters, the Selector, shall we, and move on to other things.’
The look on Fitchett's face was one of bewilderment. This wasn't what he had expected at all. ‘Like what?’
‘Tell me what happened in Norway, Gary. In 1995.’
Fitchett's eyes widened. ‘Norway!’ he exclaimed. ‘That was fucking years ago! What do you want to know about that for?’
‘Just tell us what happened will you.’ Jarvis gave a discreet grin as Fitchett appeared to shrink before his eyes.
‘I got drunk and was arrested. Then they deported me and a load of others. That was all there was to it.’
‘So you think getting deported is no big deal do you, Gary?’
‘They were throwing people out for nothing. My mate had a piss in an alley and he was lobbed out as well.’
‘Was that Bailey?’
‘No. Someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I can't remember’
‘But you said he was your mate …’
Fitchett looked across the table at Jarvis, the look of bewilderment replaced with an expression of hatred. ‘When you go abroad with England, you're all mates. That's what I meant. You fucking coppers all think that every England fan who goes abroad wants to cause trouble but you're wrong. We go to have a laugh. That's all.’
Jarvis leant across the table and went for the jugular. ‘Is that what happened in Dublin then Gary?’
The look of shock on Fitchett's face almost made Jarvis laugh out loud, and when he answered the hesitation in his voice was clear. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you go to Dublin to have a laugh and it got out of hand? Or was it something more sinister than that?’
Fitchett sank even further into his seat and stared at the small window. ‘I didn't do anything in Dublin. Nothing at all. Anyone who says I did is a fucking liar.’
Jarvis took a sheet of paper from the desk and made a great play of reading it before handing it to Williams.
‘Well, the Garda think you did, Gary. In fact, there are a few things here which suggest to me that they think you we
re one of the men who organised it.’
The gravity of what Jarvis had said took a while to sink in and then Fitchett began laughing. ‘You what! Me? Set up the riot in Dublin? You must be fucking joking, I don't have those sort of connections.’
Both Jarvis and Williams sat up with a start. ‘What do you mean … connections?’ Fitchett almost turned white with shock at what he had said and Jarvis certainly wasn't about to let it pass. ‘You said “I haven't got those kind of connections”, Gary. What did you mean by that?’ Jarvis asked, his normally relaxed manner replaced by a tone which was intimidating bordering on aggressive. ‘Come on,’ he repeated. ‘What did you mean?’
Fitchett stared up at the window. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and beads of sweat were bursting out on his brow and slowly dribbling down the side of his head. He couldn't take much more. The old fear was back. He closed his eyes and leant forward, his head in his hands. He was all over the place and had to get out of there. Into the fresh air and sunlight.
Williams glanced at Jarvis. Something was wrong. He thought Fitchett was about to faint. ‘Are you all right Gary?’ he asked. His voice was calm and relaxed, in total contrast to the oppressive atmosphere in the small room. Before he answered, Jarvis interrupted. He could see something was wrong with Fitchett but wasn't sure if he was faking or not. And he wasn't going to take the risk that he was. ‘Gary,’ he said aggressively, ‘are you saying you know the names of the people who organised the riot in Dublin?’
Fitchett continued to stare at the window, and when he did eventually answer; what he said was barely audible. Williams quietly asked him to sit up and repeat what he had said, and when he did so, his voice was flat and monotone. Typical of someone who has simply had enough. ‘I don't know anything about Dublin. I was there, that's all I can tell you.’
Jarvis stared at him. He'd known all along about Fitchett's suspected involvement in the Dublin riot but hadn't for one moment considered that they might get the names of the people who set it all up. Clearly, given the state of Fitchett, that information was there for the taking. For once, he wasn't sure what to do next, but help, when it came, was from an unlikely ally.