Hope to Die

‘As in, if it really was your vic who did this door, what sort of tool did he do it with? And, rather more to the point, where the hell is it now?’

* * *

Swann’s lawyer is old school. A heavy Harris tweed jacket, well-worn tie, well-shined shoes. He looks like he’s just walked straight out of a gracious Georgian office on Woodstock High Street, which perhaps he has.

Gis shows him into Interview Two, where Richard Swann is waiting, babysat by Chloe Sargent.

‘Good morning, Mr Swann,’ says Gis briskly, taking his seat and gesturing to the lawyer to do the same. ‘I won’t bother asking how you slept.’

‘I assume this won’t take long?’ interjects the solicitor. ‘I have another meeting I need to get back to.’

‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ says Gis genially. ‘The sooner we get a full account of what happened last night, the better it will be for all of us. Including your client.’

Swann looks up, his eyes beady under his heavy brows. ‘I’ve already told you. What part of “he broke in” do you not understand?’

Gis grins. ‘No, the big picture is pretty clear. It’s the little picture I’m a bit hazy on.’

Chloe Sargent suppresses a smile.

‘But before we begin,’ he continues, ‘I need to remind Mr Swann that he remains under caution, and that this interview is being recorded. As he was advised last night, he does not have to say anything, but anything he does say may be used in evidence, and it may harm his defence if he does not mention when questioned something which he later relies on in court. We’re all clear on that?’

He looks at the two men opposite: Swann hesitates then nods; the lawyer checks his watch and opens his notebook with a sigh.

Gis reaches for the recording machine. ‘Interview commenced at 11.35, those present, DS Chris Gislingham, DC Chloe Sargent, Mr Richard Swann and Mr Timothy Unwin, Mr Swann’s lawyer.’

He turns to Swann. ‘So, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’

* * *

Telephone interview with Jonathan Martin

22 October 2018, 11.39 a.m.

On the call, DSG. Quinn

GQ: Ah, Mr Martin, Detective Sergeant Quinn, Thames Valley. Glad I finally got through – we’ve been struggling to reach you.

JM: Sorry about that – I’ve been on the motorway – the phone was off. What’s up?

GQ: I believe you made a call to the emergency services at 9.52 last night, is that right?

JM: Yup, I was up near Wytham Hill.

GQ: And what were you doing there? It’s a pretty odd place to be at that time of night.

JM: Not if you’re a photographer it’s not. I was hoping to get some shots of the Orionid meteor shower. The weather conditions were damn-near perfect, and I needed somewhere elevated without much light pollution. Hence, Wytham.

GQ: Right, OK, so can you talk me through what happened? The 999 operator didn’t get much by way of detail.

JM: Yeah, sorry about that, my battery gave out. I’d been listening to a podcast on it and didn’t realize. Bloody thing. Why can’t you carry a spare like you used to? They just want you to keep on buying new models –

GQ: Mr Martin?

JM: Sorry – right – I was just putting my kit together when I heard it. A bang, like a gunshot.

GQ: You’re sure – you recognized it?

JM: Well, I don’t own a gun, but I’ve watched enough crime stuff on telly. And whatever it was, it had to come from that house – it’s the only one for miles.

GQ: And you called 999 immediately? I’m just trying to get a fix on the timings.

JM: Yes, pretty much straight away.

GQ: You didn’t go down to the house? Didn’t you think they might need help?

JM: I couldn’t – there was a bloody great electric fence in the way. I did hang about for a bit, you know, to make sure the police did actually turn up, but then I saw the old boy come outside and he looked fine, so I realized they must be OK –

GQ: You saw him?

JM: Yeah. Sorry, I should have said.

GQ: And you could tell how old he was?

JM: Well, I had my telescopic with me, and the night-sight, so yeah, it was pretty easy to see.

GQ: What was he doing?

JM: I think he was taking out some rubbish – he was holding a plastic bag.

GQ: What sort of bag?

JM: You know – one of those black refuse ones.

GQ: Did it look full? Heavy?

JM: Hard to tell, but he definitely wasn’t struggling with it. I remember thinking that he must’ve shot a rat or something, and he was getting rid of it.

GQ: So he comes outside – what happened then?

JM: He went down the garden with the bag.

GQ: You’re absolutely sure about that?

JM: Oh yeah. He went across the lawn and disappeared into the trees.

GQ: And did he have the bag with him when he came back?

JM: No idea, I’m afraid. I stopped watching after that. I mean, it was obvious there was no harm done. I was a bit embarrassed, actually – if the phone hadn’t died I’d have called you back and told you not to bother –

GQ: Have you not seen the news this morning?

JM: No – like I said, I’ve been on the road –

GQ: That shot you heard – it wasn’t just a rat that got killed.