Not Dead Enough

holding room, fifteen feet long by eight wide, with another green door with a viewing window at the far end.
    There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard bench seat running its full length,
    ‘Take a seat,’ Glenn Branson said.
    ‘I’m happy to stand,’ Bishop said defiantly.
    ‘We may be a while.’
    Bishop’s mobile phone began ringing. He struggled for a moment, as if forgetting his hands were cuffed. ‘Could one of you answer that for me?’
    ‘It’s not permitted, I’m afraid, sir,’ DC Nicholl said, fishing it out of his pocket and terminating the call. The young detective studied the phone for some moments, then switched it off and returned it to Bishop’s pocket.
    Brian Bishop stared at a laminated plastic notice that was fixed to the wall by four strips of Sellotape. It was headed, in blue letters, C RIMINAL J USTICE D EPARTMENT . Beneath was written:
     
    ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE
    THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER.
    IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS
    ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY
    TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICERS NOW.
     
    Then he read another sign, above the second green door:
     
    NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.
     
    A third notice said:
     
    YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR
FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.
     
    The two detectives sat down. Bishop remained standing. Anger was raging inside him. But, he reasoned, he was dealing with two robots. There was nothing to be gained by losing his rag. He just had to ride this out, for the moment. ‘Can you tell me what all this is about?’ he was addressing both of them.
    But the door was sliding open as he spoke. Branson walked through. DC Nicholl gestured with his hand for Bishop to follow. ‘This way please, sir.’
    Bishop entered a large, circular room, dominated by an elevated central pod like a command centre that could have been a set for Star Trek , he thought, surprised by how futuristic it looked. It was constructed from a shiny, speckled grey composite that reminded him of the granite work surfaces Katie had chosen for their insanely expensive kitchen. Several men and women, some police officers and some Reliance Security staff, dressed in uniform white shirts with black epaulettes, manned individual workstations around the pod. Around the outside of the intensely brightly lit room were heavy-duty green doors, with some internal windows looking on to waiting rooms.
    There was an air of quiet, orderly calm. Bishop noticed the pod had been designed with extended arms in front of each workstation, to create an area affording some privacy. A tattooed, shaven-headed youth in baggy clothes stood dejectedly, between two uniformed police officers, in one of them now. It all felt totally surreal.
    Then he was escorted across to the central console, into a marbled portioned space, with a counter that was neck-high. Behind it sat a plump, crew-cut man in shirt sleeves. His black tie was clipped with a gold English Rugby Team pin that Bishop, who was a debenture holder at Twickenham, recognized.
    On a blue video monitor screen, set into the face of the counter, just below his eye level, Bishop read:
     
    BRIGHTON DETAINEE HANDLING CENTRE
    D ON’T LET PAST OFFENCES COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU.
    A POLICE OFFICER WILL SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT ADMITTING
OTHER CRIMES YOU HAVE COMMITTED.
     
    Branson outlined to the custody officer the circumstances of Bishop’s arrest. Then the shirt-sleeved man was speaking directly, from his elevated seating position, down at him, in a flat voice devoid of emotion. ‘Mr Bishop, I am the custody officer. You have heard what has been said. I’m satisfied that your arrest is lawful and necessary. I am authorizing your detention for the purpose of securing and preserving evidence and so you can be interviewed regarding the allegation.’
    Bishop nodded, lost for the moment for a reply.
    The custody officer handed him a folded yellow A4 sheet, headed, SUSSEX POLICE, N OTICE OF R IGHTS AND E NTITLEMENTS.
    ‘You may find this helpful, sir. You have the right to have someone informed of your arrest, and to see a solicitor. Would you like us to provide you with a duty solicitor or do you have your own?’
    ‘Can you please phone Mr Glenn Mishon and tell him that I won’t be able to come to dinner tonight?’
    ‘May I have his number?’
    Bishop gave it to him. Then he said, ‘I would like to speak to my own solicitor, Robert Vernon, at Ellis, Cherril and