Not Dead Enough

Ansell.’
    ‘I will make those calls,’ the custody officer said. ‘In the meantime, I am authorizing your arresting officer, Detective Sergeant Branson, to search you.’ The custody officer then produced two green plastic trays.
    To his horror, Bishop saw DS Branson pulling on a pair of latex surgical gloves. Branson began patting him down, starting with his head. From Bishop’s breast pocket, the DS removed his reading glasses and placed them in one tray.
    ‘Hey! I need those – I can’t read without them!’ Bishop said.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Branson replied. ‘I have to remove these for your own safety.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
    ‘It may be at a later stage that the custody officer will allow you to keep them with you, but for now they need to go into your property bag,’ Branson replied.
    ‘Don’t be fucking stupid! I’m not about to kill myself! And how the hell am I supposed to read this document without them?’ he said, flapping the A4 sheet at him.
    ‘If you have reading difficulties, I’ll arrange for someone to read it aloud to you, sir.’
    ‘Look, come on, let’s be reasonable about this!’
    Ignoring Bishop’s repeated pleas to have his glasses returned, Branson removed the man’s hotel key, wallet, mobile phone and BlackBerry, placing each object in turn in a tray. The custody officer noted each item, counting the amount of cash in the wallet and writing that down separately.
    Branson removed Bishop’s wedding band, his Marc Jacobs wristwatch and a copper bracelet from his right wrist, and placed those in a tray also.
    Then the custody officer handed Bishop a form, listing his possessions, and a biro to sign with.
    ‘Look,’ Bishop said, signing with clear reluctance, ‘I’m happy to come in here and help you with your inquiries. But this is ridiculous. You’ve got to leave me with the tools of my trade. I must have email and my phone and my glasses, for God’s sake!’
    Ignoring him, Glenn Branson said to the custody officer, ‘In view of the gravity of the offence and the suspect’s potential involvement, we are asking to seize this person’s clothing.’
    ‘Yes, I authorize that,’ the custody officer said.
    ‘What the fuck?’ Bishop shouted. ‘What do you—’
    With each of them holding one of his arms, Branson and Nicholl escorted him away from the console and out through yet another dark green door. They walked up a sloping floor, with dark cream walls on either side, and a red panic strip running the whole length on the left, past a yellow bollard printed with a warning triangle showing a figure falling over, and in large letters the words C LEANING IN P ROGRESS . Then they rounded a corner into the corridor containing the custody cells.
    And now as he saw the row of cell doors, Bishop began to panic. ‘I – I’m claustrophobic. I—’
    ‘There’ll be someone to keep an eye on you round the clock, sir,’ Nick Nicholl said gently.
    They stepped to one side to allow a woman pushing a trolley laden with dog-eared paperbacks to pass, then stopped outside a cell door that was partially open.
    Glenn Branson pushed it wider open and went through. Nicholl, holding Bishop’s arm firmly, followed.
    The first thing that struck Bishop as he entered was the overpowering, sickly smell of disinfectant. He stared around the small, oblong room, bewildered. Stared at the cream walls, the brown floor, the same hard bench as in the holding room, topped in the same fake granite surface as in the pod outside, and a thin blue mattress on top of that. He stared at the barred, borrowed-light window with no view at all, at the observation mirror, out of reach on the ceiling, that was angled towards the door, and at the CCTV camera, also out of reach, pointing down at him as if he was a participant in Big Brother .
    There was a modern-looking lavatory, with more fake granite for the seat and a flush button on the wall, and a surprisingly modern-looking washbasin, finished in the same speckled material. He noticed an intercom speaker grille with two control knobs, an air vent covered in mesh, the glass panel in the door.
    Christ . He felt a lump in his throat.
    DC Nicholl was holding a bundle in his arm, which he began to unfold. Bishop saw it was a blue paper jump-suit. A young man in his twenties, dressed in a white shirt bearing the Reliance Security emblem and black trousers, came to the doorway holding a clutch of brown evidence bags, which he handed to DS