Chapter Fifteen
Sitting in the back of the patrol car, being driven to the police station, all Jack had been able to think about was Cam.
‘How long is this going to take?’ he’d asked.
Jansen and Phillips had exchanged glances.
‘That depends on you, Jack,’ Jansen said. ‘If you’re helpful, if you tell us the truth, we can get through all this a lot faster than you might think.’ He paused very briefly. ‘So you said Cameron’s mother died?’
‘When he was a baby,’ Jack said, shortly.
‘How did she die?’
Jack shook his head.
‘You can talk to us, Jack. We’re just trying to get to know you,’ Jansen said.
‘Can I . . . can I call a lawyer?’
‘Do you have a lawyer?’
‘No. Look, I’ve never been in any kind of trouble before, okay? This is all . . . this is all wrong. I haven’t done anything.’
‘You can call a lawyer from the station,’ Jansen said in a conversational tone. ‘Assuming you can afford one, yeah? You’ll need a few grand in your pocket for a retainer. At least.’
‘I don’t have that,’ Jack said.
Jansen looked at him through the rearview mirror. ‘That’s all right. You’ll get a public defender, if you don’t have the money yourself. You’ll have to wait for them though. Might take a little time to get someone in.’
When they reached the station, Jansen disappeared.
It was Lucy Phillips, her hand gripping Jack’s upper arm like a vice, who led him around the back of the police station.
She swiped her way through a back door, and led him down a long corridor, then down a set of stairs where she gave his name to a custody sergeant.
Jack’s handcuffs were removed. His fingerprints were taken. His pockets were searched.
The custody sergeant was a grizzled guy in his fifties.
He didn’t look at Jack once, just went through the motions, like Jack was an item of furniture being delivered.
When the process was complete, Lucy Phillips led Jack along the corridor to a cell.
The doors weren’t metal bars, like you see on TV, but solid steel, painted a yellowing white, with a small, reinforced glass window at the top.
Lucy opened the door. There was a metal bunk, screwed to the floor, with a bare mattress.
There was no toilet or sink or anything else in the room.
Jack took a few tentative steps inside. The door closed behind him, and he was alone.
Alone in a room that was maybe two and a half metres wide and three metres long.
It was like a coffin. Suddenly Jack was aware of a need to pee.
He sat carefully on the bunk, and buried his head in his hands.
He felt . . . angry. Really, really angry. But afraid too.
Time passed. The door opened. A nurse came in wearing scrubs, accompanied by the custody sergeant.
‘Finger prick blood sample,’ the sergeant said, by way of explanation.
The nurse put her case down on the bunk. She was wearing latex gloves. She took out a fingertip puncher and held out her hand.
‘I . . . isn’t . . . I mean, don’t you need my consent for a blood test? Or a warrant, or something?’
‘Most of the time. Not for murder though. Senior Sergeant approved it.’
After a moment, Jack gave her his arm. What else could he do? The nurse took the sample. They left the room.
The urge to punch something was nearly overwhelming.
Jack stood up and shook out his hands. He had to fight for himself.
He had to fight the fear and the sick feeling of guilt that came just from being treated like a bad guy.
Cameron needed him. Jack started pacing back and forth in the tiny room.
He would crush the fear and feed the anger. Anger was better. Anger would help him.
* * *
But they left him there all night. At some point, the custody sergeant brought him a sandwich and a bottle of water.
He was escorted to the toilet. Breakfast was another sandwich.
But there was no one to talk to. No one to fight with.
There was nothing to do but stare at the wall and try to figure out what the hell was happening, try to convince himself that it was all going to be cleared up any minute.
By the time Lucy Phillips came to get him, sometime in the late morning, the anger was gone. The fear remained.
Phillips escorted him to an interview room where Rocky Jansen was waiting.
There was a table in the centre of the room, two chairs on one side, two on the other.
There was a mirror built into the wall behind Jansen.
A control panel fixed to the table. Phillips pressed a few buttons.
An automated voice announced that a recording had started.
‘Take a seat, Jack,’ Jansen said.
Jack sat.
‘Interview with Jack Miller regarding the murder of Robert Walker, on Monday, 15th July, 2024. Time is nine-thirty a.m. Present are Detective Senior Sergeant Rocky Jansen and Senior Constable Lucy Phillips. Jack, for the tape, I’m going to tell you again what I told you at your apartment.
You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, however, anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you. You understand?’
Jack nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. His voice sounded crusty. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. And we’ve already discussed that you have a right to a lawyer. You told me and Senior Constable Phillips in the car that you can’t afford to pay a lawyer privately, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. So I’d like to ask you some questions now.
You don’t have to answer any questions, and if you’d prefer to return to the holding cell and wait for a public defender—a lawyer that is paid for by the state—you’re welcome to do so.
But if you are happy to answer our questions, there’s every chance we’ll be able to clear this up right here and now. ’
Jack knew he was being played. He’d seen probably fifty TV shows where the guy gets played by the cops because he’s too stupid to keep his mouth shut and just wait. But the temptation to try to fix things was so strong. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. Why shouldn’t he answer their questions?
‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll answer some questions. Let’s see how it goes.’
‘Let’s talk about the gun, Jack. Tell me again what you told me at the house about how the gun came to be in your possession.’
Jack went over everything again. He told them about coming home and finding the parcel and the strange note. ‘Like I said, I have no idea who sent it to me.’
‘You don’t think it could have been a family member? One of your parents, or a sibling, or cousin?’
‘Definitely not. I mean . . . I don’t have any siblings, just to start with. Not sure about cousins. My parents would never touch a gun.’
Jansen frowned. ‘What do you mean you’re not sure about cousins?’
‘My mother was an only child. I don’t know about my father. He wasn’t in touch with his family.’ Oh god. Jack really didn’t want to get into this.
‘Are you close to your parents? In regular contact? You didn’t want us to call them to pick up your son last night. Is there a reason for that?’
‘I’m not close to them. We don’t get on.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘My parents are religious fanatics. They believe in living their lives a certain way. I disagreed with them. They cut me off.’
‘When was this, Jack?’
‘My last year of high school. Before I went to uni.’
‘Your parents cut you off when you were eighteen?’
‘I was seventeen when I went to uni.’
‘Right.’
There was a pause as Jansen turned a page over on the file. ‘Do your parents have associations with any bikie gangs?’
Jack nearly laughed. Not that it was funny. None of it was funny, but the question was so absurd.
‘No. Not that I’m aware of.’
‘What about your friends? Are any of your friends connected?’
‘No. I mean, no. Of course not.’
‘It’s important that you’re honest with us here, Jack. If you lie, we’ll find out later, and it won’t look great for you.’
‘None of my friends are in gangs, okay? I’ve never known anyone who was in a gang. I’m not lying.’
Jansen looked sceptical. Lucy Phillips didn’t look at him at all. She was taking careful notes.
‘The gun that we found in your flat was stolen from a man named Gifford. Steve Gifford. He lives in Lilydale. Do you know him?’
Jack shook his head.
‘Please answer the questions verbally,’ Lucy said. ‘For the recording.’
Jack cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know anyone named Steve Gifford, okay?’
‘You’re sure about that?’ Jansen asked.
‘Yes. I’m very sure.’
‘Okay.’ Jansen turned the page on his file.
‘We’re testing the blood we found on the sleeve of your T-shirt.
It’ll take a few days before we can get the results.
But for right now, there’s something important that we need to clear up.
Jack, you told me when I spoke to you at your home that you didn’t know Robert Walker. That isn’t true, is it?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t know him. When you first mentioned his name, I had literally never heard of the guy before.’
‘Not true,’ Jansen said, his voice very calm and very steady.
‘It is true,’ Jack said, as firmly as he could manage. ‘I don’t know anyone by the name Robert Walker. I’ve honestly never met him.’ Doubt suddenly struck him. ‘Or at least . . . I suppose I could have met him and not known it? If we met at a party or something? But we weren’t introduced?’
‘Do you go to a lot of parties?’ asked Lucy Phillips.
‘No, not really. But I—’
‘It’s possible you didn’t meet him in person,’ Jansen said, cutting across Jack. ‘At least not before you shot him. But you knew who he was. Because your girlfriend told you about him.’
‘My girlfriend? I don’t have a—’
‘Your ex-girlfriend. The mother of your son. Miriam Hall.’
‘Miriam? You’ve got things mixed up somehow. I don’t understand how you . . . look, I told you. Miriam’s dead. She died ten years ago.’