A Jack Tate SAS Thriller. Alex Shaw

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      Tate felt the officer pat him down before he said, ‘Place your hands behind your back.’

      Tate thought he knew what was coming next, but neither officer recited the Miranda to him or advised him of his rights. This he also found off. The nearest officer cuffed his wrists tightly, the left cuff pressing snugly against his metal watchstrap, forcing his Rolex further up his arm. Tate asked, ‘Can you tell me what you think I’ve done?’

      Neither officer spoke as they frogmarched him to the Crown Victoria. They opened the back, pushed him in, and shut the door. A moment later, the Crown Victoria’s “Interceptor Pack” engine growled, and, with lights flashing, the driver navigated the flow of traffic heading towards Camden.

      The officers were silent, tense. One kept his eyes on the road whilst the other repeatedly glanced back at Tate. The rear of the car was stuffy, and Tate tried to get himself comfortable, as the handcuffs dug into his wrists and ended up forcing him to lean sideways. He should have been worried, sitting cuffed in the back of a US police cruiser, but he wasn’t. The emotion that he felt the most at that exact moment was annoyance. The cops had made a mistake. It was clear that this was about much more than speeding; that would have earnt him a ticket, a financial slap on the wrist – not steel cuffs. They’d picked on the wrong man. He’d enjoy telling them so, but there was no point in saying anything now. He’d not say a word until they’d arrived at the station, attempted to process him and realised their error. There would be an embarrassing “no hard feelings” conversation where the local law enforcement officers would try to persuade him that Maine was an exceptionally safe place to spend his vacation.

      He allowed himself a bitter smile as he gazed out of the window at the sparkling sea below. This wasn’t how he’d planned to arrive in Camden but at least the views did not disappoint.

      After some scenic driving and negotiating the small roads, the police cruiser came to a halt outside a single-storey red-brick building. Cautiously, the two officers hustled him out of the car, through a column-adorned porch – which to Tate seemed like an architectural afterthought – and into the Camden PD station. An officer stood behind a processing desk at the front of the office. Posters were stuck on the walls: a mixture of tourist information, photographs depicting the local countryside and text-heavy notices. The desk officer glanced down at his desk then back up again and nodded at his colleagues. He looked worried and his voice sounded it too. ‘Belongings?’

      ‘In his vehicle,’ one of the officers replied.

      ‘I’ll take his watch.’

      The officer on Tate’s left undid the strap and handed the watch to the desk officer. The man’s eyebrows rose as he noted the brand before he placed it into a Ziploc-type plastic bag then put this under the counter. ‘OK. Room one.’

      Tate remained a compliant, silent witness to the unfolding events and let himself be pushed further into the station, past the desk and into the open-plan interior. The office door opened and a large figure stepped out, folded his arms and looked on as Tate was led through a door on the right. Inside was a narrow corridor with three steel doors on one side. The nearest was open. The two officers locked him inside and left him alone.

      The room was lit with a fluorescent bulb contained in a wire cage, which starkly illuminated a metal table in the centre space. The table was affixed to the concrete floor with steel pins, as were two chairs, one either side of the table – one facing the door and one facing away. ‘Welcome to Camden,’ Tate muttered to himself and shook his head. It was by no means the first time he’d been in a police interview room, but it was the first time he’d been in one as an innocent man.

      Still cuffed, Tate sat at the table facing the door. In the British Army, he was used to planning operations and, for this, intelligence gathering was crucial, but here there was no intel to collect. He’d assessed the situation but could come up with no other explanation for his incarceration other than the fact that he’d been picked up in error. A case of mistaken identity. Someone who matched his description had done something, and something serious at that. So why hadn’t he been read his rights? Why hadn’t he been Mirandized? It still made no sense to Tate. He tried to get comfortable on the metal chair, managed to slouch a little and kick his legs out underneath. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander to the first time he’d been in a police cell. Even all these years later it still made him chuckle.

      It had been on a family pilgrimage to North Wales to see his mother’s cousin. He and his brother hated going. They’d stay for a week, several times a year. With parents who didn’t approve of Game Boys, the brothers passed the long car journey playing “car cricket”. His brother was always “in bat” first. The boys would stare out of the rear windows of the Volvo looking for pubs. Once they spotted one, they’d read the name or look at the gaudy sign hanging outside. For each “leg” that appeared in the pub name (physical or pictorial) the person in bat scored a “run” up to the maximum of six per pub. If the name did not contain any legs, the player in bat was “out”, and the other player was now “in bat”. Pubs such as “The Coach & Horses” and “The Highwayman” always scored a “six” as there were either horses in the name or on the sign. Some pub names caused arguments, some made them laugh, and some did both – “The Cock” had been one of these. Their father said he preferred “legless pubs”; their mother tutted.

      In Wales they played with a local friend – Richie Williams. He lived across the road and according to their mother was a bad influence. The boys would kick a ball about or go exploring with Richie. On several occasions they’d been chased away from the fairway of the Prestatyn Golf Club. But this last trip had been different. His brother had not wanted to go out – he was sixteen and studying for his GCSEs – but fourteen-year-old Jack did. He’d sneaked out to meet Richie and that was where, according to his parents, his problems started.

      Richie boasted that he knew where the Golf Club kept the fireworks ready for their Summer Ball. He dared Jack to break in and take a rocket. And Jack did. But Jack, who never backed down from a dare, didn’t stop at just one rocket. Jack took four rockets and two display-size Catherine wheels. That night he shimmied onto the roof of the local Tesco’s superstore and set up his own display. The CCTV cameras had alerted the local police to their activity but not before Richie and Jack had set off the fireworks.

      As Jack sprinted across the car park he was illuminated, not by blossoming fireworks but by the full beams of a North Wales Police Range Rover. That night was the first time he had been put in a police cell and it was the last time he had seen Richie Williams. It was also the last time they ever went to Prestatyn. That event had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with his parents. They weren’t his real parents; he’d been in long-term foster care with them. He didn’t miss them, as much as missed their son, his brother. And that was the reason he was on a road trip in the US.

      Tate’s eyes snapped open as the door creaked. The desk officer entered. ‘I’ve got to take your prints – Chief Donoghue’s orders. Will there be an issue?’

      ‘No issue at all.’

      ‘British?’

      ‘English.’

      ‘Like the Queen.’ The officer had a legal pad-sized black plastic case in his hand. He retrieved a card. It had a printed table on it, columns to receive the inky print of each digit. ‘Hold up your hands.’ Tate did so and the officer inked the tips of each finger with a spongy implement from his case. ‘Now on the card, roll each fingertip slowly once, from left to right.’

      Tate complied. Once satisfied with the prints, the officer abruptly stood and left the room. СКАЧАТЬ