“Could work. How active are you on all the websites? Social media for pick-ups?”
“I’ve got accounts on all of them. Just haven’t logged-in in years. Except when I lost Paul’s phone number. More info that you don’t need to share – Dan and I have never done monogamy.”
“How incredibly shocking.” Her deadpan voice must be vital, in her job.
“Yeah. So my emails would have details of getting guys over and what we want to do. And we go to various clubs and saunas. You get the idea.”
“Indeed. So you might happen to have some contacts you could call any time you wanted a… a rendezvous.”
“I might indeed. But you know what phones and websites are like. Lose all sorts. And my memory’s terrible…”
Another smile. “I like you. But easy on the sarcasm, upstairs.”
“Spoil all my fun.” My grumble isn’t serious.
“So this gentleman what, came round behind you and dropped your trousers?”
“I’m sure I helped. And the briefs.”
“You don’t go commando? That does help you be marginally more respectable…” Snarky bint.
“Very respectable, me. Nowadays. My pants are always clean, too! So yeah, what is there to say? He lubed me up and got in there, and it’s all going very nicely indeed, until along comes Betty Bracelets and I tell D… – the bloke – to leg it. Luckily, one of the plods somehow tripped over my foot, and the guy escaped. Must be a regular runner.”
“Let me guess, just like your Dan… No, don’t answer that!”
I have a thought. “Shit. They can’t insist on swabbing my arse and getting DNA, can they? Not that he – my companion’s – got any record at all.”
“His DNA? Playing unsafe?” She realises why I’m not quite as stupid as this sounds. “They could, but I doubt they’ll bother. Actually, they can’t now. This is a wet cell.”
I look confused. She explains, “You’ve got access to the toilet here. So they can’t take any swabs off you, as you could have washed the evidence away. Or contaminated it. If they might need samples, you’d have a dry cell and get escorted, and be given no chance to dispose of anything. So no, don’t worry about that. I suspect you having your dick out is the main problem.”
“Gotcha. Next time I get fucked in public, tuck myself away first.”
“Yeah. And check better for cameras or voyeurs, too. There’s something off there. Who reported it?”
I shrug. “I couldn’t 100% say no-one drove past, or jogged past. I was a wee bit distracted, after all.”
“Only a wee bit? Your mystery partner needs to step up! Right. So, planning your interview. You could no-comment the whole thing, but I’d recommend getting them on side with some polite answers as to who you are, your job, and that. May as well concede you were there, seeing as they found you. Then shut up. I want to know what their evidence is. Apart from seeing you with your trousers down and cock on display when they got there.” She sighs again. “When they showed up, would your penis have been erect or flaccid?”
“Oof. I mean, once he stopped sucking it, it would have dwindled pretty fast. I’m not a teenager any more! It was probably stiffening up again, but not upright? I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“You don’t play with yourself when getting fucked?” First time I’ve heard a brief use the word. Except in the popular phrase, ‘You’re fucked’, of course.
“Not when standing, hand on a wall so I don’t fall over, no. I’d expect my partner to reach round, eventually…”
She laughs. She gets Streetview up again. “So here’s the alley. Where exactly were you standing?”
I show her. We both try to figure out where someone could have witnessed us from. And why.
“OK. I’ll tap you on the thigh if I need you to no-comment. Kick you if you really ought to shut up. Otherwise, I think you’re OK. No intent whatsoever to show off to anyone else, no history of sexual offences, right?”
I wince. All my past is being dredged up. “No real sex offences, no. Except I started having sex – with men – before 2003.” Before the new Sexual Offences Act made it OK to kiss or otherwise be ‘indecent’ with another man in public. “At least one of my assault convictions came from when I was making out with a guy, and a couple plods on a bad day decided to nick us for it. There may have been an indecency charge then. Actually, I’m pretty sure there was a few of those, or at least arrests. A good half-dozen cases of ‘arrest and let the queer boy stew in the cells for the weekend’, for sure. Probably not helped by my being leathered and trying to seduce the cops…”
“Did that ever work?” She’s amused, probably thinking of some cops she knows.
“Never. A couple pretended, then used it as an excuse to deck me. One tosser really kicked the shit out of me.” There’s still a scar on my side, and I rub it.
“Right.” She knows I’m telling the truth, much as she doesn’t like said truth. “Please don’t try flirting with any of the police here. Even though they’d just find it annoying. I’d hope. Anything else?”
I frown. “Public urination? That led to at least one indecency charge, back in Belfast.”
“Joy. OK, I think I’ve got everything I need from you. I’d like to get this done tonight, while they’re busy and will be more likely to reduce charges to something minor.”
“See you in a bit, then. Oh, can you call Dan and tell him I’m fine?” I reel off his number for her. “Don’t listen to anything else he says…”
“On it.”
It’s half an hour later when it’s back to handcuffs and being escorted upstairs. “Evening,” I greet Tanya. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you. Let’s have this chat.”
We join the two cops in the room. The escort officer agreed to uncuff me, thankfully, so I nod to them like I would at any professional meeting. “Good evening.”
“Evening.” Young cop is civil.
His jaded boss says nothing, not until we’re all settled and Tanya tells him, “Take it away, Bob.”
Bob rolls his eyes, but hits a button on the modern equivalent of the tape recorder. “Saturday, sixteenth September, 2023. Ten-forty p.m. For the benefit of the DIR, in the room are Detective Inspector Bob Watson…”
His young colleague introduces himself, going round the room like any work event, “DC Josh Rylands,” gestures to Tanya.
“Tanya Jeffries, solicitor advocate, DPK Legal.” She nods to me with a wee smile.
“Adrian Cullinane, Director of Fire Engineering, Samuel Rose Limited.” Tanya passes Josh my business card, to help him take notes and to intimidate him with my long list of postnomial qualifications.
Bob nods. I haven’t tried obfuscating who I am, so that’s one hurdle he doesn’t have to deal with. I even confirm my address and date of birth, I’m that obliging. “So, Mr Cullinane. You were arrested on suspicion of indecent exposure and of public indecency, in a side road off Neckinger Row, SE1, tonight at 7.35 p.m.” He repeats the caution: “You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
I nod. Josh knows this is his job. “For the benefit of the DIR, Mr Cullinane is nodding to communicate that he understands the caution.” Blimey, it’s just like Line of Duty. I suppose everywhere has moved on from ‘for the benefit of the tape,’ by now. The first couple times I was lifted, age fifteen, sixteen, they didn’t yet have tape-recorded interviews, and even after, they were frequently paused. For some threats, or even roughing up. I do wonder, sometimes, how they get anyone to confess, nowadays. Maybe they don’t?