when Michaelson and Pike hammered on the door and Gregan came grudgingly downstairs, wearing a Manchester City T-shirt and an old pair of jeans, nothing on his feet, looking as if he'd just crawled out of bed.
"Ryan Gregan?"
"Who wants to know?"
"We'd like you to come with us to Central Police Station."
"A party, is it?"
"Depends," Pike said.
"I'll bring my guitar, then, should I?"
"Just shoes will do for now."
"Oh, fine. I've this pair of new Adidas upstairs, just want breaking in."
"Make it snappy," Pike said.
Gregan honoured them with a smile and went back up to comply. It didn't take them long to realise he wasn't coming back down. Out through the rear window and legging it across wasteland for all he was worth.
Even with a good two hundred metres start, he didn't stand a chance against Michaelson's long, loping stride, a tackle any Rugby League forward would have been proud of bringing him to the ground.
Not so long ago, they might have shut Gregan away in an airless boxlike room and left him to stew for an hour or so, the isolation preying on his mind. Now any self-respecting delinquent knew enough, if that happened, to have the duty solicitor charging false imprisonment and, if a sausage roll and a can of Ribena weren't forthcoming inside the first twenty minutes, be prepared to petition The Hague about denial of his human rights.
So, everything by the book.
Something to eat and drink.
A doctor summoned to examine and treat the injuries sustained during arrest—cuts and bruising to the side of the face, left elbow and knee, all occasioned by DS Michaelson's flying tackle—Polaroids taken, dated, and signed.
And all of this done slowly, carefully, with punctilious attention to form and detail, all gaining time for a search warrant of Gregan's flat to be signed and executed, more perhaps in hope than true expectation, but one never knew....
As soon as he was ready, Gregan, with due representation, was ushered into an Interview Room with sound recording and
video facilities and invited to take a seat opposite Michaelson and Pike.
It was Michaelson, Resnick thought, who had set this whole thing in motion and now, buoyed up as he was by successful pursuit and capture, it was only right that he should be given the chance to bring it home. And Pike—well, perhaps Pike was a more-than-adequate companion for the occasionally loquacious Michaelson—taciturn to the edge of rudeness, flat northern vowels in tune with his wedge-shaped head and stocky body.
For now Resnick was content to leave them to it and observe the proceedings from an adjoining room.
"Not smart, taking off the way you did," Michaelson began.
Gregan shrugged.
"Guilty conscience, that's what it could make us think. Something to hide. Unless, of course, you simply fancied a run. Unquenchable thirst for exercise, that what it was?"
Gregan shrugged again, uncomfortable on his seat. Michael-son was forced to sit back from the table, unable to get his legs comfortably underneath.
"First hundred metres or so," Michaelson said, in the same chatty tone, "you were looking pretty good."
"You reckon?" Gregan said.
"You've had no training? Any kind of coaching?"
Gregan squinted back at him. "For running, you mean?"
"Running, yes."
"Not me," Gregan said.
"Must be natural, then. Natural ability. And practice. Plenty of that, I daresay."
Gregan didn't reply.
"What you'd learn," Michaelson said, "with proper coaching, one thing anyway, conserve your energy. Any kind of distance, that's the key. Stamina, of course, that can be developed, but pacing, fail to learn that and what happens? Into the bend on the back straight, final lap, and what you need is a strong
sprint finish and there's nothing left. Well, you've seen it yourself, probably, European Games, the Olympics, on television, this tall white guy been labouring round for God knows how long in the lead, doing all the work, and then, on the bell, these three skinny Kenyans go past him
"Ryan Gregan?"
"Who wants to know?"
"We'd like you to come with us to Central Police Station."
"A party, is it?"
"Depends," Pike said.
"I'll bring my guitar, then, should I?"
"Just shoes will do for now."
"Oh, fine. I've this pair of new Adidas upstairs, just want breaking in."
"Make it snappy," Pike said.
Gregan honoured them with a smile and went back up to comply. It didn't take them long to realise he wasn't coming back down. Out through the rear window and legging it across wasteland for all he was worth.
Even with a good two hundred metres start, he didn't stand a chance against Michaelson's long, loping stride, a tackle any Rugby League forward would have been proud of bringing him to the ground.
Not so long ago, they might have shut Gregan away in an airless boxlike room and left him to stew for an hour or so, the isolation preying on his mind. Now any self-respecting delinquent knew enough, if that happened, to have the duty solicitor charging false imprisonment and, if a sausage roll and a can of Ribena weren't forthcoming inside the first twenty minutes, be prepared to petition The Hague about denial of his human rights.
So, everything by the book.
Something to eat and drink.
A doctor summoned to examine and treat the injuries sustained during arrest—cuts and bruising to the side of the face, left elbow and knee, all occasioned by DS Michaelson's flying tackle—Polaroids taken, dated, and signed.
And all of this done slowly, carefully, with punctilious attention to form and detail, all gaining time for a search warrant of Gregan's flat to be signed and executed, more perhaps in hope than true expectation, but one never knew....
As soon as he was ready, Gregan, with due representation, was ushered into an Interview Room with sound recording and
video facilities and invited to take a seat opposite Michaelson and Pike.
It was Michaelson, Resnick thought, who had set this whole thing in motion and now, buoyed up as he was by successful pursuit and capture, it was only right that he should be given the chance to bring it home. And Pike—well, perhaps Pike was a more-than-adequate companion for the occasionally loquacious Michaelson—taciturn to the edge of rudeness, flat northern vowels in tune with his wedge-shaped head and stocky body.
For now Resnick was content to leave them to it and observe the proceedings from an adjoining room.
"Not smart, taking off the way you did," Michaelson began.
Gregan shrugged.
"Guilty conscience, that's what it could make us think. Something to hide. Unless, of course, you simply fancied a run. Unquenchable thirst for exercise, that what it was?"
Gregan shrugged again, uncomfortable on his seat. Michael-son was forced to sit back from the table, unable to get his legs comfortably underneath.
"First hundred metres or so," Michaelson said, in the same chatty tone, "you were looking pretty good."
"You reckon?" Gregan said.
"You've had no training? Any kind of coaching?"
Gregan squinted back at him. "For running, you mean?"
"Running, yes."
"Not me," Gregan said.
"Must be natural, then. Natural ability. And practice. Plenty of that, I daresay."
Gregan didn't reply.
"What you'd learn," Michaelson said, "with proper coaching, one thing anyway, conserve your energy. Any kind of distance, that's the key. Stamina, of course, that can be developed, but pacing, fail to learn that and what happens? Into the bend on the back straight, final lap, and what you need is a strong
sprint finish and there's nothing left. Well, you've seen it yourself, probably, European Games, the Olympics, on television, this tall white guy been labouring round for God knows how long in the lead, doing all the work, and then, on the bell, these three skinny Kenyans go past him
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