I didn’t know. I had tried ringing several times throughout the morning, but had met on every occasion the seemingly indomitable stubbornness of the constabulary. In a voice remarkably similar to Percy Bailey’s, the policeman who answered the phone refused repeatedly to answer any of my questions, telling me only that my father was still being questioned. I managed to contact Mr Holversum, who assured me with a high-pitched laugh that he was moving ‘even the stars in their firmament’ to gain access to my father; unfortunately, since my father had apparently still not requested legal representation, there was little that he could do. I struggled through the day, beset by exhaustion and worry, wondering what my father was going through, able to think only about the kind of interrogation techniques employed with such relish by Jack Regan and his colleagues in The Sweeney. It seemed to me unlikely that Constable Smith would partake in such exuberant methods of questioning, but Masson was another matter; he had always struck me as a man who was relentless in the pursuit of those he saw as criminals.
