Father Confessor
Even the police dogs were in awe of DI Wigg, to say nothing of DCI Burns his station chief. He was tall and strong and had a voice to match. Suspects and witnesses cowered in his presence. He did not always have recourse to violence, usually he did not need to. The guilty confessed almost instantly. The innocent took a bit longer. He knew how to use force. Usually the minimum that he needed to get a confession and a signature. He could write a book on how to beat a witness into submission without breaking bones or leaving visible bruises. They called him the Father Confessor because he never failed to get a confession. Burns never questioned his methods.
Ayo Balogun was at least as big as him, and Wigg had promised Caitlyn to be home early. The CCTV had clearly shown a tall black man coming out of the shop, but because of the poor light his face was not visible. Wigg wanted his man, and if he was black so much the better.
We’ve got a clear picture of you on CCTV with the telly in your hand so don’t waste my time, just sign the confession, he began. The black man shook his head. He then asked if he could use the toilet. Only after you’ve signed, Wigg said, handcuffing him to the leg of the table, and left. He then sent the man a bottle of cold Tenant’s. The bastard will drink it and his urge to piss would grow, and it’s always easier to get a confession from a man who has wetted himself. When he came back an hour later, Ayo Balogun was almost in tears, a pool at his feet. Ready to sign? Wigg asked. Tearfully the mas said he was nowhere near the shop, but no he had no alibi. Now I’ll do something which will help you remember your thievery.
His favourite technique was what at the station they called the pile-driver. Wigg had massive fists, he could have been a heavyweight boxer. He went behind the suspect- except that he knew for sure that he was guilty as sin_ straightened Balogun’s chair, and moved his body to a more vertical position. He then showed the fellow his two fists placed side by side. If Balogun was scared he showed no signs. Wigg then raised his coalesced fists up until they were half a metre above the suspect’s head, and brought them down on his head in a lightning flash. Without pausing for breath, he did this five times in quick succession. He had an idea about how dazed the man was. Punch drunk does not begin to describe the state of the Nigerian.
You better sign now, Balogun, before I lose my temper. Although stunned and half-conscious, he shook his head, and muttered some words which Wigg knew were supposed to be claiming his innocence. Another round followed, ending in the battered man passing out. It took fifteen minutes to revive him, and by now he would have signed anything.
He pushed the door open and closed it quietly, as Caitlyn hated him banging the door, it gave her a headache.
‘You’re late again!’ she said sternly. He explained about the stupid black man who needed some persuasion.
‘Have you been smoking again?’ she asked scowling.
‘Someone gave me one.’
At this she pounces on him, forces her hand in his coat pocket and takes out a pack.
‘What’s this then?’
‘You know I don’t inhale.’ He walked towards the fridge and took out a bottle of beer.
‘Oh no you’re not. I forbid you. You had a full pint yesterday …’
‘But, but … with me tea_’
‘Your tea? What tea? I told you if you’re late, you can phone, to inform me. Or your tea gets into the dog.’
