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clothes.’
    ‘What?’ said Macdonald.
    ‘Guns were fired, we need to examine your clothing for particles.’
    ‘I didn’t fire a gun,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘It’s procedure,’ she said. ‘As these gentlemen will tell you, I don’t need a warrant.’
    ‘It’s true,’ said O’Connor.
    ‘Then what am I supposed to wear?’
    Kelly smiled. ‘Tell us your address and we’ll send round a car for a change of clothes.’
    ‘This is madness,’ Macdonald said, annoyed.
    ‘You can wear a hospital robe,’ said O’Connor.
    ‘I’m not going into a bloody cop-shop with my arse hanging out,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘I’ve a forensic suit you can wear,’ said Peddler. She leaned down and took a plastic-wrapped package from her case, tore it open and removed a one-piece suit made from white paper.
    ‘You’re joking,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘It’s that or the hospital gown.’
    ‘What about my human rights?’
    ‘What about the cop you shot?’ said O’Connor.
    ‘I didn’t shoot anyone,’ said Macdonald.
    ‘We’ll start with your footwear,’ said Peddler. She removed his trainers and socks, and placed them in individual brown paper bags with polythene windows. Then she helped him off with his jeans and put them into a bag. She took a marker pen from her jacket pocket. ‘Name?’ she said.
    Macdonald said nothing.
    ‘He’s not saying,’ said Kelly. ‘But we’ll get the full story once we’ve run his prints through NAFIS.’
    Macdonald took another sip of coffee. A check through the National Automated Fingerprint Information System wouldn’t help them identify him. His prints weren’t on record. Neither was his photograph. But there was no point in telling them that. There was no point in telling them anything.
    Peddler scribbled on the bags, then put down her pen. She took off Macdonald’s leather gloves and bagged them, then O’Connor undid the cuff so that she could take his shirt and jacket. She put them in separate bags, sealed them, picked up her pen and scribbled on them. ‘You can keep the underwear,’ she said, handing him the paper suit.
    Peddler swabbed his hands and put the swabs in separate plastic tubes, each of which she labelled. She also took his wristwatch. ‘You haven’t printed him, then?’ she asked Kelly.
    ‘He was brought straight here. We’ll scan him at the factory.’
    ‘I’ll take my own set now,’ said Peddler. ‘Give me a head start.’ She inked Macdonald’s fingers and took a set of his prints. Then she handed him a cloth to wipe off the surplus. ‘I need a DNA sample for comparison purposes,’ she said. ‘It’s a simple mouth swab. As you haven’t been charged, I need written permission from a superintendent before I can insist. You can give me a sample willingly now or I can catch up with you later.’
    ‘Take what you need,’ said Macdonald. His DNA wasn’t on file.
    Peddler wiped a swab inside his mouth and sealed it in a plastic tube. ‘Right, that’s me finished,’ she said. She went off with the case in one hand and the bags of clothing in the other.
    ‘What happens now?’ asked Macdonald.
    ‘We take you back to Crawley for more questioning,’ said Kelly. ‘You’re charged, we bring you in front of a magistrate and then you’re banged up until trial, assuming you don’t get bail. And I think it’s pretty unlikely that any judge is going to let you back on the streets.’ Kelly stood up. ‘You finished your coffee?’
    Macdonald drained his cup and the two detectives escorted him through A and E. Nurses, doctors and waiting patients craned their necks to get a glimpse of him, then quickly looked away. The paper suit rustled with every step and his bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor. Macdonald had a throbbing headache but he didn’t know if it was as a result of the blow to his head or the tension that had cramped the muscles at the back of his neck. Police, court, then prison. He smiled grimly. This was definitely not how