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“This is Stephen Whiteley,” said Terry Jones. “Stephen, this is a friend of mine, PC Patrick Edwards. I’d like you to tell him everything.”
“About what?” Stephen asked, glancing between the two.
“The guitar.”
The young man didn’t say anything at first. His body language was more worrying than Terry Jones’. Patrick glared back at the shopkeeper, who in turn stared at the youth.
“You have to tell him, Stephen.”
The teenager quickly bit one of his nails and shuffled around. “I’m not sure.”
“What are you not sure about, Stephen?” asked Patrick.
Stephen glanced at Terry and back at Patrick. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Have you done something wrong?”
“Yes. No. Oh, Christ.” He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”
Patrick Edwards motioned for him to sit down again. The young PC kneeled down in front of Stephen. “Look, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done, and I’ll be the best judge.”
“Yes, but you can get into all sorts of trouble just for handling stolen goods, can’t you? I’d be, like, an accessory.”
r /> “Did you know it was stolen?”
“No!” Stephen jumped out of his seat again. “But I’ll get into trouble. I just know I will. And then I’ll go to prison.”
Patrick stood up. “Calm down, Stephen. No one’s going to prison. I promise you. If you’ve bought a stolen guitar in good faith, and you didn’t know it was stolen, then we will not prosecute you.”
“You won’t have to. He’ll probably beat the living daylights out of me and there’ll be nothing left of me to go to prison.”
“Who will?”
“The man I bought it off. Oh, shit!” He threw his arms in the air. “I’ve said I’ve bought it now.”
Patrick turned to the shopkeeper. “Which one is it?”
Terry Jones pulled a case into view and opened it, revealing a red Stratocaster.
“Is it Robbie Carter’s?” Patrick asked.
Terry Jones nodded.
To Stephen, Patrick asked, “And you didn’t know it was stolen when you bought it?”
“No.”
“Where and when did you buy it?”
Stephen Whiteley had stood up now. He started pacing the small room, kept putting his hands in and out of his pockets. “Tuesday, at work.”
“Where at work?”
“It was from one of the lads in the stores.”
“It obviously wasn’t his. Did he know it was stolen?”
“I don’t know.”
