To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘Well, you’ve done a great job, haven’t you? I’m now representing Wayne. You can wait outside with the sergeant.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Sergeant, get Mr, what was it?, Toynbee, I should have remembered, any relation?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Jez.

  ‘Sergeant, get Mr Toynbee a cup of tea, would you be so kind? I’ll have an Earl Grey if you’ve got one.’

  ‘Bone-china cup?’ said Armitage.

  ‘Mug will do, sergeant.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with chef, sir. Will that be all?’

  ‘No, if you two wouldn’t mind leaving, I need to consult my client. Alone.’

  ‘Come on, Mr Toynbee. Better do as the man says,’ said Armitage.

  The interview room door closed.

  ‘Now then, Wayne,’ said Fromby. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Twenty

  ‘Michael Edward French, you are not obliged to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Armitage, shuffling uncomfortably and avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Are you charging me? And if so, with what?’

  ‘You’re not being charged, but I have to caution you. I’ll need to speak to your boy again.’

  ‘I don’t believe this. I thought you had come out to tell me about this Wayne, wossisname?’

  ‘Sutton.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Are you charging him?’

  ‘No one is being charged here, yet.’

  ‘So what the Christ is all this about?’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to do this by the numbers,’ Armitage apologized. ‘It’s Fromby. He’s raising a shit storm. Talking about dragging the chief constable away from his Sunday lunch and filing for wrongful arrest.’

  ‘Wrongful arrest?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where does he get that from? I mean, the kid was caught bang to rights. He broke into Katie’s room, attacked her; what more do you need?’

  ‘That’s not how Fromby tells it.’

  ‘You’ve got the footprints on the windowsill and in the bath.’

  ‘He’s not denying that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘He claims your daughter invited Sutton to her room.’

  ‘He FUCKING WHAT?’

  ‘That’s what he claims.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Look, I’m telling you what he’s alleging.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Mickey, counting to ten and regaining his composure.

  ‘Fromby says that your daughter, Katie, yeah? He says they met at the swimming pool and that she arranged to entertain him in her room later.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘For sex.’

  Mickey clenched his fists and swivelled on his heels. He took a deep breath.

  ‘SEX? She’s fifteen, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So’s the boy.’

  ‘OK, let’s play the game for a minute. If what he says is true, why did he gain entry through a bathroom window?’

  ‘So as he didn’t get spotted. He says she told him to.’

  ‘That’s absolute shite.’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘And if she’d asked him up there, why would he attack her with a knife?’

  ‘Who says he did?’

  ‘My daughter, that’s who.’

  ‘Her word against his.’

  ‘But we caught him there.’

  ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself.’

  ‘Have you found the knife?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s got to be around somewhere. Could Toynbee have taken it off him?’

  ‘Possible, but how do we prove it?’

  ‘Put him up against a wall and kick the truth out of him.’

  ‘I don’t think PACE covers that.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, that’s all right. None of this is on the record, but I believe you. It’s just that, well, you know, with Fromby making himself busy. You know what he’s capable of.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not having a go at you. Could they have dumped the knife on the way to the hospital?’

  ‘Toynbee says they drove straight there. We haven’t got the manpower to search every inch of the route.’

  ‘So we’re fucked.’

  ‘It gets worse.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Fromby wants you and your boy charged with GBH. He’s even making noises about attempted murder.’

  ‘He’s WHAT?’

  ‘Just calm down. I told you, I’m not charging anyone right now. But this is what he claims.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was that business in the pool.’

  ‘Yeah, Terry told you about that. Sutton nearly drowned him.’

  ‘That’s just the point.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Fromby claims that Katie lured him to her room so that Terry could attack him with a bottle in revenge for what happened at the pool. And then you arrived and weighed in.’

  ‘This is fucking priceless.’

  ‘Look at it from where he’s standing.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Who was the one taken to hospital?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Head wounds, his finger half bitten off.’

  ‘That was self-defence.’

  ‘Reasonable force? You know the score.’

  ‘He had a knife.’

  ‘Correction. Your daughter says he had a knife.’

  ‘I believe her. Don’t you?’

  ‘He says, she says. Bill or Monica. Take your pick.’

  ‘What about the other rooms he turned over?’

  ‘Who says he did?’

  ‘Stands to reason.’

  ‘Slightly different MO.’

  ‘How d’ya mean?’

  ‘The doors of the other rooms were forced with a chisel, maybe. From the corridor, while everyone was at dinner. He gained access to Katie’s room through the window, much later.’

  ‘You had the SOCO down there?’

  ‘Nothing positive. Prints get smudged. Maybe he, whoever, wore gloves.’

  ‘He didn’t have gloves on in Katie’s room.’

  ‘True, but that fits with his story. That she invited him. If he was there as a guest, why would he need gloves?’

  ‘You found nothing in his room?’

  ‘A bit of blow. Personal use.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Fuck it.’

  ‘My hands are tied.’

  ‘Why would anyone believe him? He’s presumably got a record going back, how long?’

  ‘Long enough. More form than Desert Orchid.’

  ‘So why would anyone take his word over my daughter? Or me, for that matter?’ reasoned Mickey.

  ‘You’re an ex-cop. They don’t even believe serving cops, these days, let alone ex-cops,’ said Armitage, ruefully.

  ‘So what are we looking at here?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to remain strictly neutral. That’s all we can do these days. Everyone’s got rights. Crime management, they call it.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Fromby will start raising merry hell in a minute. He wants you charged and his client released.’

  ‘You gonna do that?’

  ‘It’s about to be taken out of my hands. I’ve called my inspector. He’s on his way in.’

  ‘Let me talk to him.’

  ‘Who, the inspector?’

  ‘No, Fromby.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll do that.’

  ‘I think he will.’

  ‘Why?’
<
br />   ‘We’ve got history.’

  ‘He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t?’

  ‘Let’s put it this way, he wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘What am I getting into, here?’ Armitage sounded wary, counting his pension.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mickey reassured him. ‘But you might just be about to get out of it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Tell Fromby I want to talk to him. In private. He’ll go for it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just tell him PC French wants to see him. PC Mickey French. From Tyburn Row.’

  Twenty-one

  ‘Five minutes. Tops. Then you’re out of there,’ said Armitage. ‘Oh, and this never happened.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Mickey, opening the door to the side office, where Justin Fromby sat behind a chipped wooden desk, studying some papers. His client had been returned to his cell.

  ‘Wotcha, Trotsky.’

  Fromby looked up and peered over his half-moon glasses. He didn’t need them, they contained clear glass. But he thought they added a theatrical touch.

  The figure in front of him looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Another lifetime, eh, Trotsky?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what this is about. I have agreed to this meeting, without prejudice, to oblige Detective Sergeant Armitage. What is it I can do for you?’

  ‘What’s your fucking game?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? I have to remind you this is most improper.’

  ‘So why d’ya agree to see me?’

  ‘In the interests of truth and justice.’

  ‘You can drop the Rumpole act, Trotsky.’

  ‘And you can show me a little more respect.’

  ‘Respect? Do me a favour. This is a crock of shit and you know it.’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Wayne Sutton is a little scumbag. I don’t know what your angle is here, but trying to fit me and my boy up for GBH and attempted murder is stronging it even by your warped standards.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘Oh, you do.’

  ‘You’d know all about fit-ups, being an ex-policeman.’

  ‘I know all about bent briefs, too, Trotsky.’

  ‘If you’re implying, I shall terminate this interview immediately.’

  ‘You haven’t changed much. Greyer, a bit more pompous. Still the same old devious bastard.’

  ‘If you’ve got me in here to insult me, I shall call the sergeant.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  Fromby sat fixed to the seat.

  Mickey stared him out. ‘This stops now, understand?’

  ‘That’s not my call.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes, it is.’

  ‘Why should I put up with this?’

  ‘Let’s just say you still owe me one for Lincoln Philpott.’

  The penny dropped, as Fromby remembered where their paths had met before.

  ‘I owe you nothing for Philpott,’ he said. ‘I was doing my job in the best interests of my client.’

  ‘Course you were, Trotsky.’

  ‘I should have demanded that you were prosecuted for unlawful wounding back then.’

  ‘And I should have brought your playhouse tumbling down.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ask your girlfriend.’

  ‘Who would that be?’

  ‘Bobby the bobby.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘Roberta Peel. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Formerly, probationary WPC Peel, Tyburn Row. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Fromby sat poker-faced, but he was paying rapt attention.

  ‘WPC Peel, juvenile bureau liaison officer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Wasn’t there a young lawyer back then, Trotsky? An idealistic law centre volunteer, Justin Someone. Fromby, that’s it. Any relation?’

  ‘I repeat. Where, exactly, is this leading?’

  ‘Trevor Gibbs, son of Everton. You remember Everton, nice man, God-fearing. Used to be on Tyburn council. Now a Commissioner for Racial Equality. Whatever happened to young Trevor?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘It was your firm that represented him at his last trial, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Fromby, Hind & Partners represents a lot of people.’

  ‘Yeah – the IRA, the Yardies. Trevor’s given you enough business over the years, hasn’t he? Extortion, drug-running, pimping, clubs, drive-by shootings. Wasn’t it Trevor who walked into that boozer in Dalston and blew off Bunny Martin’s head? You remember, Trotsky.’

  ‘The jury found him not guilty.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘Look, French, I’m getting tired of this. What’s your point?’

  ‘My point is this. Trevor Gibbs, juvenile delinquent, caught slashing another kid outside a chip shop. Eric Marsden, arresting officer. Good copper.’

  ‘He was a violent racist.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s all coming back to you, is it? Anyway this young lawyer, Fromby, makes a bunch of false allegations against Marsden and persuades his bird, WPC Peel, to make the knife disappear. Trevor Gibbs walks. Maybe if he’d gone down then, Bunny Martin and a few others, unproven, would still be alive today and hundreds of other lives wouldn’t have been ruined by drugs and prostitution.’

  ‘This is all very interesting, but where’s your proof?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘You can’t make anything stick, not after all these years.’

  ‘Try me, Trotsky. I’ve got the knife and I’ve got it all on tape.’

  ‘What on tape?’

  ‘A shit-scared young WPC Peel telling me all about it. I caught her removing the files from the juvenile bureau at Tyburn Row. I’ve got them, safe and sound.’

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you, did she? She didn’t fucking tell you.’

  Fromby shook his head.

  ‘So what did you think had happened to the knife and the records?’

  ‘I assumed she’d disposed of them.’

  ‘And she has never, ever, mentioned that I caught her in the act? Or that I’ve got it all on tape?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘You know what, Trotsky, I almost believe you.’

  ‘But why should I believe you, French? If you thought you had something on me, why not confront me with it during the Lincoln Philpott case? Why wait until now?’

  ‘Good question. I was still in the Job, then. I’d have gone down with you. I wasn’t particularly proud of what I’d done. Eric Marsden was still alive then, enjoying his police pension. He didn’t need an inquiry any more than we did.’

  ‘So what’s different now?’

  ‘Eric died the year before last.’

  ‘There’s still the question of your involvement.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit any more. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you. Last time you were only fucking me about. This time you’ve got my boy in the frame. Big, big mistake. You fuck with my family and I’ll take your legs off. You’ve got a lot to lose here. So’s your girlfriend.’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘Not your type, eh?’

  Fromby ignored the remark.

  ‘Thought so. That’s your business. But I keep reading that Mizz Peel is heavily tipped to be the next Commissioner. I imagine perverting the course of justice could put the kibosh on that. And it could seriously fuck up your chances of a peerage.’

  ‘Why should I go for this? It would ruin you, too, if it came out,’ said Fromby.

  ‘You think I haven’t thought of that? Do you think I’m fucking proud of what I did back then?’

  ‘You’re part of the conspiracy, too. You could go to prison. Where would that leave your family?’

  ‘W
hat do you know about fucking family, you jumped-up little cunt? This is about my family. I wouldn’t even be contemplating this if it wasn’t about my family. And it fucking stops now, you understand? Right here, right now. We walk out.’

  ‘And my client?’

  ‘Your client is lucky he can still walk.’

  ‘What about the charges?’

  ‘Leave that up to Armitage. There won’t be any.’

  ‘So if I drop the charges against you, you won’t take it any further?’

  ‘I can’t speak for the people he robbed at Goblin’s.’

  ‘Allegedly robbed.’

  ‘Oh, do leave off.’

  ‘And the, er, the, um, Tyburn Road business?’

  ‘That will be our little secret.’

  ‘And how do I know you won’t use it?’

  ‘You don’t, Trotsky. You’ll just have to trust me.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. I want you to hand over the evidence, the knife, the tape, everything.’

  ‘No can do.’

  The door opened.

  ‘You’ve had more than your five minutes. Time’s up. The inspector will be here soon,’ said Armitage.

  ‘I think he’ll have had a wasted journey,’ Mickey remarked.

  ‘Mr Fromby?’ said Armitage.

  ‘Your call, Trotsky,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Ah, yes, sergeant,’ mumbled Justin, gathering his composure. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding here.

  On reflection, I will not be pressing charges against either Mr French or his son.’

  ‘Mr French?’

  ‘As you said, no evidence, no charges. Look on the bright side, no paperwork, either. No call to the chief constable. We’ve all got a result.’

  ‘The inspector’s not going to like this.’

  ‘He’d have liked even less a state visit from the chief constable, dripping gravy down his golf jumper.’

  ‘You’ll both have to sign a withdrawal statement.’

  Mickey and Fromby nodded together, like toy dogs on a parcel shelf.

  ‘Look,’ said Armitage, ‘I don’t know what’s been going on in here.’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Mickey told him. ‘As you said, this meeting never took place.’

  ‘Mr Fromby?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Armitage went to fetch Wayne Sutton from his cell.

  Mickey collected the family.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ he told Andi. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Fromby and Wayne emerged from a side door.

  Mickey and Justin stared at each other.