To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

‘You’ll go far, son.’

  ‘We’ll notify CID and get the scenes-of-crimes officer over as soon as we can.’

  ‘I’m going to have to clean up.’

  ‘You know the drill, Mr French.’

  ‘Of course I do, but I can’t live with this a minute longer.’

  ‘But we need to preserve the scene.’

  ‘OK,’ said Mickey. ‘Hang on.’

  He went to the kitchen and returned carrying a spatula and an empty, cracked, earthenware dish.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Go on what?’

  ‘Samples. Evidence.’

  ‘I think we should wait for the SOCO.’

  ‘Squeamish?’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘I really do think we should wait.’

  ‘Here, allow me.’

  Mickey walked over to the wall and scraped off a piece of dried shit. He tapped the end of the spatula and tipped the flaky, brown excrement into the dish.

  ‘People’s exhibit one.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with that?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Maybe you could go onto the gypsy camp and ask everyone for a stool sample. Then all you’ve got to do is match it up and Bob’s the live-in lover of your mum’s boyfriend’s half-sister.’

  Mickey handed the dish to the Milky Bar Kid.

  ‘Just about sums it up.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Life’s a crock of shit. And so is this case. Admit it, no one’s getting felt for this.’

  ‘I still think we should let CID make that decision.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Mickey said, retreating once again to the kitchen.

  He came back bearing a scrubbing brush and a bucket full of soapy water. He unscrewed the top of a bottle of Domestos, tipped it in and began scrubbing furiously.

  ‘Mr French.’

  ‘What is it now, son?’

  ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Look, five gets you ten this is dog-shit. And you won’t be getting any prints off the cat, will you?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’ll give you a crime number, just in case. For the insurance.’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘I’m sorry about what’s happened, sir. Really, I am. I just wish we could have got here sooner.’

  Mickey stopped scrubbing.

  ‘I’m sorry, too, son. It’s not you. It’s not your fault. It’s the whole rotten system.’

  ‘We don’t make policy, Mr French.’

  ‘I know. But I’ll tell you one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If those fucking pikeys come anywhere near me, my family or my house again, I’ll blow their fucking heads off.’

  Thirty

  The scenes-of-crimes officer arrived about half an hour after Milky Bar and his mate left, called to an illegally parked skateboard in Chingford.

  She went through the motions but told Mickey not to hold his breath. The CID didn’t turn up at all.

  Mickey scrubbed the wall back to the plaster.

  He carried the cat into the garden and buried it under a rose bush.

  He couldn’t stand the cat, if truth be known. It was Andi’s pet. But he wouldn’t have wished the manner of its demise.

  Mickey opened a bottle of scotch and poured a slug into a chunky, cut-glass tumbler. He drank it down in one and refreshed it.

  He dragged the furniture into the hall, rolled up the light brown Berber carpet, with its dried puddle of cat’s claret, and carried it into the back garden.

  He went to the garage to fetch a can of petrol he used to refuel the mower. The pikeys had stolen that, too.

  Fortunately, they’d overlooked the barbecue lighter fuel. Mickey doused the carpet, allowed it to soak for a couple of minutes, then set fire to it with a long-handled safety match.

  The flames leapt into the night sky. Mickey poured another drink and watched it burn.

  When the fire began to dampen, Mickey went back into the house. He took a black binliner from under the sink and started collecting the debris. The hall table was beyond repair. That could go on the fire. So could the broken wooden picture frames.

  The metal frames had stood up well; the glass was smashed, but could be replaced.

  Mickey picked up the picture of Katie, defiled and yellowed by piss.

  He walked outside to where the carpet was still glowing. He stoked the fire with the broken hall table.

  As the flames revived, he took the photo of his daughter and dropped it on the pyre.

  He watched as the yellow picture turned brown and shrivelled.

  He thought of the little girl in the photo, her first school photo, and the ordeal she had endured that past weekend.

  The heat from the fire was intense, but Mickey shivered. He stared into the flames.

  From the house, the telephone interrupted his frigid contemplation.

  Mickey walked inside and answered.

  ‘Hi, lover.’

  ‘Hi. You OK?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘The kids?’

  ‘They’ve had a bath and gone to bed.’

  ‘Your mum?’

  ‘A bit hysterical. She’s taken it badly.’

  ‘Have you told her about Goblin’s?’

  ‘Not tonight. That can wait.’

  ‘Look, I want you to stay away from here for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s stuff I have to do.’

  ‘I’ve got to come back. I haven’t even got a change of clothes.’

  ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll bring everything over.’

  ‘But you haven’t got the car.’

  ‘OK. I’ll pack, you can come and collect it.’

  ‘I’ll come now.’

  ‘No, tomorrow. I’ll ring first.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You fine?’

  ‘I’m a big girl, Mickey. I miss you.’

  ‘You’ve only been gone a few hours.’

  ‘A few hours too long.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  Mickey put down the phone and poured another large one.

  Sleep was out of the question.

  He climbed the stairs and opened the hatch to the loft. He pulled down the ladder, switched on the light and hauled himself inside.

  There it was. What he was looking for.

  Mickey took the two cans of white emulsion downstairs and emptied them into a decorator’s tray. He took a paint-brush from a jar full of turps under the stairs and set about his task.

  Half a dozen strokes with the broad brush and it was gone. Using a roller, Mickey painted the entire room white. He gave it two coats and finished the bottle of scotch.

  By morning, there would be no trace.

  By morning?

  It was morning.

  Mickey looked at his watch. Almost nine.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Mickey?’

  ‘Theo, son.’

  ‘Got your message. Fucking animals. Soon have it fixed.’

  Theo Panthos, handyman, distant cousin of Andi, dumped his tools in the hall and fetched a piece of frosted glass from his van.

  ‘You’re a star, Theo,’ said Mickey, hugging him.

  He was exhausted, but the booze had mellowed him. Theo fixed the pane in the front door, replaced the hinges and fitted a new lock.

  ‘I’ll come back later and put you an extra deadlock at the top. Next time it’ll make it harder for them.’

  ‘Next time? There’s not going to be a next time. Next time they’re dead.’

  ‘Right on, Mickey. But better safe, eh?’

  ‘How much I owe you?’

  ‘We’ll work something out later. I’ll be back.’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’

  Theo drove off just as the phone rang again.

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  Andi, sorry love
. I was going to ring. Theo’s been here.’

  ‘Has he fixed the door?’

  ‘Good as new.’

  ‘I’m coming back to clean the rest.’

  ‘No need. It’s done.’

  ‘Whadya mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘I’m coming back anyway, for some clothes, at least.’

  ‘Sure, how long?’

  ‘I’ll come straight away.’

  ‘Come alone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The kids will be all right with your mum.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just hurry over. You’ll see. It’s nothing bad, honest.’

  ‘About an hour then.’

  ‘Great.’

  Mickey dragged the furniture back into the sitting room. The distressing carnage of the previous night had been erased. Bar the lack of a carpet, it could have been a bad dream. Soon sort that.

  Mickey dialled an old school friend.

  ‘Regal Carpets.’

  ‘Brian, Mickey French.’

  ‘French, you old bastard. How are you?’

  ‘Don’t ask. It’s been a bad few days.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. What can I do?’

  ‘Have you still got our carpet in stock?’

  ‘Berber wasn’t it? Light brown? Should have. If not the next best thing.’

  ‘Have you still got the measurements?’

  ‘They’ll be here on file. Why? It hasn’t worn out already, has it?’

  ‘No, I burned it.’

  ‘I thought you’d given up smoking.’

  ‘No, I burned it in the garden.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Mickey gave him the short version.

  ‘It’ll be done by tonight, just as soon as the lads get back from doing a house in Chigwell. Stand on me.’

  ‘You’re a star, Bri.’

  ‘I know. See you later.’

  Mickey showered, shaved and changed. He climbed back up to the loft and crawled into the corner where an old tea chest was nestling behind the paint tins.

  Mickey reached inside. It was still there.

  He took out the dusty plastic documents case handed to all Police Federation reps at the Worthing Conference in 1981.

  He slid back the flimsy fastener and reached inside. First he took out a sheaf of papers, then a cassette tape, then a rolled chamois leather. He unrolled the chamois. A knife fell out. The knife Trevor Gibbs had been found with at Tyburn Row all those years earlier. The knife, the tape, the juvenile records which Roberta Peel had tried to dispose of on Justin Fromby’s instructions.

  Mickey put them back in the case and went downstairs.

  He took out the cassette, stuck it in his Panasonic tape deck and pressed PLAY.

  It hissed and crackled into life. The first voice he heard was his own. Younger, higher, but recognizably him.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Roberta Peel sounded younger, too. Plummier, more Home Counties. More the vicar’s daughter. Not at all like the classless New Establishment he had heard her affect on television recently.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Eric Marsden.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Fromby’s trying to fit him up on an assault on the prisoner.’

  ‘I reckon he did beat him.’

  ‘Eric denies it. Says he got the injuries in the fight outside the chip shop. Sounds about right. I nicked Gibbs the last time. He’s a nasty little fucker. You going to charge him?’

  ‘Mr Fromby says that if we charge Gibbs, he’ll make a formal complaint against Marsden.’

  ‘If this caution comes to light, you’ve got no option but to charge him.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘That’s up to you, girl.’

  ‘Fromby knows about the previous. He wants me to lose it. And the knife.’

  ‘What, this one?’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Never you mind. What are you going to do with the previous?’

  ‘The way I see it is that everybody wins here. Fromby gets what he wants, Marsden’s off the hook. Everybody’s happy.’

  ‘And what if I don’t give a fuck and turn you in? Give me that. You’re a lucky girl.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘There’s two copies still in here. Usually we keep one and send the other to central records at the Yard. This hasn’t gone off yet. I must have forgotten.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You’re a silly fucking cow. Old Eric Marsden may be a cunt but he’s only got a year left to his pension.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why wreck anyone’s career here. Eric Marsden’s or yours?’

  ‘What about the sergeant?’

  ‘He is the original wise monkey. He sees nothing, hears nothing, says nothing. He doesn‘t want to know. No charge, no paperwork. He’s sweet. Fromby’s hardly going to say anything. The boy certainly won’t object to being released. Eric will stay shtoom and he’ll put the frighteners on the skinhead who picked him out. He’ll tell the sergeant that Gibbs is being released pending further inquiries. That’ll be the end of it.’ ‘And you? What’s in it for you?’

  ‘I don’t want Eric going down the shitter and I reckon you’ve got a big future.’

  ‘What are you going to do with all this – the knife, the file, the tape recording?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it. Nothing, maybe. Who knows?’

  Mickey stopped the tape and pressed REWIND.

  The doorbell disturbed him.

  A key rattled in the lock.

  Mickey opened the door.

  Andi was standing there with the key in her hand.

  ‘‘Theo’s changed the lock.’

  ‘That explains it.’

  ‘Come here.’

  Andi fell into his bear-hug.

  She threw down her bag. It hit the deck. The hall table wasn’t where she was expecting it.

  ‘Oh, God. I forgot.’

  ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Come on through.’

  ‘Wow! You must have been up all night.’

  ‘I had no one to sleep with.’

  Andi smiled.

  ‘Mickey, you’re, you’re, oh you’re fantastic. I could have helped.’

  ‘You needed to be with the kids.’

  ‘Thank you, Mickey.’

  ‘It’s not perfect.’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Brian’s putting the carpet down later.’

  ‘Have you taken it up to clean it?’

  ‘No, I burned it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the garden. I figured it would be best. Nothing cleanses like fire.’

  ‘And Tammy?’

  ‘Under the rose bush.’

  ‘Thanks. I know you couldn’t stand that cat.’

  ‘We’ll get you another one.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ll make it. By the way, I thought I heard voices.’

  ‘Voices?’

  ‘It sounded as if you’d got a woman in here.’

  ‘My bit on the side?’

  ‘Stop it, Mickey. I distinctly heard voices.’

  ‘On tape.’

  ‘Tape?’

  ‘Yeah. Remember? I told you about it in the car. Fromby, Tyburn Row.’

  ‘Where have you been keeping it?’

  ‘Up in the loft with all my old Federation stuff.’

  ‘Can I hear?’

  Mickey put the tape back in.

  ‘You sound so young.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. Pity we didn’t have video then. I’d look a damned sight younger, too.’

  ‘So that’s her?’

  ‘Yep.’

&n
bsp; ‘I see what you mean. It’s dynamite, Mickey.’

  ‘Told you.’

  ‘But you can’t ever use it.’

  ‘I didn’t have to. I only had to threaten to. It frightened off Fromby.’

  ‘Does he really think you’ve got it?’

  ‘Dunno. He can’t afford to take the risk.’

  ‘Do you think he’s told her about it?’

  ‘She already knows.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I’m hanging on to it.’

  ‘But if he knows you’ve got it. This could finish him, end her career.’

  ‘They’re gambling that I won’t use it. I’m compromised, too.’

  ‘You’ll have to get rid of it, Mickey.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Mickey, putting the cassette back in the plastic case.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I said, we’ll see. I need more time to think.’

  ‘Once the carpet’s down, I’ll go and get the kids.’

  ‘No. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This weekend has been a hell of a lot for them.’

  ‘For all of us.’

  ‘They need a holiday.’

  ‘We all need a holiday.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Call Auntie Olive, in Florida. She’d love to see you. The weather will do you all good.’

  ‘What do you mean, you?’

  ‘I’m not coming.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m not going without you.’

  ‘Please, Andi. I’ll come out in a couple of weeks. There’s stuff I have to do here, first.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive. Now go and pack. I’ll run you to your mum’s. We’ll sort some tickets out. Ricky’s cousin’s got a travel agent’s. He’ll fix you up. I’ll call him. Now go pack.’

  Andi disappeared upstairs.

  Mickey called Ricky. He was fresh off-air.

  ‘Hello, mate. Did we have a belter this morning? A bloody riot.’

  ‘Sorry, Rick, didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Traitor.’

  ‘Been busy. Tell you about it later.’

  ‘Fine. Spider’s.’

  ‘About eight?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘While I’m on, give us the number of your cousin with the bucket shop.’

  Ricky reeled it off the top of his head.

  ‘Going away?’

  ‘Not me. Andi and the kids.’

  ‘She’s finally leaving you, then?’

  ‘Piss off. See you later.’

  Mickey rang Ricky’s cousin, gave him a credit card number and confirmed three seats, BA, Gatwick to Orlando, 11.10 the next day.