To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘Fucking hell. If they’d done that a few years ago there wouldn’t have been a copper on the beat anywhere in London,’ said Mickey. ‘Not that there is now,’ he added. ‘All sitting behind hedges in jam sandwiches waiting to nick some poor sod doing 35 mph.’

  ‘We’re not here to discuss the finer points of policing policy,’ said Marsden. ‘It does seem to me that, even by the standards of the Sweeney, you’d had rather a lot to drink.’

  ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘Four or five large ones, a couple of bottles of wine, half a bottle of Irish whiskey. I’d have been unconscious. You must have been pretty drunk.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. So pissed I didn’t know what I was doing when I pulled the trigger. Come off it, you saw me at the scene. Did I strike you as drunk?’

  ‘Not particularly. But I’m not a doctor. I’m going to have to ask you to provide a blood sample.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I told you, I’m doing this by the book. In duplicate, triplicate, copperplate.’

  ‘What will a blood sample prove?’

  ‘Something or nothing. I’m just covering all the bases.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Come on, Mickey, if you’re arguing your innocence it’s not going to help you if you come over unco-operative.’

  ‘OK. Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘I’ll see if the FME’s in,’ said Marsden, using police abbreviation for doctor. ‘We’ll continue the interview once I’ve made a few more inquiries.’

  ‘Can I make my phone call first?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Marsden. ‘Just one more thing for now.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘You left the car in town, right?’

  ‘Underground car park.’

  ‘So what was a can of petrol doing by the garage?’

  ‘Can of petrol? Dunno.’

  Can of petrol? wondered Mickey.

  Forty-four

  Ricky Sparke’s mobile rang as he was leaving the studio.

  ‘Sorry about this morning, mate,’ said Mickey. The sergeant let him use the phone in his office. He shut the door and told Mickey to take all the time he needed.

  ‘What the fuck have you got yourself into?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Anyway, what do you know?’

  ‘I know you’ve shot a man dead and you’re in Angel Hill nick. I spoke to Sid, from the Keep & Bear Arms. What happened, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Pretty much what you know. I’m sitting at home, guy breaks in, I shoot him. I can’t go into much more detail right now.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They’ve got stuff they have to do. I’ll be here a while.’

  ‘Got a brief?’

  ‘Nah, don’t need one. I’m fine. I know the drill.’

  ‘I’m coming out there,’ said Ricky.

  ‘Don’t. They won’t let you see me right now. I’ve still got to make a formal statement.’

  ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘I’m OK. I know the station sergeant, he’ll look after me.’

  ‘This is up and running now. You know how these things get out. The phones went mad this morning. Everyone’s on your side. The papers are on the case. They’ll soon put us together. Want me to deal with them?’

  ‘If you like. Do what you have to.’

  ‘What about Andi and the kids? Want me to call her?’

  ‘No. Whatever you do, don’t do that. I don’t want her worried. Anyway, when I spoke to her last night she said they were going down to Palm Beach for a couple of days, staying overnight. I told her to book in at the Breakers, give herself a treat. By the time they get back to Zero Beach, I’ll be out of here.’

  ‘If it’s clear-cut, why are they still holding you?’

  ‘Loose ends, mate.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘For a start, we still don’t know who the fucker is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The dead guy.’

  ‘What? I just sort of assumed it was one of the pikeys, you know, after everything.’

  ‘Me, too. Not so, apparently.’

  ‘Are they charging you?’

  ‘Dunno. I’m arguing self-defence. You know, reasonable force.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable to me.’

  ‘Not to them, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated.’

  ‘In what way complicated?’

  ‘The guy, the intruder, he was unarmed.’

  ‘So what? He’d broken into your house in the middle of the night. You had every right to shoot him.’

  ‘That’s not how they see it. Not yet.’

  ‘What aren’t you telling me here?’

  ‘They are holding me on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘MURDER? What the fuck?’

  ‘Calm down, Ricky. It’s a formality. They have to do everything by the numbers, especially with me being an ex-cop.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this. You being fitted up?’

  ‘Nah, don’t think so. The cop on the case, the DI, acting DCI, Marsden, I knew his dad, seems sound. He’s got to cover all the angles.’

  ‘Marsden. That was the cop you were talking about on the tape, Tyburn Row.’

  ‘His dad, Eric, yeah.’

  ‘He know anything about that business?’

  ‘I don’t even know if Eric knew anything about it. He didn’t need to know. Even if he did, he never mentioned it again. Look, I’m going to have to go. The doctor’s here. I’ve got to take a blood test.’

  ‘Blood test. You weren’t driving last night.’

  ‘Routine.’

  ‘Sure there’s nothing you want?’

  ‘No. I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Be lucky, Mickey.’

  What makes me think I’m going to need some luck? Mickey thought to himself.

  As Ricky switched off the phone, he saw Charlie Lawrence bounding down the corridor.

  ‘Ricky, boy. That was fantastic. Brilliant show. Fucking brill-eee-ant, mate!’

  ‘Yeah, sure, thanks,’ said Ricky, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘We’ve got to keep this one going.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘This is the big one, Ricky. State of the nation stuff.’

  ‘It’s my mate we’re talking about here. Mickey. You know, Mickey French,’ said Ricky, deliberately. ‘He’s practically on the payroll here.’

  ‘I know, mate. That makes it even better. We’re going to get him the best lawyer money can buy.’

  ‘He says he doesn’t want one. He reckons he’ll be out soon. Self-defence.’

  ‘It isn’t going to go away though. Use your journalist’s instincts. This is huge. Massive. You heard the callers this morning. Mickey’s a hero. He shot dead some scumbag burglar. That’s what they’d all love to do. This is going to be one of those cases which really make a difference. And we’re, you’re, right at the very heart of it. Fuck the sub judice crap. Let me worry about that. Just go for it. Think what it will do for the ratings.’

  ‘You cynical bastard,’ said Ricky. ‘I’m more concerned about Mickey.’

  ‘Me too, mate. Me too. But don’t let’s lose sight of the bigger picture. It’s fantastic radio. Today’s show was a brilliant listen. Rock and fucking roll. You’ll win awards for this.’

  ‘If you say so, Charlie.’ Ricky shrugged, unimpressed.

  ‘I know so, mate. And in your heart of hearts, you know so too. Think about it. People have been waiting for something like this to happen. And it’s fallen into our lap. Ricky Sparke and Rocktalk 99FM just caught fire. Big time.’

  Ricky knew Charlie Lawrence was right. What had Mickey said? Do what you have to do?

  ‘Charlie, you’re a complete cunt, you know that,’ he said.

  ‘That’s MISTER Cunt to you, mate,’ Lawrence laughed. ‘And just to prove I’m a cunt to myself, too, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’

  �
��Go on.’

  ‘Every percentage point we go up in the ratings, I’m going to increase your wages by ten grand. Ten per cent up, that’s a hundred fucking grand. Twenty per cent up, well you work it out for yourself.’

  Ricky could do the numbers. Mickey’s a big boy.

  And you know what they say.

  Every cloud.

  Forty-five

  Wayne Sutton gripped the edge of the antique partner’s desk, his eyes closed, his face pressed sideways down, his earring digging into the embossed leather surface. He chewed gum, nonchalantly.

  His T-shirt rode up exposing his spotty back. His pants and tracksuit trousers were pulled down around his ankles.

  Thwack!

  Wayne felt the rolled-up newspaper smack against his pale, spotty little arse.

  Thwack!

  Again.

  Justin Fromby raised the first edition of the Evening Standard above his head and brought it down again.

  Thwack!

  It never took long.

  Thwack!

  Wayne heard Fromby groan on the sixth stroke. The beating stopped.

  That would be that until tomorrow. Fromby never harmed Wayne. Never used a cane, or riding crop, or anything which might hurt Wayne and leave a mark.

  Never asked him for a blow job. Not even a wank.

  Fromby seemed content to bend Wayne over his desk, or the kitchen table, or the sofa, administer six of the best while tossing himself off at the same time.

  Fromby sometimes spanked him with an oven glove, other times with a warm, damp towel. But most of the time it was a rolled-up copy of the Evening Standard, first edition usually. City Prices.

  Then he’d sit down and read the paper as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Can I get up now?’ Wayne asked.

  ‘Just stay there a second,’ said Fromby, studying Wayne’s bare arse more intently than usual. The newsprint had come off on his buttocks. Maybe Fromby had hit him harder than usual.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Fromby.

  ‘Wotisit?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘OH, SHIT!’ repeated Fromby.

  ‘Mr Fromby? Wossamatter?’ said Wayne, looking over his shoulder.

  The lettering was reversed but you didn’t need a mirror to make out the front-page headline, now faithfully reproduced on the nether regions of Wayne Sutton.

  Fromby slumped back in his captain’s chair and unfurled the Standard.

  Wayne pushed himself away from the desk and rearranged his clothing.

  ‘Wossup, Mr F?’ he asked again.

  Fromby waved him away. ‘Go and put the kettle on or something Wayne, there’s a good lad. And shut the door on your way out.’

  Fromby studied the paper.

  EX-COP KILLS BURGLAR.

  Fromby knew what was coming next.

  A former policeman is believed to have shot and killed an intruder at his home in the village of Heffer’s Bottom.

  The incident happened in the early hours of this morning.

  Police are refusing to reveal either the identity of the dead man or the suspect, who is currently helping with inquiries at Angel Hill police station.

  But Sid Allen, the landlord of the local pub, the Keep & Bear Arms, told Rocktalk 99FM today that Mickey French, who lives in the village, had been taken away by police.

  Mr French is understood to be an ex-Metropolitan Police officer, who served in the weapons division.

  The victim is believed to be a burglar. Mr Allen said there had been a number of burglaries and thefts in the area, which has become a magnet for travellers.

  The rest was a cobbled-together cuttings job on Heffer’s Bottom, a quick recap of the latest burglary figures and a non-committal quote from Scotland Yard. By five o’clock it would fill half the paper.

  Justin Fromby re-read the report half a dozen times. This couldn’t be a coincidence. He hadn’t thought Ilie would go straight out and do it. This had to be him.

  Think, Justin.

  Police are refusing to reveal the identity …

  Did that mean they didn’t know the identity of the victim?

  Or they did know, but weren’t saying?

  Justin grabbed the phone and called Roberta on her private line at Scotland Yard.

  ‘I’m in a meeting,’ she said.

  ‘Then get out of it. Right now,’ Fromby said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the three members of the community relations council sitting opposite her, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Just get out of whatever you’re in the middle of and call me straight back on the mobile,’ said Fromby. ‘It’s raining shit.’

  Roberta’s smile hardened, like an Olympic synchronized swimmer.

  ‘Of course, Home Secretary,’ she said.

  Her guests sat forward and looked at each other. They were impressed.

  Roberta replaced the receiver, entwined her fingers to steady her shaking hands, and spoke to her guests.

  ‘I really am so awfully sorry, ladies and gentlemen. I’m afraid something has come up. I think we had just about finished our business for today, anyway, hadn’t we?’

  They all nodded in agreement.

  ‘In that case, I do hope you’ll be good enough to excuse me. That was, well, you heard, didn’t you? Please forgive me, but when duty calls,’ she said, rolling her eyes upwards and pointing her finger towards the ceiling.

  They all smiled. She showed them out.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

  Roberta asked her secretary to show her guests out and hold all her calls.

  She shut the door and called Justin.

  ‘What the hell is it now?’

  ‘Have you seen the Standard?’ he barked.

  ‘Of course not. I’ve been in meetings all morning.’

  ‘Is this line secure?’

  ‘Is any line?’ she said.

  ‘Can you get away?’

  ‘I suppose so. When?’

  ‘Half, no make it three-quarters, of an hour.’

  ‘Where? I’ve got to be in town for a meeting at the Home Office later this afternoon.’

  ‘The Two Chairmen?’

  ‘You know I can’t been seen in pubs, not with the no-drinking policy. Anywhere round here someone would recognize me.’

  ‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then.’

  ‘It’s full of dossers. Anyway, you’d be clocked in thirty seconds.’

  ‘You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. Get on the tube to Euston. Meet me on the concourse, main line, by the entrance to the underground.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And buy a Standard.’

  She’d read the paper by the time she arrived at Euston. Justin was waiting for her.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘It has to be him, right?’

  ‘You’re the police officer.’

  ‘I told you it was risky.’

  ‘It’s too late for any of that,’ said Justin. ‘We have to think clearly and quickly. When it says they are refusing to reveal his identity, what do they mean?’

  ‘Routine,’ said Roberta. ‘Even if they know, they have to notify next of kin.’

  ‘He hasn’t got any. Not that he told us. Do you think they do know who he is?’

  Roberta looked about her. Passengers milled around them on the concourse. No one took any notice of a middle-aged couple deep in earnest conversation.

  ‘I don’t know. It depends if he was carrying anything to identify him, papers, for instance.’

  ‘He wasn’t carrying them when he was arrested,’ Fromby said.

  ‘Fingerprints,’ Roberta said. ‘They didn’t fingerprint him at the nick, but they did when he entered the country, remember? That’s how I traced his real identity.’

  ‘Shit. Is there anything you can do?’

  ‘He’s in the system,’ she said. ‘I can’t do anything about the immigration service computer. But that’s no problem. They’ll turn him up as asylum-seeker, mark him down as a bur
glar.’

  ‘What about when they check the Yard computer?’ Justin said.

  ‘I might be able to deal with that.’

  ‘We’ve been down this road before,’ said Justin, remembering Tyburn Row.

  ‘I think I can lose it. If not, I can classify it.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘I’m pretty confident. He’s not been charged, though the arrest has been logged.’

  ‘And my involvement?’

  ‘I should be able to wipe the file. Worst case, I’ll just put a block on it. Need to know, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Will anyone be able to get at it?’

  ‘Not without going through me.’

  ‘Won’t that look suspicious?’

  ‘Give me twenty-four hours. This could all work to our advantage,’ she said, patting his cheek.

  ‘Don’t patronize me.’ Justin recoiled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Listen. Last time I let you think of something, look where it got us. Now it’s police business.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Justin.

  ‘Not now, darling,’ said Roberta. ‘No time. I’ve got to go. I have to get back to the Yard before they’ve identified the body. I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

  Forty-six

  It was late afternoon before the file containing the scenes-of-crimes report, the preliminary post mortem and the fingerprints landed on acting DCI Colin Marsden’s desk.

  Let’s find out who he is first, Marsden thought.

  His sergeant had run the prints through the Scotland Yard computer. No match.

  Try the Home Office, immigration, Marsden told him.

  The corpse wasn’t a local gypsy, they knew that now. But he had that Romany look about him. Could be foreign, Eastern European, maybe. Looked a bit like that lad who played for Chelsea.

  The sergeant wasn’t hopeful.

  Just do it, Marsden had ordered him.

  No stone and all that.

  His perseverance paid off.

  Someone at Croydon had done his job properly. A perfect match.

  He was called Gica Dinantu. Country of origin, Romania. Port of entry, etc. Age sixteen. Asylum application number. Address given as a hostel in Tottenham, London N17.

  That would figure. Marsden knew there had been a spate of crimes committed by asylum-seekers in north London. A team of them regularly turned up in Angel Hill, knocking on doors, begging. Young men, women in headscarves and shawls, babes in arms. It had got nasty a couple of times and the woodentops had moved them on.