To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘Wherever it leads, ma’am.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll interview the prisoner shortly. Perhaps you could get me a cup of coffee from the canteen, Colin. I’m parched.’

  Marsden wasn’t quite sure that a detective chief inspector should be running errands to the canteen. Not even an acting detective chief inspector. But what the hell, he was off the hook. He could do with the walk.

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am. Milk and sugar?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Roberta smiled, patting her stomach. ‘I have to watch my figure.’ She could be quite coquettish when she felt like it. For a Deputy Assistant Commissioner.

  Marsden looked properly at DAC Peel for the first time.

  Nice tits, he thought.

  Fifty-two

  Roberta dialled Justin on his mobile. She caught him on his way from a meeting at the Smith Square headquarters of the Consolidated Union of National Trades Societies.

  His phone rang as he was walking past a pub called the Marquis of Granby, a notorious den of political plotters.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said, grumpily. ‘I’ve been trying to call you. I kept getting unobtainable.’

  ‘I’ve been busy. I switched the phone off. I didn’t want to be disturbed. Anyway, reception isn’t great out here,’ she said.

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Angel Hill.’

  ‘Isn’t that where …?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What are you doing out there?’

  ‘I am leading the Mickey French murder investigation.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  Justin stopped in his tracks and ducked into a doorway.

  ‘I’m on the case.’

  ‘How the hell did that happen?’

  ‘The Commissioner asked me to oversee the investigation after a request from the Home Secretary,’ she explained.

  ‘And I can guess where the Home Secretary got the idea from. Roberta, what on earth are you playing at?’

  ‘It’s called damage limitation.’

  ‘It’s called insanity.’

  ‘No, Justin, we’ve tried insanity. That was your idea. Now we’re going to do things my way.’

  ‘But French has still got his Get Out of Jail card.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Fromby didn’t push her. Walls have ears. And so do the Funny People. Justin was convinced his calls were constantly monitored by the security services. He’d seen The Conversation once too often. Students’ Union paranoia.

  Still, just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  ‘You know the media are trying to turn French into some kind of hero. He was on the radio this morning, pleading his innocence,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t remind me. There’s a custody sergeant downstairs filling out an application to join Group 4.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Justin fretted.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Roberta. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m filling out my application to be the next Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.’

  Marsden retrieved Mickey from the cells and led him along the corridor towards the interview room.

  ‘What the fuck were you thinking about, Mickey?’ he asked.

  ‘Survival,’ said Mickey. ‘I can see the way this one is going. Decided to get myself some outside help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just phone a brief?’

  ‘I don’t need a brief. I know the law inside out. I did twenty-five years in the Job and spent my convalescence studying law.’

  ‘So why the phone call to the radio station?’

  ‘I only intended to call Ricky, keep him up to speed. I’d forgotten he was on air. You lose all track of time in here. His producer put me through while a record was playing – Lovin’ Spoonful, I think it was – and Ricky just talked me into it. Next thing I was on live.’

  ‘Come off it, Mickey. You know the rules on sub judice.’

  ‘Sure, they’re designed to prevent any public comment which could prejudice my defence,’ Mickey said.

  ‘Any comment which may prejudice any aspect of the case,’ Marsden corrected him.

  ‘Whatever. But it’s my neck on the line. I just thought the world should know the facts before the system has had a chance to twist them.’

  ‘You’ll get your day in court,’ Marsden said.

  ‘I’d rather take my chances in the court of public opinion,’ said Mickey.

  ‘You’ve probably cost Ted his job,’ said Marsden.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Look, let me talk to the Chief Super, uniform, I’ll put in a word, explain it wasn’t Ted’s fault.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s gone way beyond that,’ said Marsden, showing Mickey into the room. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘What do you mean, beyond that?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Marsden.

  At that moment, Roberta walked into the interview room.

  Mickey was amazed to see her, but didn’t show it.

  Marsden introduced her. ‘This is Deputy Assistant Commissioner Roberta Peel.’

  ‘Hello, Bobby,’ said Mickey.

  Bobby?

  No one had called her that for years. Not even behind her back.

  ‘I take the full Roberta,’ she reminded Mickey.

  ‘So I’ve heard, love,’ Mickey chuckled.

  For a split second, they were back in the canteen at Tyburn Row.

  Marsden didn’t know where to look. He was sure Roberta blushed.

  ‘For the purposes of this interview, you can call me Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Ms Peel, or ma’am,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ll call you whatever I like,’ Mickey said.

  ‘Let me remind you this is a police station,’ said Roberta, formally.

  ‘And let me remind you that I am no longer a police officer, Bobby, my precious. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘And let me also remind you that you are still under caution and that this is a murder inquiry. Can we proceed?’

  Marsden switched on the dual tape deck and went through the formalities.

  ‘You don’t deny shooting Gica Dinantu,’ Roberta said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You maintain you acted in self-defence?’

  ‘Correct. Look, I’ve been through all that with him,’ said Mickey, nodding in the direction of Marsden.

  ‘I am now running this investigation,’ Roberta informed him.

  ‘Why you, Bobby?’

  ‘It was decided that the case should be handled, with no disrespect to the acting detective chief inspector, by a more experienced officer.’

  Mickey threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Roberta said.

  ‘What have you ever done? Be honest, Bobby. Hendon, Bramshill, bit of juvenile, domestic, community relations, a couple of years signing exes and shifting desks around a division. Secondment to the Home Office, a few policy committees, rape, sexual harassment. Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot, the rubber heels, CIB. Investigating other coppers. You enjoyed that, didn’t you, sweetheart? Put a few pips on your sleeve.’

  ‘If you’ve quite finished. I am running this interview,’ she interrupted him.

  ‘Not quite. Tell me this. Which was the last murder case you investigated?’

  Roberta sat silent, stony-faced.

  ‘I thought so. This kid here,’ said Mickey, pointing to Marsden, ‘what are you, son, thirty-five, thirty-six?’

  Marsden, too, stayed silent.

  ‘This kid has investigated more proper cases in his lunchhour than you have in twenty years. He’s good, too.’

  Marsden shrivelled inside with embarrassment.

  Roberta decided to let it pass. But she’d made up her mind. She was going to hang Mickey French.

  She used to have a soft spot for him, all those years back at Tyburn Row.
He hadn’t buried her when he could have done.

  Now he’d just humiliated her in front of a junior officer. A male junior officer.

  And his Get Out of Jail card was safely locked away in her briefcase. He couldn’t hurt her any more.

  For a man facing a murder charge and a possible life sentence, Mickey was enjoying himself.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I buy the senior officer bit. But why you, Bobby?’

  ‘The Commissioner asked me to take over the investigation.’

  ‘No, you’re not hearing me. Why not a DCS, from division? Or even a Commander from the Yard? Why you?’

  Marsden had been wondering the very same thing. What the fuck was a DAC doing out here at Angel Hill?

  ‘Let’s get on with this, shall we?’ said Roberta.

  ‘Fire away, pet,’ Mickey invited her.

  ‘The day in question, you had been drinking heavily.’

  ‘I’d had a few.’

  Roberta picked up Mickey’s earlier statement.

  ‘Four or five measures of spirits,’ she began to read.

  ‘Large vodkas, splash of tonic, plenty of ice, no lemon,’ Mickey enlightened her. ‘And one for yourself, love.’

  Roberta refused to rise to the bait.

  ‘Two bottles of wine. We also found an empty bottle of whisky in the house, isn’t that right, inspector?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Marsden confirmed.

  ‘How much was in the bottle when you started drinking the whisky?’

  ‘I forget.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. This is what you call “a few”, is it?’

  ‘On a quiet day,’ said Mickey.

  ‘I have here the results of your blood test, back-timed at the lab. Your blood-alcohol content was nine times the legal drink-drive limit. Enough, apparently, to kill some people.’

  ‘I wasn’t driving.’

  ‘No, but you were handling guns.’

  ‘I wasn’t pissed. Ask him. He was there.’

  Roberta ploughed on.

  ‘According to the medical reports you were clinically dead, never mind intoxicated.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Let’s leave those to one side for the moment,’ Roberta said. ‘And consider motive.’

  ‘The only motive I had was protecting my own life.’

  ‘What made you think it might be in danger?’

  ‘Do we have to go over this again? I’ve already told him,’ Mickey said, once again darting his eyes towards Marsden. ‘Threats had been made against my life, my home had been trashed, my cat had been killed, for fuck’s sake. This is all on record. Your boys attended. Read the reports.’

  ‘I have,’ said Roberta.

  NEX TIM ITS YOU COZZER

  ‘The problem we have here is that the man you killed was not one of those you claim made the alleged threats against you,’ Roberta said.

  ‘Alleged?’

  ‘Yes, alleged.’

  ‘If it wasn’t the pikeys, who the fuck was it?’

  ‘You don’t like members of the travelling community, do you?’ asked Roberta, her eyes down, studying her papers.

  Mickey paused. He could see where this was leading.

  ‘In fact, you don’t like gypsies, full stop.’

  Mickey said nothing.

  ‘Let me read this to you. “If those fucking pikeys come anywhere near me, my family or my house again, I’ll blow their fucking heads off.” Do you deny saying that?’

  Mickey remained silent.

  ‘It’s all here, on paper. We haven’t exactly been sitting around on our backsides while you’ve been in custody. We’ve been knocking on doors, talking to local people. It’s called police work. You may remember it. We have built up a fascinating picture. Do you deny saying it?’

  Mickey cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Let’s try again.’ Roberta read slowly and deliberately, without emotion, like the Speaking Clock. ‘Try this. “Don’t give me multi-fucking-culturalism. The only culture these fucking pikeys have is thieving. I’d have given them a kicking until they put their hands up to it, fucking thieving dids. I dunno why I even bothered calling you. I might just as well go round there myself and sort it.” It’s all here, in PC, er …’ Roberta hesitated.

  ‘Smith,’ Marsden prompted her. ‘PC Ramsay Smith.’

  ‘Thank you. In PC Smith’s report. Do you deny saying any of this?’

  ‘What’s your point?’ said Mickey, knowing perfectly well what her point was.

  ‘What this says to me is that I am looking at a racist with violent tendencies who had made previous threats to kill.’

  ‘You are taking the piss?’

  ‘I have never been more serious in my life,’ said Roberta.

  ‘What has any of this got to do with this case?’

  ‘Admit it, Mickey, you’re a Romaphobe,’ snapped Roberta.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A Romaphobe.’

  ‘Oh, very good. Just think that up, did you, pet? The Home Secretary will be proud of you.’

  Roberta ploughed on. ‘You clearly have an irrational hatred of gypsies. The dead man, Dinantu, is a gypsy. You couldn’t believe your luck when he walked into your house. An ideal opportunity to “blow his fucking head off”.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Mickey was getting agitated.

  There was a fit-up underway. A subtle fit-up, but a fit-up nevertheless. Careful, Mickey.

  ‘It was dark. How the hell was I supposed to know he was a gypsy?’

  ‘You assumed he was one of the “pikeys”.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And that’s why you killed him. Because you thought he was a “pikey”’ – pause for emphasis – ‘and you had previously threatened to kill any “pikey”’ – pause again – ‘who came anywhere near you or your family.’

  ‘But he wasn’t a fucking pikey,’ Mickey reminded her.

  ‘No, he may not have been what you refer to as a “pikey”,’ said Roberta, holding the word as far away from her nose as possible. ‘But he was a guest in our country, a member of a persecuted minority. And he was an innocent victim of your vendetta against the travelling community. You were drunk, we’ve already established that, and you were driven to murder out of racial hatred. I’m treating this as a hate crime. Classic Romaphobic behaviour.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all now. You people have got a category for everyone, a slogan for every occasion. Fucking Romafuckingphobia. Do me a favour. What the hell was this innocent character doing crashing into my home in the middle of the night? Ask yourself that. Come to borrow a cup of fucking sugar?’ Mickey rose to his feet and slammed the palms of his hands on the table.

  ‘For the tape, prisoner rises to his feet aggressively,’ said Roberta.

  ‘Listen, let’s kill this Romaphobic bollocks stone dead right now. We’re not talking Raggle Taggle Gypsies here, roasting hedgehogs round the campfire, flogging lucky heather and a packet of pegs. We’re not even talking “tarmac yer droive, sor”. We’re talking so-called “travellers” who never travel any further than the DSS and the nearest off-licence. And others who’ll travel a hundred miles from home to burgle an antiques dealer. Organized criminal gangs, outlaws.’

  Mickey was on a roll. ‘As for so-called hate crime? Let me tell you something, sweetheart. I don’t hate anyone because of their race, creed, colour, whatever. I’ll tell you who I do hate, though. I hate scavenging, thieving bastards. I hate burglars. I hate people who make other people’s lives a misery. Most of all I hate people who break into my house, kill my cat, threaten me and my family. And in this case they just happen to be pikeys. Satisfied?’

  ‘Sit down, French,’ Roberta commanded him.

  Mickey composed himself.

  ‘Anyone else you hate?’ she asked casually.

  Self-righteous bastards like you, Mickey thought.

  ‘Very well,’ said Roberta. ‘Let’s return to the facts of this particular shooting, shall we? You gunned him down in cold blood
, gave him no opportunity to identify himself or retreat from the situation.’

  ‘How many more times?’ said Mickey, in exasperation. ‘I did what I was trained to do. You know the law. Criminal Justice Act 1967. “A person may use such force as is reasonable in the circumstances in the prevention of a crime; when force for a purpose is justified by that purpose.”’

  ‘That is for a jury to decide. I am satisfied that I have enough to charge you with murder. You will be formally charged shortly, re-advised of your rights and brought before a magistrate in the morning,’ said Roberta. ‘Is there anything else you would like to say before we conclude this interview?’

  ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?’ said Mickey.

  Fifty-three

  Marsden led Mickey back down towards the cells. As they rounded a corner at the foot of the stairwell, he stopped and pushed Mickey into the gents’ toilet.

  Checking, double-checking, treble-checking traps one, two and three, until he was confident they could not be seen or overheard, Marsden spoke.

  ‘Stand there and make like you’re having a piss,’ he told Mickey.

  Mickey did as he was told.

  ‘You don’t do yourself any favours, do you?’ said Marsden.

  Mickey shrugged.

  Marsden continued, in hushed tones: ‘You went out of your way to antagonize her.’

  ‘Just my way of being friendly,’ Mickey said, saturating a stray dog-end in the urinal. He thought he might as well make the most of it.

  ‘It’s about time you started taking this seriously. She’s going to charge you with murder.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘You heard her in there. Murder, racial motive.’

  ‘What do you think, Colin?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘She’s got a lot going for her – the blood-alcohol level, the previous threats you’d made. It doesn’t look good. She’s going to squeeze your bollocks until your eyes pop out. And you’re handing them to her on a silver platter.’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I told you,’ Marsden said, ‘I was always going to play this by the numbers. Straight down the middle. I booked you in on suspicion of murder because that was the right thing to do. But, between us and these four shit-house walls, I couldn’t see anything over and above manslaughter at best.’