To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘And?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to turn into a witch-hunt.’

  ‘Welcome to the bonfire party, inspector,’ said Mickey.

  ‘There’s something here you’re not telling me. Something I don’t know,’ said Marsden. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ said Mickey.

  ‘It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Go away and do your sums again, then, inspector, because I can’t help you. Find out more about this Dinantu character, for a start. What he was doing at my house.’

  ‘We’re on to it.’

  ‘Oh, one thing I can tell you,’ Mickey said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you said you found a can of petrol outside the house?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s been puzzling me.’

  ‘It definitely doesn’t belong to me.’

  ‘Can you explain how it got there?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Mickey.

  ‘I’ve sent it to the lab, for dabs, anyway,’ said Marsden. ‘Another thing. What was all this “Bobby” business?’

  ‘We’ve got history,’ Mickey said, ‘me and the DAC.’

  ‘I’d deduced that much for myself.’

  ‘We worked together, donkey’s years ago. I was a Plod and she was a probationary Plonk …’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Tyburn Row.’

  ‘Tyburn Row? That was where you and Dad served together.’

  ‘Correct. She didn’t tell you she knew your dad, did she?’

  ‘No,’ said Marsden, puzzled.

  Why not?

  Half an hour later, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Roberta Peel strode into the custody area and asked to see the prisoner in his cell.

  Alone.

  The new custody sergeant thought it might be some kind of test. He told Roberta that under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act a prisoner could not be interviewed in his cell.

  If she had more questions to put to the prisoner she would have to book him out of custody and into a formal interview room.

  ‘You’re absolutely correct, sergeant,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see someone here follows procedure.’

  The sergeant looked relieved.

  ‘However, I don’t want to reinterview French, merely verify a couple of details.’ Roberta smiled.

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am, with respect. Perhaps you should speak to the inspector.’

  ‘He’s not in his office, sergeant. I just came by. It was empty. I will take full responsibility.’

  ‘I’ll make a note in the custody record, ma’am.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. As I said, this is completely informal.’

  ‘Very well, ma’am, if you insist,’ he said, still unsure.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant.’

  ‘I’ll have to leave the door open,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ Roberta insisted.

  The sergeant unlocked the cell door and stood back two paces.

  ‘That’s OK, sergeant. I won’t be a minute. I’m sure you have some paperwork to attend to. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’

  The sergeant could take a hint.

  Mickey was sitting on his head with his hands folded behind his head and his legs straight out in front of him.

  ‘Hello, Bobby, you changed your mind then?’

  ‘Changed my mind?’ said Roberta.

  ‘Yeah. You know, when I said “I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?” I didn’t expect you to take me up on it.’

  ‘Just shut up and listen,’ said Roberta, exasperated.

  Yes, ma’am,’ Mickey saluted, sarcastically.

  ‘You disappoint me, Mickey. I really thought that you were better than the other canteen clowns.’

  ‘And I once thought that you’d make a good cop,’ said Mickey. ‘Look at yourself now. A fucking social worker with scrambled egg on her hat. I should have dropped you in it when I had the opportunity. Done the world a favour, stopped you and your boyfriend in your tracks.’

  ‘Oh, but you didn’t, Mickey.’

  ‘To my eternal regret. How’s that Rod Stewart song go? I wish, that, I knew what I know now, when I was younger.’

  ‘Too late, Mickey.’

  ‘It’s never too late, Bobby, my love.’

  ‘Oh, but it is.’

  ‘Are you forgetting?’

  ‘Certainly not. But you’ll never be able to use it.’

  ‘What, you think, because I’m implicated? I’m already looking at murder. What difference is a bit of withholding evidence twenty-odd years ago going to make?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘You’ll never be able to use it. None of it.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ Now Mickey was getting curious.

  ‘It’s amazing what you turn up when you search a crime scene, thoroughly. You come across all sorts of things – knives, cassette tapes, official documents.’

  Roberta flashed him a sweet, sarcastic smile.

  ‘Oh, incidentally,’ she said, ‘how was Worthing in 1981?’

  By 5.30 pm about thirty people were picketing the main entrance of Angel Hill police station, carrying Free Mickey French placards and wearing Rocktalk 99FM T-shirts. They were outnumbered by photographers, reporters and television camera crews.

  At 7.35 pm, the Press Office at Scotland Yard announced that Michael Edward French had been formally charged with the murder of Gica Dinantu.

  Fifty-four

  ‘My god, you sound completely different,’ said Justin.

  ‘I was so much younger then. We all were.’ Roberta sipped a glass of chilled Premier Cru Chablis.

  They’d come a long way from the rough, screw-top red wine of their student days.

  Justin had been about to open a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon but Roberta cautioned against premature celebration.

  ‘Not just younger. You were much plummier,’ Justin teased her.

  ‘You can talk.’ Roberta laughed. ‘There’s not a trace of the Nottinghamshire coalfields in your accent these days. When I knew you, you sounded like something out of D H Lawrence.’

  ‘We all adjust, darling,’ said Justin, camping it up. His modern accent was a model of glottal stops and dropped aitches, sometimes David Mellor, other times Tony Blair, occasionally Mick Jagger. He could switch effortlessly from Estuary to Etonian, sometimes in the course of the same sentence.

  They were reclining on the sofa in Justin’s study in Dartmouth Park, listening to the Tyburn Row tape.

  ‘I still can’t believe you had the nerve,’ he said.

  ‘She who dares, darling.’

  ‘But weren’t you worried about being caught?’

  ‘Why should I have been? I had a perfectly legitimate reason to be there. I am a high-ranking police officer leading a murder inquiry at the personal behest of the Commissioner and the Home Secretary. It is quite natural that I would want to conduct a thorough search of the crime scene,’ Roberta said.

  ‘Even the attic? How would you have explained that? Looking for Anne Frank?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I found what I was looking for. We’re in the clear.’

  ‘You sound confident,’ said Justin, ‘but what if French starts shouting his mouth off, making wild accusations?’

  ‘Who would believe him? He’s just been charged with murder. What good would it do him? He doesn’t know anything about our …’

  ‘… our involvement?’ Justin prompted her.

  ‘He never will. Only three of us know what Dinantu, Popescu, whoever he was, was doing there. Two of us aren’t saying and the other one is dead,’ Roberta continued.

  She poured them another glass of wine.

  ‘Did Wayne have any idea who he was?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a clue. Just another client, as far as he was concerned.’

  ‘In which case, there’s absolutely nothing to link us to the body,’ said Roberta, draini
ng the glass.

  ‘And now, thanks to you, nothing to link us to Gibbs, Marsden, French, Tyburn Row,’ he said. ‘But let’s make absolutely sure of that.’

  He walked over to the cassette deck, turned to Roberta and asked: ‘Want to hear it once more for old times’ sake?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Justin pressed the erase button and wiped away the past.

  He took the documents from the wallet and fed them into his shredder.

  ‘What about the knife?’ asked Roberta.

  ‘I’ll dump it tomorrow. Drop it in Highgate Ponds or something.’

  ‘No don’t do that, darling,’ she purred, fondling the handle, running her tongue over the ivory surface. ‘I’ve become quite attached to it.’

  Twenty minutes later they returned from the bedroom. Justin opened another bottle of Chablis and Roberta rubbed a little Savlon into the handcuff burns on her wrists and ankles.

  ‘How strong is his reasonable force defence?’ asked Justin.

  ‘You tell me, you’re the lawyer.’

  ‘It’s a moot point. It could go either way. You know as well as I do that householders are allowed to use reasonable force when confronted by an intruder or to protect their own lives. But what is “reasonable”? The law isn’t precise. Consider the two most famous cases. Kenneth Noye, a career criminal, killed an undercover policeman in the grounds of his home and walked. Tony Martin, a farmer with no previous, killed a burglar and was convicted of murder. It depends on the vigour with which the police choose to prosecute, the attitude of the trial judge and, of course, the jury. Then there’s the inquest verdict, too. That can have a bearing.’

  The inquest would come first. Once Mickey had been charged, the formal coroner’s inquiry into cause of death would be opened and adjourned.

  ‘The police will prosecute this with extreme vigour,’ Roberta assured him. ‘The judge? That can probably be arranged. The jury?’

  ‘I’ve tried a couple of cases out at Angel Hill,’ said Justin. ‘Unpredictable. It’s still quite a tight-knit community. Lots of emigrants from the East End and north London. Predominantly white, aspirational working class. They all voted Thatcher in the Eighties. It’s a fair bet most of them would sympathize with French. They’ve more than likely been burgled themselves a few times. You’ve heard the reaction on the phone-ins already. A quick trial and my money would be on an acquittal. Best try and drag it out for a year or so and get the case moved to the Old Bailey. Once the heat has gone out of it, everyone will have forgotten about Mickey French and you’re in with a chance. The prosecution will get more help from a judge at the Bailey than a circuit judge.’

  ‘There’s a powerful head of steam building up behind French,’ said Roberta. ‘When I left Angel Hill tonight there was already a demonstration outside. We’re drafting in more officers for the magistrates’ court tomorrow.’

  ‘All of this influences a jury. And the tabloids are having a field day,’ Justin said.

  ‘Then we’re just going to have to redress the balance. We mustn’t let the French camp make all the running.’

  ‘What about sub judice?’ said Justin, the lawyer in him ringing alarm bells.

  ‘Technically, the whole case became sub judice the moment French was arrested. But he’s the one who waived his rights when he went live on the radio, pleading his innocence.’

  ‘I’m not sure a judge would see it like that. He’ll stamp on anything which could prejudice a fair trial.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. All I want to do is even up the odds a bit. What’s to stop you, for instance, in your capacity as a member of the Oppressed Peoples’ Refugee Association Hotline expressing your concerns about the rise of racism directed at asylum-seekers?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Justin.

  ‘Right. Well, put yourself about a bit. Call in a few favours. Get yourself on the BBC tomorrow. I’ve got another idea. Throw me the phone book.’

  Roberta flicked through the pages of the north London telephone directory and found the number she was looking for.

  After half a dozen rings, a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Georgia?’ said Roberta.

  ‘Whoozat?’

  ‘Georgia Claye? It’s Roberta here. Roberta Peel.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Roberta could hear coughing at the other end. ‘Georgia?’

  ‘Oh shit, fuck it.’

  ‘Georgia, are you all right?’ asked Roberta.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I just set fire to the wastepaper basket. Sorry.’

  ‘Georgia, how are you?’

  ‘Wozallzisabout? I don’t hear from you for, I dunno, fuck knows how long, and now you’re ringing at this time of night – what time is it, anyway? – to inquire after my health.’ She sounded pissed off. And pissed.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Georgia. If it’s not convenient.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Just hang on a minute.’

  Roberta could hear a gentle skssshhh, as the ring pull released the pressure from the can.

  Georgia took a slug of extra-strength cider.

  ‘Now then,’ Georgia said, as equilibrium returned to her alcohol stream. ‘To what do I owe this honour after all these years?’ she asked her old university classmate.

  ‘I know we sort of drifted apart after I …’ Roberta began.

  ‘… sold out is the expression you’re looking for.’

  ‘… after I joined the police service,’ Roberta ploughed on. ‘I just wanted to say that though we haven’t seen much of each other, I have been following your career with great interest. I really admire your work. Some of your articles in the Clarion have absolutely reflected my own thoughts.’

  What the fuck does she want? thought Georgia, taking another slug of Olde Bowel Loosener.

  ‘Your exposés of police corruption have been invaluable,’ Roberta flattered her.

  Eh?

  Roberta continued. ‘I know you may find this hard to believe, but we are on the same side, you know. While you have been toiling away on the outside, I have been working hard on the inside to reform the police service and stamp out corruption. Your articles have been invaluable to me.’

  Fuck me sideways, Georgia thought to herself. But she was always up for a bit of praise, from whichever direction it came.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Roberta,’ she said. ‘But that’s not why you’ve rung me up in the middle of the night, is it?’

  ‘Indirectly, yes it is, actually,’ said Roberta. ‘As I said, your work has been very helpful to me and I’d like to repay the compliment. I think I have something which may be very helpful to you.’

  ‘Go on.’ Georgia put down the can of cider. She was getting excited. She needed a big break.

  ‘Well, you are familiar with this shooting out at Angel Hill?’

  ‘The ex-cop and the asylum-seeker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mickey French. She’d invited him indoors one night, made it clear what was on offer, when he gave her a lift back from Spider’s. Georgia seemed to remember trying to give him a blow job as he was driving her home, along Upper Street, Islington. But he wasn’t having any of it. Fuck him. Or not, as it turned out.

  ‘Yeah, I know what I’ve read, what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Look, Georgia, I can trust you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s much more to this story. I just thought you, the Clarion, might be interested in a bit of background.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Perhaps I could drop round in, say, half an hour?’

  ‘Er, yeah, why not,’ Georgia agreed, wondering how she was going to tidy up the debris in thirty minutes.

  ‘Great, I think you’ll find it worth your while.’

  ‘I’ll, er, put the kettle on,’ Georgia said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Please don’t go to any trouble,’ said Roberta. ‘Oh, and you do know?’

  ‘Know what?’

 
; ‘This is all background. Deep background.’

  ‘Absolutely. I know how it works.’

  ‘Strictly off the record.’

  Off the record, off the wall, off the fucking Richter Scale. Any way Roberta wanted it. Georgia Claye, investigative reporter, was back in business.

  Big time.

  Fifty-five

  Mickey sat on the hard bench in the back of the Black Maria handcuffed to a uniformed PC.

  ‘What’s with the cuffs?’ he’d asked Marsden.

  ‘She insisted,’ was the reply.

  Mickey had shaved, but shower privileges had been withdrawn on the orders of DAC Peel. His clean shirt was now two days old. He stank of prison cell, a mixture of perspiration, boiled cabbage and stale piss.

  He’d lost count of the number of times he’d made this kind of journey. Over the years, he’d been handcuffed to armed robbers, terrorists, murderers. At Paddington he’d spent the best part of a fortnight handcuffed to an Arab hijacker.

  Now he was handcuffed to a police officer. And he was the one being accused of murder.

  The young cop to whom he was joined at the wrist was apologetic. Mickey told him not to worry.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have made that phone call to Ricky, gone live on air.

  Too late.

  He was going to have to get out of this somehow.

  Andi. The kids. Shit, she must have tried ringing.

  Still, he’d get bail. Certain.

  Certain?

  Yeah, sweet.

  The magistrates would know he wasn’t about to do a runner. Ex-cop, distinguished service record.

  He’d call Andi just as soon as he got out. Explain everything.

  As the van approached Angel Hill court, Mickey heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. This is Ricky Sparke coming to you live from the Rocktalk 99FM mobile outside Angel Hill magistrates, where in a few short minutes Mickey French will appear on a charge of murder, simply for defending himself and his property from a violent intruder.

  ‘I’m delighted to say we are joined here this morning by dozens of loyal Rocktalk 99FM listeners determined to protest about Mickey’s detention and demand his release.’

  Until last night, Rocktalk 99FM had not possessed a mobile outside-broadcast studio.

  Then Charlie Lawrence had a brainwave. He hired a flat-bed pick-up truck, hastily decked it out with Rocktalk 99FM decals and bunting and bunged a BT engineer a monkey to set up an ISDN digital phone line in the pub opposite Angel Hill magistrates’ court.