To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  The pub had been there since the 17th century, an old coaching inn, badly refurbished, strewn with garish banners advertising the delights of all-day happy hours, ‘pubbe grubbe’, ‘kwiz nites’ and karaoke evenings.

  The magistrates’ court opposite shouted at the surviving vernacular. It was a ghastly Seventies concrete edifice, scarred by the elements and two decades of exhaust fumes. Filthy grey net curtains with cigarette burns in them dangled apologetically at the windows. Twenty-five years ago the architect won an award for it.

  Angel Hill had escaped the Blitz largely unscathed, despite the tonnes of Luftwaffe bombs aimed at the local bike factory, switched to munitions manufacture in 1940 for the duration.

  Where the Fokkers had failed, the planners had succeeded in fucking things up, obliterating a once distinguished market town, just as they had throughout England. Cobbles had been dug up and replaced with little red herringbone-pattern bricks, the new municipal acne. Fake Victorian pillars and posts and bus shelters littered the pedestrianized high street. Butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers had given way to video stores and takeaways.

  In the middle of a media scrum, Ricky was standing on the back of the truck, dressed, he thought, like a prize prat in Rocktalk 99FM Spandex bomber jacket and Rocktalk 99FM baseball cap. He was clutching a microphone. Cable stretched across the car park, through the gents’ toilet window and connected to the temporary line installed behind the bar, where the signal was fed back to the Rocktalk studios in central London, before being relayed into the car park over two enormous loudspeakers.

  Cutting-edge technology it wasn’t. But it worked.

  ‘Let’s hear from some of those listeners right now. Madam …’

  Ricky was joined on the back of the truck by an over-weight, peroxide blonde, wearing a tight denim skirt, white trainers and a replica Leyton Orient football shirt. She was waving a Rocktalk 99FM placard bearing the message: FREE MICKEY FRENCH.

  ‘What has brought you here this morning, er …’

  ‘Kaylee.’

  ‘Yeah, Kaylee. Why are you here?’

  ‘We want Mickey out. He done nuffink wrong. He just defended hisself against some thieving gyppo. ‘Bout time someone done sommink.’

  In front of the truck, facing the court, about fifty Rocktalk listeners, predominantly mums and kids with badly scribbled placards, wearing assorted Rocktalk freebies, caps, T-shirts, badges, handed out by Charlie Lawrence’s personal assistant, chanted:

  Free Mickey French.

  Free Mickey French.

  Free Mickey French.

  Rocktalk 99FM broadcast their chants across the airwaves. Mickey could hear it all quite clearly, though he could see nothing out of the obscured windows of the police van.

  He couldn’t see the counter-demonstration, either, organized by the Oppressed Peoples’ Refugee Association Hotline and the Anti-Fascist League. But he could hear their chants, too.

  The leader of the Anti-Fascist League, a bespectacled, greasy-haired man in his early thirties, unstructured suit and collarless shirt clambered onto a wall and hollered into a portable megaphone in the general direction of the Free Mickey French fraternity:

  Dumb, dumb,

  Racist scum.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  RACIST SCUM.

  It was taken up by the forty or so OPRAH and AFL demonstrators.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  RACIST SCUM.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  RACIST SCUM.

  A line of about twenty police officers linked arms and strained to keep the two factions apart.

  FREE MICKEY FRENCH.

  FREE MICKEY FRENCH.

  FREE MICKEY FRENCH.

  Ricky was encouraging his side from his vantage point on the back of the Rocktalk mobile.

  In the Black Maria, Mickey wasn’t quite sure what the hell was going on.

  Outside, a few placards were now being thrown along with the insults. And a few fists. Then a few bottles. TV cameras began to roll. Flashguns fired like a fashion shoot.

  As the Black Maria pulled up into the yard outside the court, the AFL crowd surged towards it. Orchestrated by the man with the megaphone, the demonstrators began banging on the side. Mickey and the young cop were jolted forward.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  RACIST SCUM.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  RACIST SCUM.

  Officers with riot shields peeled off, waded in and began pulling bodies out. The line broke and the pro-Mickey faction charged through.

  A ferocious-looking woman in a pink Ellesse tracksuit was rugby-tackled by a stout WPC.

  A large and especially ugly skinhead in a brand-new Rocktalk 99FM T-shirt headbutted a student waving an AFL banner.

  Rocktalk FM faded to music.

  ‘Babylon is Burning’.

  The Black Maria was rocked this way and that, Mickey and the young cop steadying themselves.

  Two mounted officers from the stables at Angel Hill helped restore order. The rival factions were driven back and separated, contained behind riot shields.

  A uniformed inspector clambered onto the flat-bed of the Rocktalk mobile.

  ‘Calm this fucking lot down or I’m nicking you for incitement, conspiracy and anything else I can think of,’ he shouted at Ricky, who was enjoying himself.

  ‘This is Ricky Sparke, coming live from the Rocktalk 99FM mobile at Angel Hill. While you’ve been away we’ve had a bit of a situation here. The van bringing Mickey French to the court has been viciously attacked by a gang of Trotskyite agitators.

  ‘I would ask our Rocktalk 99FM listeners who have travelled here today to show solidarity with Mickey and not to rise to the provocation. We’re here to see justice done, people. Let’s keep it peaceful.’

  The crowd responded and the inspector appeared mollified. The rear doors of the van swung open and Mickey found himself being bundled out. Everything went dark. Someone had thrown a blanket over his head.

  What the fuck was all this about? Identification wasn’t an issue. He tore off the blanket. He wasn’t being smuggled into court like a fucking nonce, a child-molester or something.

  Mickey’s appearance was greeted with cheering and abuse in equal measure.

  One Mickey French,

  There’s only one Mickey French.

  ONE MICK-EE FRE-ENNCH!

  There’s only one Mickey FRENCH.

  The big skinhead led the singing.

  Say, WE, WANT, MICKEY OUT.

  SAY WE WANT MICKEY OUT.

  Call and response.

  DUMB, DUMB,

  FASCIST SCUM.

  In the confusion, no one saw the bespectacled man in the unstructured suit light the rag in the neck of the milk bottle filled with petrol and hurl it towards the Black Maria.

  It exploded on impact, showering petrol and broken glass and spitting fire.

  The young cop pulled Mickey towards the door.

  The crowd surged again.

  A small child with a banner with FREE MICKY FRECH scrawled on it was trampled underfoot.

  A woman’s dress caught fire. She ripped it off, screaming, to reveal her uncoordinated underwear, red bra, black knickers. Both needed a wash.

  The man in the unstructured suit slipped away.

  Ricky Sparke’s driver had seen enough. He jammed the flat-bed truck into gear and stamped on the accelerator pedal.

  Ricky was thrown backwards, smashing his head on a loudspeaker column. The live link to Rocktalk 99FM was wrenched out of the gents’ toilet window as the lorry careered out of the car park, bouncing off a police van.

  The crowd scattered in all directions. The cops withdrew behind their riot shields. The big skinhead smashed a bay window at the side of the pub as he made good his escape.

  Outside the court a mother cradled her crushed daughter and cried for an ambulance.

  Mickey French was bundled inside and the doors barricaded behind him.

  From an upstairs window, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Roberta Peel sur
veyed the battleground.

  It was all going rather well.

  Fifty-six

  Mickey stood in the dock and entered a formal plea of not guilty.

  The magistrate, a kindly-looking woman of a certain age in white blouse and tailored jacket, invited him to sit.

  ‘I understand you are representing yourself, Mr French,’ she said.

  Mickey rose.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, that is correct.’

  ‘Are you making an application for bail?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘This is a very serious charge, Mr French. You are accused of murder. Bail is not normal in such circumstances.’

  ‘Ma’am, I am aware of that,’ said Mickey, showing all due deference. He could give evidence in court in his sleep, not that he’d slept much lately. But this was the first time he’d addressed the bench from the dock. ‘I would humbly argue that there are grounds for granting my application in these present circumstances.’

  ‘Go on, Mr French,’ said the lady magistrate.

  ‘I am a former police officer, ma’am. I will address the charge I am facing in due course, but I would just like to record the fact that the deceased was an intruder and I was in my own home at the time of the alleged offence. I have no previous record of violence and would submit that I can not be considered in any shape or form to be a threat to the community.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr French,’ said the magistrate. ‘Does the Crown have any objection to bail?’

  Roberta got to her feet.

  ‘May I address the bench, please, your worship?’ she asked.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Deputy Assistant Commissioner Roberta Peel, from Scotland Yard, ma’am. I am leading the investigation.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Roberta took her place in the witness box.

  ‘Ma’am, given the seriousness of the charge, the Metropolitan Police would most strongly oppose the granting of bail in this case. This is a murder inquiry with racial implications. It has already aroused strong public feeling and division, as your worship will have witnessed outside this very court this morning. We are very concerned about the consequences for public order.’

  ‘I see,’ said the magistrate.

  Roberta continued. ‘There are other reasons for opposing bail, quite apart from the seriousness of the charge.’

  ‘Enlighten me, Deputy Assistant Commissioner.’

  ‘We are also concerned about the safety of Mr French, the defendant.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  Yeah, on what grounds? thought Mickey.

  ‘It has come to our attention that there are people who wish Mr French harm. We learned this morning that a contract has been put out on him.’

  ‘You what?’ Mickey interjected.

  ‘Mr French, please,’ said the magistrate. ‘Ms Peel, pray continue.’

  ‘We have been told by an informant that a bounty of £50,000 has been placed on Mr French’s head.’

  ‘And who the hell would do that?’ Mickey snapped.

  ‘Mr French, I won’t tell you again,’ the magistrate chided him. ‘Let me get this straight. You are saying, Ms Peel, that someone has offered £50,000 to anyone who kills Mr French?’

  ‘That is precisely the situation, your worship.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Mickey, regaining his composure.

  ‘Yes, Mr French?’

  ‘May I be permitted to ask just who is supposed to have put a contract out on me? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’d like to know, too. Ms Peel.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to name our informant, obviously,’ said Roberta. ‘But I can say that the contract has been placed within the travelling community.’

  Gyppoes?

  ‘And why would they do that?’ Mickey asked.

  Roberta ignored Mickey and spoke directly to the bench. ‘Ma’am, reporting restrictions are in place here?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the magistrate. ‘I would remind the Press of that fact.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Roberta, ‘without wishing to sound prejudicial, there is a history of violence between Mr French and the travelling community.’

  Mickey shook his head. He could see where this was leading.

  ‘But my understanding, Ms Peel, is that the deceased in this case was of Romanian origin, an asylum-seeker,’ said the magistrate.

  That is correct, your worship.’

  ‘So why, exactly, would the travelling community wish Mr French harm?’

  ‘He has made threats against them in the past.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Mickey interrupted. ‘I’d like to point out that death threats have been made against me by those you refer to as members of the travelling community.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Roberta. ‘And that is one very good reason for the police opposing bail in this case.’

  ‘I’m confused, Ms Peel,’ said the magistrate. ‘Mr French is accused of murdering a Romanian asylum-seeker. Why would the travelling community put a bounty on his head?’

  ‘It will be the Crown’s intention to prove that when Mr French shot Gica Dinantu he believed he was, in fact, shooting a member of the travelling community, as he had previously threatened to do,’ Roberta stated.

  The fit-up was well and truly under way, Mickey thought.

  ‘Mr French?’ The magistrate turned to Mickey.

  ‘Ma’am, I was just wondering why the Deputy Assistant Commissioner had not seen fit to tell me about this mythical contract.’

  ‘There is nothing mythical about it,’ said Roberta. ‘It has only just come to my own attention. I haven’t had an opportunity to convey the information to the defendant.’

  ‘I see,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘Excuse me, your honour,’ said an Australian accent from the back of the court.

  ‘Yes?’ replied the magistrate. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Could I approach the bench?’ asked the man in the designer suit.

  ‘Are you a lawyer?’

  No he fucking isn’t, Mickey said to himself. And what the fuck is he doing here?

  ‘The name’s Lawrence, your holiness. Charles Lawrence, everyone calls me Charlie.’

  ‘I shall call you Mr Lawrence,’ said the magistrate, concerned that her courtroom was becoming a three-ring circus. ‘I repeat, are you a lawyer?’

  ‘No, your highness,’ said Charlie, stooping like a third-rate Uriah Heep.

  ‘I am not your highness, your holiness, or your honour. This is not Buckingham Palace, the Vatican or Perry Mason. Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I am the programme director of Rocktalk 99FM, your, er, um, madam. Mr French drives for one of our presenters, Ricky Sparke. You may have heard of him.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ scowled the magistrate.

  ‘Nine till twelve, weekdays, very popular.’

  ‘Get on with it, or I shall hold you in contempt.’

  ‘Well, fine, it’s, er, like this, your, er. Anyway, that sort of makes Mickey here, Mr French, a kind of employee of the radio station and in that regard I am authorized to offer £1 million bail.’

  ‘A million pounds?’ spluttered the astonished magistrate.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a cheque right here in my briefcase. Just tell me who I make it out to.’

  Mickey sat speechless.

  ‘Ma’am,’ interjected Roberta, ‘this is highly irregular. This, this, stunt, changes nothing. For all the reasons I have stated, the Metropolitan Police urges you not to grant bail in this case.’

  ‘Mr French, have you anything to say?’ the magistrate asked.

  ‘Only to reiterate what I said earlier, ma’am. I have no intention of absconding and I present no threat to the public.’

  The magistrate consulted her papers.

  ‘I appreciate that, Mr French. But taking into consideration everything Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel has said and given the continuing threat to your own safety, I’m afraid I�
��m going to have to turn down your application. Bail is denied. You will be remanded in custody. Take him down.’

  Mickey slumped forward. He’d convinced himself he’d be freed on bail. What about Andi? What about the kids? He had to talk to her.

  Roberta looked on triumphantly as Mickey was led down the steps to the cells.

  The court was adjourned. Charlie Lawrence took out his mobile and broke the bad news to Ricky, now parked up in a layby a couple of miles away, nursing a gashed head.

  Mickey sat in his cell, awaiting transport to Paxton, the nearest remand prison, contemplating his next move. He hadn’t planned for this eventuality. He’d been certain he’d make bail.

  He could apply to a judge in chambers. But that would involve a brief. Mickey wanted to keep it simple. And, anyway, he couldn’t afford silk and he knew he wouldn’t get legal aid.

  Rocktalk 99FM would probably pay for a lawyer. They were milking it for all it was worth. But Mickey wasn’t sure Charlie Lawrence’s million-pound bail stunt had done him any favours.

  He decided to sit tight overnight. The inquest would be opened and adjourned tomorrow. He’d take a view after that.

  If Peel was right, he’d be safer behind bars. But where had the death threat come from?

  Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Why would the pikeys put a price on his head? It didn’t make sense, despite the best efforts of Peel to rationalize it in court. He needed to talk to Marsden.

  There was a game going on here and Mickey was already well behind on away goals.

  His thoughts were not for himself, but for his wife and family. They say ignorance is bliss, but in this case ignorance of Mickey’s predicament would have Andi worried sick.

  They hadn’t spoken for several days. She’d have tried home, she’d have tried his mobile. She’d have tried her mum too. What if her mum had seen it on the news? Maybe she’d tried Ricky. Would Ricky have told her Mickey was in jail or wouldn’t he want to alarm her?

  Ricky would be sure to visit him in Paxton. They’d work something out. He didn’t want the kids told and he wanted Andi to stay put. There was nothing she could do and, with the Press sniffing round everywhere, she’d be well off out of it, tucked up in Zero Beach, Florida.