To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘All day is something I haven’t got.’

  ‘Good. There’s another test. Police-issue bullets have steel jackets and leave no residue in the barrel. The soft-nose have no jacket and always leave behind them minute traces of lead,’ the technician explained.

  ‘And?’ Marsden was riveted.

  ‘The Glock barrel was clean. The second two could not possibly have been fired from that gun.’

  ‘Positive?’

  ‘Absolutely, stake my job on it,’ the technician said.

  ‘A bloke’s life may be staked on it,’ Marsden told him.

  ‘I read the papers,’ the technician said.

  Marsden put the briefcase down on the desk and opened it. ‘Something else for you.’

  ‘Keltec Sub-9.’ The technician recognized it immediately. ‘Could those two,’ Marsden said, pointing to the second pair of bullets, ‘have come from this?’

  ‘Entirely possible,’ said the technician. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Eighty

  ‘You’re listening to Rocktalk 99FM. I’m Ricky Sparke. These are the latest headlines. The Prime Minister flew back to London today amid growing unrest. There were clashes in Tottenham between asylum-seekers and local skinheads. One man was stabbed and three others taken to hospital. Police made four arrests, one for wounding with intent and three others for parking on a zigzag line.

  ‘As barricades remained up during another night of looting in Brixton, the Prime Minister appealed for calm.

  ‘The latest opinion polls show the government trailing the opposition by fourteen points in the Angel Hill by-election. Voters are expressing concerns about the government’s perceived weakness over law and order and illegal immigration.

  ‘The Home Secretary, in an exclusive interview with Rocktalk 99FM, emphasized that Britain would continue to provide a safe haven for genuine refugees but said the rules would be re-examined. He deplored the recent violence in the capital and said he had reminded the Metropolitan Police of their responsibility to the whole community. The Home Secretary would not comment on reports that the Crown Prosecution Service had been asked to re-examine the papers in the Mickey French case, but would say that the Prime Minister was personally concerned with redressing the rights of householders to protect their property.

  ‘We’ll bring you the latest developments throughout the day here on Rocktalk 99FM. In a few minutes I’ll be joined by a very special guest and bringing you another Rocktalk 99FM exclusive. That’s after we’ve heard from Bob Marley and the Wailers, from the Lyceum concert. “Burnin’ and Lootin’’’.’

  Ricky Sparke’s special guest was shown into the studio personally by Charlie Lawrence. As the Wailers faded, Ricky introduced him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, my special guest on the programme today, and it’s a pleasure to welcome him, is Everton Gibbs. Mr Gibbs has risen from humble beginnings on one of London’s most run-down estates to a position of prominence on the Commission for Racial Equality. A very warm welcome to you Mr Gibbs.’

  ‘Everton, please.’

  ‘Great. Everton, let me ask you, do you regret holding that rally the other night?’

  ‘No I do not, Ricky. The purpose of the rally was to focus attention on the problems of racism in Britain, particularly the hostility towards asylum-seekers.’

  ‘But the leader of the Council of Mosques himself has expressed his concern at the, and I know you‘re not going to like the use of these words, flood of bogus refugees arriving in Britain. This is something which concerns all British citizens, surely, of whatever ethnic origin?’

  ‘I would agree with you there, Ricky. But we have to have a free and open debate.’

  ‘It doesn’t help when people like yourself hold rallies whipping up wholly unjustified fears about non-existent racist bombers roaming London.’

  ‘That was not the purpose of the rally. I regret, I admit, I do regret, the impression that was given in some quarters.’

  ‘From the platform, may I remind you, Everton. By a senior lawyer and a high-ranking officer of the Metropolitan Police. You constantly complain about racists being given a platform; what about what happened at your rally?’

  ‘I’ve already said I regret that. I have made my views known to the Home Secretary. I’d like to use your programme to formally distance myself and my organization from those allegations and appeal to all sections of the community for calm.’

  ‘You’ve just done that, live on London’s No 1 radio station, Everton. And for that, we’re most grateful. Can we talk, in more specific terms, about the Mickey French case. I understand that was the original reason you called the rally, to, how did you put it?, to celebrate the life of Gica Dinantu.’

  ‘I didn’t ever use that expression, “celebrate”, Ricky. I was concerned, as we all were at the Commission, that this case, as it has indeed proved, would become a focus of the hostility between the host community and the asylum community.’

  ‘We’re talking here about a common burglar, a thief. What about a man’s right to defend his own home? In the bulletin, just now, we’ve heard the Home Secretary as good as admit that the balance between the householder and the criminal has tipped too far in the wrong direction.’

  ‘I would remind you that members of ethnic minorities are far more likely, statistically, to be the victims of violent crime.’

  ‘I’m glad you raised that, Everton. Where do you stand on the Yardies?’

  ‘I condemn all crime, all violence, from whatever quarter.’

  ‘Let me play you something, Everton.’

  Ricky Sparke motioned to the control room. Charlie Lawrence nudged the studio engineer, who pressed PLAY. The tape crackled into life.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’

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

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘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?’

  Everton Gibbs sat stone still, incredulous. Ricky Sparke said nothing. He let his guest, the listeners, absorb the moment. Five seconds of dead air sound like a lifetime.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the profanity. Mr Gibbs, Everton, recognize the woman’s voice?’

  ‘I, er, um, what?’

  ‘You should do. She was on your platform, the rally, the other night?’

  ‘Where did you get this, I mean, what, erm, well?’

  ‘Fromby? Name ring a bell, Everton? And Gibbs, any relation, you think?’

  Everton Gibbs sat opposite Ricky, dumbfounded, as if he’d seen a ghost.

  ‘Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time there was a young tearaway called Trevor Gibbs. Stabbed a guy outside a chip shop, Tyburn Row way. Eric Marsden, dead now, the local beat copper, nicked him. Gibbs is represented by a hotshot young lawyer called Fromby, who dreams up some fake charge of assault against Marsden. Fromby prevails upon a young WPC, Roberta Peel, to lose the evidence. Trevor Gibbs, your son, Everton, walks. He’s now one of the major villains in London, do you deny it?’

  Everton Gibbs composed himself and replied.

  ‘Whatever you’ve just done, it was a despicable trick. You got me here under false pretences.’

  ‘Did you know that Peel and Fromby had conspired to pervert the course of justice in order to spring your son, let him walk on a stabbing charge?’

  ‘Who was the other man on the tape?’

  ‘That’s not important right now. But I assure you the tape is genuine. Did you know?’

  ‘I assure you, and your listeners, everyone, I have never heard this before. In the name of God, this is the first time. I knew nothing, you must believe me. Nothing.’

  ‘Mr Gibbs, for what it’s worth, I do believe you. I’m sorry. Truly I am.’

  Eighty-one

  Ricky, Mickey and Andi had sat up, arguing, debating, long and hard about whether he should play the tape on-air.

  ‘You can’t let the bastards get away with it,’ Ricky reasoned. ‘These are bad people. They’ve got to be stopped.’

  ‘But it’ll incriminate me. You’re not thinking of me. You’re just thinking of your precious fucking ratings. How much have you made out of this already?’ Mickey protested.

  ‘OK, I never pretended there wasn’t a drink in it. But that’s not why I got into it. Fuck it, you’ve known me long enough. If that’s what you think, what you really think, sincerely believe, then I won’t do it. We can burn the fucking tape here and now. Gone and for ever,’ said Ricky.

  ‘I dunno,’ Mickey said, swallowing another large Smirnoff.

  ‘Look, Mickey, they’re already fitting you up for murder.’

  ‘I did shoot the guy, though,’ Mickey reminded him.

  ‘What happened to “reasonable force”?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But hey, look, I’m not proud of any of this.’

  The last word went to Andi.

  She put her arms round Mickey’s thick neck, from behind.

  ‘It’s your decision, lover,’ she whispered in his ear.

  ‘What do you think I should do?’ Mickey asked his wife, looking deep into her eyes.

  ‘I can’t make that decision for you, Mickey. You’ll do what you have to, what you’ve always done. You’ll do what’s right.’

  Eighty-two

  ‘Just what in God’s name did you think you were playing at?’ Everton Gibbs raged around Justin Fromby’s Philippe Starck sitting room.

  ‘We were only trying to help,’ said Roberta.

  ‘Help? HELP? Have you any idea of the damage, the enormity, the sheer wickedness of what you have done?’ stormed Gibbs.

  ‘But, Everton, please, calm down, we did what we thought was for the best,’ Fromby implored him.

  ‘The best for who? Not for me, not for my son, not for my family,’ Gibbs yelled.

  ‘But, but, we thought that if we could stop him getting a criminal record at his age …’ said Roberta.

  ‘Have you seen his criminal record lately?’ said Gibbs.

  ‘Everton, you know how things were back then. Rampant racism in the police force. He wouldn’t have stood a chance once he’d got into the system,’ said Fromby.

  ‘I should have been the judge of what was best, not you. Who appointed you to be judge and jury? Why wasn’t I told? You’ve made a fool of me,’ Gibbs snapped back.

  ‘That was never our intention,’ Roberta said.

  ‘He was, is, my son. Let me tell you something. I came here with nothing. Life was tough. But we brought up our children to fear God, to respect the law, to love this country. We tried to teach them right from wrong. Sure, Trevor went off the rails, early, fell in with a bad crowd. But we could have dealt with it, in our way. Getting arrested and hauled before the court might have been the best thing that ever happened to him. Taught him the wickedness of his ways. Stopped him short. Instead, what does he learn, eh? He learns that if you’ve got the right lawyer, pull the right strings, you can get away with anything. You destroyed everything I had tried to teach him. Everything. And you have the gall to tell me that what you were doing was for the best. As if me, a simple black man from a sink estate, wasn’t fit to make that decision. What do you expect? Yes, Massa. Thank you, Massa? You people are as bad as the real racist scum. At least with them we know what we’re dealing with. With you? You patronize us, make allowances for us we don’t need. It’s just one big game to you people, using black people, racism, as a stepping stone up your ladder, with your quotas and committees and your fancy – what was it? – Romaphobia. We don’t need your help. We don’t want your help. I despise you. No, that’s not true, I pity you. I really pity you. May God forgive you one day, because I never will.’

  ‘The door was open,’ said Marsden. ‘I let myself in. Not disturbing anything, am I?’

  ‘I was just leaving,’ said Everton Gibbs. ‘I must remember to wipe my feet on the way out.’

  ‘What do you want, inspector?’ demanded Roberta.

  ‘It’s acting chief inspector, ma’am. But then you know that, don’t you? You just can’t seem to get it ‘right,’ said Marsden.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’ said Fromby.

  ‘Brought you some photos, sir. Or may I call you Trotsky, like my old man did?’ Marsden threw the sheaf of photos recovered from the boot of the Mercedes onto the glass-topped coffee table.

  Roberta and Fromby thumbed through them, silently.

  ‘Good, aren’t they?’ said Marsden.

  ‘What are these supposed to prove?’ said Roberta.

  ‘Prove? They don’t actually prove anything. But they link you to the man shot dead at Mickey French’s house. You thought you’d covered your tracks, didn’t you? You might be able to wipe a computer’s memory, but a human’s a little more difficult.’

  ‘Say your piece and get out,’ snapped Fromby.

  ‘I don’t expect you to admit to anything. But as I say, these link you to the man shot dead by French and that tape they played on the wireless this morning links you to French himself and establishes motive,’ said Marsden.

  ‘Motive for what?’

  ‘How about arson?’ said Marsden. ‘I’ve got the fingerprints of the dead man, the same man seen with you in these photographs, on a petrol can found at the crime scene.’

  ‘All circumstantial, no proof,’ Roberta blustered.

  ‘True, the Romanian’s dead. So he’s not talking. If he told the girl, she’s dead, too.’

  ‘So,’ said Fromby, ‘are you going to charge us?’

  ‘I could read you your rights, for the hell of it.’

  ‘Stop pissing around, Marsden,’ said Roberta, getting visibly irritated. ‘How far are yo
u taking this?’

  ‘Like I told you, first day we met, Angel Hill, ma’am.’ Marsden smiled. ‘Wherever it leads.’

  Eighty-three

  The Angel Hill coroner tidied his papers and placed them neatly on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Having heard all the post-mortem evidence and examined the new report from the ballistics laboratory, I am satisfied that the two bullets which killed Gica Dinantu, or, rather, Ilie Popescu, were not fired from Mr French’s gun, the Glock.

  ‘As to whether the shots were fired from the other weapon, the, er, Keltec Sub-9, the ballistics report is inconclusive, although I would place on record the likelihood on the balance of probabilities that this was indeed the gun which fired the fatal rounds.

  ‘We have heard that Mr French discharged two shots, which hit the deceased in the shoulder and upper arm. I am further satisfied that Mr French, as a qualified police marksman, did not shoot to kill and indeed, in my opinion, was acting within the guidelines of “reasonable force”.

  ‘Further, I would venture that even if the shots fired by Mr French had proved fatal he still would have been acting within the definition of “reasonable force” established in the case of Crown v Rungle at the Old Bailey on 7 September 1951.

  ‘For those of you unfamiliar with this judgment, I shall summarize it for your benefit and for the benefit of anyone who may be tempted to break into another person’s home.

  ‘Crown v Rungle concerned a Mr Rungle, who killed a burglar at his home with a garden fork. The judge, Mr Justice Codd, pointed out that burglary is, in itself, a violent felony. He stated that it is the right and duty of any householder, or any other honest citizen, who finds a burglar in a dwelling house to arrest him.

  ‘Pursuant to that arrest, the honest citizen may, and, indeed should, use any force that he considers necessary and any weapon that is at hand to stop him. If the result is death, it is justifiable homicide, not murder, or even manslaughter. Mr Rungle was acquitted.

  ‘In this case, I find that the deceased was killed by person or persons unknown and I understand police inquiries are continuing. As far as Mr French is concerned, I shall be recommending to the Home Office and the Crown Prosecution Service that the charges he is facing be discontinued.’