Читать книгу To Hell in a Handcart - Richard Littlejohn - Страница 13

Then

As a graduate entrant, with an honours degree in law, Roberta Peel sailed through the Metropolitan Police training school at Hendon. Next stop was Bramshill, the officers’ academy. She had been singled out for fast-track promotion. But for the time being she found herself as a probationary WPC, stationed at Tyburn Row, attached to the juvenile bureau.

It was a typical old red-brick London nick, the sort of place Dixon of Dock Green would have recognized, scheduled for closure in two years on the planned amalgamation of three divisions in a purpose-built new station.

WPC Peel was working the night-shift, sipping tea and reading the Guardian, when she was summoned to the custody area. Another constable, Eric Marsden, had brought in a 15-year-old boy on a charge of malicious wounding.

He was a wiry, black youth, about 5ft 9ins, with an ebony complexion and afro haircut. He wore a leather bomber jacket, plain green T-shirt, flared denims and a pair of red Kickers.

He was being held in an adult cell, as there were no separate juvenile facilities. Roberta could see he had clearly been roughed up.

Eric Marsden was a beat cop of the old ‘clip ’em round the ear’ school. Except that he didn’t always confine himself to clips round the ear. The boy had a split lip and there were signs of swelling around his right eye. As Roberta entered his cell, the boy was clutching his ribs.

It was alleged that he was part of a gang involved in a fight with some local white skinheads outside a chip shop. One of the white youths had been slashed with a blade and Marsden had recovered a knife which had been bagged and was awaiting a fingerprints examination. The white youth had identified the boy in custody as his assailant.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.

The boy stared at the floor.

‘Who did this to you? Was it the arresting officer?’

‘No it fucking wasn’t,’ a cockney baritone voice boomed. Roberta turned to discover Eric Marsden looming up behind her. He was a big man, 6ft 1ins, a couple of stone overweight.

‘You better watch that mouth of yours, my love.’

‘I am not your love. I am the juvenile officer responsible for this suspect’s well-being. I am trying to establish the truth here.’

‘He’s been in a gang fight. You should get your facts right, sweetheart, before you go making allegations.’

‘I am not making any allegations. I am making inquiries.’ She decided to let the sweetheart pass for now.

‘Well you can start by inquiring as to what his fucking name is, for a start. I’m going to the canteen. We can’t interview him until his parents or a responsible adult get here. And that can’t happen until we establish exactly who he is. He’s all yours, darling.’

‘I am not your darling, either.’

‘I suppose a gobble’s out of the question?’ Marsden laughed out loud, turned on his heel and headed for the canteen, where he could slag off Miss Prim and Proper fucking fast-track graduate entrant to his mates over a bacon sandwich.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked the boy. ‘It will be better for you if you tell me. The sooner we can notify your parents, the sooner we can interview you, the sooner you can go home.’

‘I don’t want my parents. I want a brief.’

‘I’ll call a duty solicitor.’

‘No. Get me Mr Fromby.’

‘Mr Justin Fromby?’

‘You know him.’

‘I’ve heard of him. Doesn’t he work at the law centre?’ said Roberta, anxious not to let on.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Roberta left the cell door open and walked along the corridor.

‘He wants a solicitor,’ she told the station sergeant. ‘He’s asking for Justin Fromby.’

‘That’s all we fucking need, that Trotsky wanker,’ said the sergeant. ‘You won’t find him at this time of night.’

‘Oh, I think I might be able to find a number for him.’

‘How are you going to manage that?’

‘I’m supposed to be a police officer, aren’t I? The phone book might be a start.’

Roberta slipped into a side office and dialled Justin’s number from memory.

He answered after a couple of rings.

‘Justin, it’s Roberta.’

‘Hi. You coming over?’

‘No. I’m at work. Can you come here?’

‘I’d rather not. I’ve just got back from the RAC rally.’

‘RAC rally? You don’t even drive.’

‘Not the RAC, the RAC – the Rock Against Capitalism rally at the Roundhouse. The Jam were top of the bill. Your American friend, Georgia Claye, was there. You should have seen the state of her. Out of her skull on something. She tripped over pogoing to “Eton Rifles” and smashed her head on the side of the stage. I helped carry her out.’

‘Never mind her, Justin. She’ll end up living in a cardboard box the way she’s going. You know her husband’s left her already?’

‘The Italian guy, medical student?’

‘Yeah, anyway, I haven’t rung you to discuss Georgia Claye’s problems. This is important. We’ve got a boy in custody and he’s asking for you.’

‘For me? What’s his name?’

‘He won’t tell us.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Black, slim, 5ft 9ins, afro, age about fifteen, I should think.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well he knows you.’

‘What’s he in for?’

‘Malicious wounding.’

‘OK. I’m on my way.’

Justin Fromby called a cab and arrived at Tyburn Row three-quarters of an hour later.

The desk sergeant needed no introduction. ‘Evening, Trotksy,’ he said dismissively. Justin didn’t rise to the bait.

Roberta appeared from the corridor.

‘This is Mr Fromby,’ the sergeant told her.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Fromby,’ she said, without the slightest hint of recognition. ‘I’m WPC Peel, from the juvenile section. If you would be kind enough to follow me, I’ll take you to your client.’

Roberta showed Justin into the cell.

‘Hello, Trevor,’ said Justin, immediately.

‘Hello, Mr Fromby.’

‘You two obviously know each other.’

‘Yes, WPC Peel, we do. This is Trevor Gibbs. He lives on the Parkgate Estate. I know his father.’

‘Don’t tell my dad, please Mr Fromby.’

‘OK, but they’ll need your name and address. I’ll handle it.’ He turned to Roberta. ‘The law allows my client to be interviewed in the presence of a parent or responsible adult. I shall sit in for his father.’

They walked out of the cell and back to the custody area.

‘The boy’s name is Trevor Gibbs,’ she told the sergeant. ‘He is ready to be interviewed. Can you call PC Marsden?’

‘I’ll fetch him from the canteen. I fancy a cup of tea. The walk will do me good,’ the sergeant said.

Once the sergeant had left the custody area, Roberta ushered Justin into an ante-room.

‘Well? Who are we dealing with?’

‘His dad is Everton Gibbs. He’s the community leader on the Parkgate. A good man, standing for the council. What about the boy? What have you got on him?’

‘He’s alleged to have cut another boy, a white youth, in a fight outside the chip shop. Marsden found a blade and he’s bagged it for prints.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Three weeks ago, in this station, I represented him. He was cautioned for possession of a knife. On the day-shift. I forget the name of the arresting officer off the top of my head. Young chap, maybe twenty-three or -four. Trevor’s father doesn’t know. If any of this came out it could seriously undermine his position. He might even lose the election. We need men like him on the council. We’ve got to prevent Trevor being charged.’

‘How the hell are you going to do that? Marsden brought him in, he’ll be the interviewing officer. I’ll only be sitting there.’

‘I can handle Marsden. But you’ll have to lose the knife and his form.’

‘I can’t do that, for God’s sake. What if someone found out?’

‘They had better not. Look, it’s late, there’s hardly anyone around, no one will know.’

‘Marsden will.’

‘He’s a lazy bastard. I’ve come across him before. A bit too handy with his fists. I’ll deal with him.’

When Marsden appeared five minutes later, Roberta retrieved Trevor Gibbs from his cell and led him into the interview room.

Justin spoke first. ‘I would like to place on record that this is an unlawful arrest. My client has been subjected to a racially motivated assault. He is the victim here. Furthermore he alleges that you, PC Marsden, beat him up. I am preparing a formal complaint.’

‘Oh, do fuck off, Fromby. I’ve heard it all before. All the spades pull that stroke.’

‘I won’t listen to racist language,’ Roberta interrupted.

‘You’ll shut up and do as you’re told, petal. Or have you been promoted while I’ve been in the canteen?’ Marsden barked back.

‘This young man’s father is a respected figure in the community, a personal friend of your commanding officer. You, on the other hand, have a reputation for, shall we say, heavy-handedness. Given the choice between a frightened, fifteen-year-old boy from an oppressed minority and a fat thug like you, I think I know who people will believe.’

‘This interview is suspended right now,’ Marsden said. ‘Take him back to his cell,’ he told Roberta. ‘We’ll resume later.’ Marsden returned to the canteen to consider his options. Justin went outside for a long smoke.

As Roberta led Trevor Gibbs through the custody area, another young officer was bringing in a prisoner, a drunk and disorderly.

PC Mickey French smiled at Roberta, then looked at her prisoner. As they passed, Mickey grabbed hold of Trevor’s arm, spun him round and took another good look.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘Mickey?’ said the desk sergeant.

‘Nothing, sarge. Let’s get this geezer booked in, D&D. Complaint from the landlord of the Dun Cow.’

Roberta put Trevor back in his cell and left the custody area. She walked along the corridor, past the canteen, up the stairs and into the juvenile bureau. She switched on an anglepoise lamp and walked over to a filing cabinet. It was unlocked. Under G, she found it. Gibbs, Trevor, possession of an offensive weapon, to wit, one knife. First offence. Caution administered and recorded. Arresting officer, PC107 French.

Fuck it.

‘Found what you were looking for?’

Mickey French startled her.

‘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 Formby 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.’

Roberta thought that this was no time to raise the issue of inappropriate sexist language. Actually, she rather liked Mickey. He wasn’t as much of a bastard as the older Plods.

‘Fromby knows about the previous. He wants me to lose it. And the knife,’ she blurted out in panic.

‘What, this one?’ said Mickey, waving a plastic bag above his head containing the knife Marsden had confiscated from Trevor Gibbs.

‘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,’ she replied, nervously.

‘And what if I don’t give a fuck and turn you in?’

Roberta froze.

Mickey raised his other hand. It contained a small cassette recorder. It was still running.

Shit.

‘Give me that,’ he said, motioning his hand towards the folder Roberta held under her arm. ‘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.’

Roberta was in no position to take exception to the use of the vaginal expletive or to protest about being called a silly fucking cow. She knew she was a silly fucking cow. At least on this occasion.

‘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.’

Nice tits, too, he thought.

‘What are you going to do with all this – the knife, the file, the tape recording?’ she asked.

Mickey stroked the stubble on his chin and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Nothing, maybe. Who knows?’