To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

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       Seven

       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. СКАЧАТЬ