These people deserve to get robbed.
One more and he’d call it a night.
Wayne stashed the money and jewellery in a sports bag, which he hid in a shed in the grounds. He figured the gardeners didn’t work weekends.
He walked around the back of the main block. There were lights on in some of the rooms, but most of the happy campers were either bopping or propping up the bar.
On the second floor, he noticed a window, wide open. The curtains were only partly drawn and there was no light inside. Wayne hoisted himself up on a dumpster and shinned up the drainpipe.
He eased open the window and lowered himself into the cramped en-suite bathroom. There was no sound from the adjoining bedroom as he eased the door ajar.
Wayne stepped inside.
He could hear breathing, light breathing.
Outside, voices were raised. A couple of drunks were weaving their way back to their chalets. The music from the disco fell silent.
There were footsteps in the corridor.
Wayne froze.
He retreated into the bathroom and looked out of the window. A man and a woman were going at it like rabbits up against the dumpster. The woman’s knickers were round one ankle, her frock pulled up above her waist. Her companion’s strides were half-mast and he was struggling to keep his footing. Every time he thrust forward, his feet slid upon the wet mud left by the day’s downpour. The woman was squealing like a stuck pig.
Wayne thought of his mum.
‘Who’s there?’
A voice, a young woman.
‘Is that you, Terry? Stop larking about.’
It was her. The girl from the swimming pool.
He pushed open the bathroom door.
‘You. What the hell are you doing here?’ She sat up in bed.
‘Shhhh.’
‘I’ll scream.’
‘No, don’t. I can, um, listen, um, let me think.’
The dope, the Brain Damage, the humping couple, his mum. It addled his brain.
‘Just shut up.’
‘I’m getting my dad.’
‘No. NO.’
Katie jumped out of bed and tried to push past him.
Wayne pulled something from his pocket.
‘I’ll cut you. I’ll cut you.’
He grabbed her hair and she felt something metal and sharp against her cheek.
He forced her back onto the bed. She drew her knees up to her chest. She was wearing a cotton T-shirt and nothing else.
‘Just shut up. I’m thinking.’
‘Get out of here, right now.’
Wayne had no way out. The copulating couple blocked one exit. The main door was too risky.
‘I’ll just have to stay here.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Shut up, you spoilt bitch.’
He slapped his palm across her mouth and she could glimpse the glint of steel in his other hand.
Katie felt his hand pressing against her lips. She opened her mouth and snapped her jaw shut around his index finger.
Wayne screamed.
‘AAARGH! BITCH.’
Katie kicked out. Wayne stumbled backwards, clutching his hand.
Downstairs, next to the dumpster, the startled lovers rearranged their clothing and ran like hell. Coitus had been well and truly interrupted.
Katie made the door and forced it open. There was Terry, alerted by the scream, still clutching the bottle of Beck’s he’d taken from his dad’s minibar.
Terry saw Wayne doubled in pain and took his chance.
He launched himself at Wayne and using his full force brought the bottle crashing down on his head. The bottle smashed, Wayne’s skull split.
As he fell, Terry kicked him hard.
‘Run for it, sis.’
Katie turned to flee just as Mickey and Andi were reaching the top of the stairs.
‘What the … Katie.’
‘DADDY!’
Mickey rushed towards the bedroom as Andi comforted her distraught daughter.
‘OK, Terry. Stop.’ Terry was still putting the boot in.
Mickey hit the fire alarm. That would bring security running.
He pulled Wayne to his feet. The boy was pumping blood from his finger and his head. Mickey pushed his arm halfway up his back.
‘What are you doing here, you bastard? If you’ve hurt my daughter, I’ll fucking kill you.’
‘Dad, Dad. I’m fine.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Katie trembled.
‘Touch you. You know, TOUCH YOU!’
‘Mickey, you’re frightening her.’
‘DID he?’
‘Not like you mean, Dad, no.’
‘Then what the fuck was he doing here?’
By now, every room in the place had been evacuated. The corridor was full of guests in various states of undress.
Goblin’s security turned up in force. Both of them, followed by Jez Toynbee.
Mickey still had Wayne in a half-nelson, his face pushed against the wall.
‘Leave him alone, you fascist bully,’ screeched Toynbee.
‘You what?’
‘Look what you’ve done to him.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
The Goblin’s security guard stepped in. ‘Whatever has gone on here, this, er, young man is clearly in need of medical attention. And I think I had better call the police.’
‘Young man, young man,’ said an elderly lady to the security guard. ‘I think you better had. I’ve been robbed.’
Two more guests came forward to say their rooms had been burgled.
The security guard was all for searching Wayne Sutton’s room, but Jez Toynbee protested with such vehemence that it would be an illegal search that he decided to wait for the police.
By the time the boys in blue arrived forty-five minutes later, Jez had already spirited Wayne to hospital in the Citroën people carrier in which he had brought his party down from London.
He refused to allow anyone to ride with them.
Mickey French was insistent that Wayne be detained until the police turned up. But the camp manager over-ruled him after Jez started making threatening noises about lawsuits and compensation.
Wayne was given first-aid and allowed to leave with his mentor.
Halfway to hospital, Wayne told Jez to stop the van. He needed to be sick.
Clutching his bloodied hand with the other, he ran into a copse at the side of the road and disappeared out of sight. Jez could hear the ghastly retching sounds.
He didn’t see Wayne take a chisel from the left hand patch pocket of his combat fatigues and hurl it fifty yards into a lake.
Eighteen
Katie sat on her mum and dad’s bed, sobbing. Andi wrapped her in a dressing gown and made sweet tea. Room service had gone home. The ubiquitous tea- and coffee-making facilities and long-life milk came into their own.
Mickey tipped a large measure of scotch from a minibar miniature into a tooth mug.
‘Why is this happening to us, Dad?’ Katie asked, plaintively.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. I really don’t know.’
‘First the car. Now this.’
‘Listen, love, I need to know exactly what happened. Before the police get here. They’ll want to talk to you.’
‘OK.’
‘What was that boy doing in your room?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did he get in?’
‘I don’t know, do I? He was just there.’
‘Now listen carefully. Did you let him in?’
‘Mickey,’ Andi said.
‘The police are going to ask her.’
‘No I didn’t. Honest, Dad.’
‘Did you speak to him at all, at any time yesterday?’
‘Go on, tell him,’ said Terry.
‘Tell me what?’
‘She fancies him,’ Terry mocked.
‘Shut up. Shut up, you little sod.’
/>
Katie dropped her head.
‘She was flirting with him at the pool. She said she’d see him later.’
‘No I didn’t, liar.’
‘You did, I heard you. He tried to drown me.’
‘And I stopped him. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t pushed me in.’
Mickey stood up and swallowed his scotch.
‘Hang on. Let’s get this straight. What the hell has been going on? I told you not to have anything to do with those boys, particularly him.’
‘I didn’t. I DIDN’T.’
Andi pulled her close. ‘It’s all right, love. Don’t upset yourself any more.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Mickee.’
‘Look, this is important. I must know the truth.’
‘I’m trying to tell you, Dad. Terry pushed me in the pool and that boy – I don’t even know his name – thought he was bullying me. So he dived in and went for Terry. I broke it up. That’s all.’
‘Did you say you’d see him later?’
‘NO!’
‘I heard you,’ Terry insisted.
‘No you didn’t.’
‘I did. You said “Laters.”’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just like, like, you know …’
‘What?’ asked Mickey.
‘Like saying “See ya.”’
‘See you later?’
‘No. It’s just something you say.’
‘You sneaked off early tonight.’
‘I was tired. Mum had given me that wine. I went to bed. Stop it, Dad, please, stop it.’
‘Mick-ee,’ said Andi again.
Mickey heaved a sigh. ‘Sorry. Sorry, really I am. Of course I believe you, darling. Of course I do. But we, rather the police, have to be sure.’
‘You’re not in the police any more.’
‘No, but I still know how they work.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Mr French?’
A young constable and a WPC stood in the corridor.
‘The security guard has filled us in. Perhaps we can have a word with your daughter and your son.’
‘Sure, come in.’
Katie told it as it happened, the intrusion, the knife, the threats. How she’d bitten him and Terry had rescued her.
The WPC inspected Katie’s room.
‘It looks as if he got in through the window. There are muddy footprints on the sill and in the bath.’
‘Find the knife?’ Mickey asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘It must be there,’ Katie said.
‘Did you see him drop it?’
‘Well, no. It all happened so quickly.’
‘Are you sure it was a knife?’
‘It was metal. It was sharp.’
‘Could he still have it?’
‘It was dark. It all happened so quickly. I dunno.’
‘Look,’ Mickey said. ‘She’s had a rough night. Can we do this in the morning?’
‘Fine, Mr French. We’ve got a couple of burglaries to be looking into before we go. And we’re due at the hospital. But we’ll need to speak to all of you at the station tomorrow.’
‘I know the drill.’
Nineteen
The young constable showed Jez Toynbee and Wayne Sutton into an interview room, where an older man, fortyish, stocky, swept-back hair, shiny suit, was waiting.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Armitage. He’ll be conducting the interview.’
Jez and Wayne took their seats opposite.
The constable hit the record button on the dual tape recorder.
‘Interview commenced 10.55 am. Present DS Armitage …’
‘PC 234 Oswald,’ said the young constable.
‘Mr Wayne Sutton and Mr, er …’
‘Jez Toynbee.’
‘Jez?’
‘Short for Jeremy,’ Jez enlightened him.
‘Mr Jeremy Toynbee, Mr Sutton’s, er, what exactly are you?’
‘Mr Sutton’s mentor.’
‘Mentor? I see. And you are the responsible adult?’
‘I am.’
‘Mr Sutton, you are not being charged at this stage, but we have to interview you in connection with an incident at Goblin’s Holiday World last night. This will be conducted under caution. Constable Oswald.’
The PC read Wayne his rights.
Jez leant forward.
‘Before we go any further, detective sergeant, my client does not wish to be interviewed without legal representation.’
‘That is his right. Would you like me to arrange for a duty solicitor?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Oh?’
‘My client has a solicitor.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Mister Fromby,’ said Wayne.
‘Fromby?’
‘Mister Justin Fromby,’ said Jez confidently. ‘I believe you may have heard of him.’
‘Interview suspended 10.57 am,’ Armitage noted, deadpan. ‘If you let me have his number, I’ll contact him for you.’
‘Don’t bother.’ Jez smiled. ‘He’s on his way.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Mickey French clattered his tea mug onto the Formica table top in the station canteen.
‘Seeing as you used to be in the Job, I thought you ought to know,’ said Armitage.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mickey.
‘What I want to know, is what is his connection with this case? What’s he doing travelling all the way down here on a Sunday to represent some little scrote?’
‘Search me,’ said Mickey, wondering the selfsame thing.
‘You know I’ll have to play this right by the book. Fromby’s fucking trouble,’ said Armitage. ‘Something tells me this is going to get messy.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mickey acknowledged him.
Armitage sipped from a chipped coffee cup. ‘You ever come across Fromby, in a professional capacity, like?’
‘Donkey’s years ago.’
‘He remember?’
‘Doubt it. I was a young PC, he was making his name in the local law centre. I always had him marked down as an iron. I’m sure, at the very least, that he helps ’em out when they’re busy. But he’s discreet, I’ll give him that.’
‘Well, well.’
‘This mentor character, Toynbee, he’s got brown-hatter written all over him. You reckon he’s, you know, one of Fromby’s friends?’
‘Possible.’
‘That might explain it.’
‘Might do. Might not. He’s a funny fucker. One thing I do know, any excuse to hammer the Old Bill.’
‘Not many. Hey, I’d better get back. In case.’
Mickey raised his mug.
‘Cheers, mate.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Armitage, turning to go. ‘Look, this is none of my business, but if Fromby’s on the case you might want a brief of your own. In the circumstances, like.’
‘Thanks for the concern,’ Mickey said. ‘But I can handle Fromby.’
Justin Fromby, senior partner Fromby, Hind & Partners, Grays Inn Road, was running late.
One of his conceits was that he had never learned to drive. Went down well with his clients in the public transport unions.
He insisted on travelling by train. Which is why he was running late.
After Roberta told him to get a proper job, Justin joined Hind & Partners as a junior solicitor.
The practice was built on impeccable left-wing principles, some said funded by Moscow gold. Among old man Hind’s clients were a number of trades unions run by the Communist Party. He had gained a degree of notoriety in the 1960s, acting for alleged Russian agents and campaigning for the legalization of homosexuality.
By the time young Justin arrived, Harold Wilson had handed over the reins of his second term to Jim Callaghan. Michael Foot and the Labour cabinet were filling the statute books with new employment and equality legislation. Naturally, the plum cases fell into Hind’s lap.
> The practice grew fatter still on trades union compensation and industrial injury claims. Justin’s reward was to be made a full partner.
When the old man retired in the mid-1980s, after being kicked in the head by a police horse on the Orgreave picket line while showing solidarity with Arthur Scargill’s striking coal-miners, Justin, though still in his early thirties, was made senior partner.
Now his client list was a roll-call of agitprop chic, European human-rights cases, anarchists, rioters and terrorists. Fromby was both the darling and one of the pillars of the New Establishment, the toast of late-night TV studios, broadsheet comment pages, Islington salons and the army council of the Provisional IRA.
Yet once a fortnight, alternate Saturday mornings, he returned to the law centre at Tyburn to offer his advice gratis to the poor, the dispossessed and the repossessed.
Which is where he met Wayne Sutton.
Fromby took a cab to the police station and swept inside. He cut an impressive figure. Greying at the temples, hair like a mane, brushed back over his collar, in need of a wash, as was the fashion in the legal trade.
He wore a bold red and white striped shirt, no tie, a sports jacket, jeans and suede brogues.
‘Fromby,’ he announced grandly to the desk sergeant.
‘Good afternoon, sir. We’ve been expecting you.’
It was a long time since any old sweat of a copper had called him Trotsky. To his face, anyway.
‘Here to see my client, Wayne Sutton.’
‘Yes, sir. If you’ll just take a seat.’
‘I’ll stand,’ said Fromby, admiring himself in the glass partition.
‘Very well, sir. I’ll tell DS Armitage that you’re here.’
Armitage opened the door to reception and held out his hand. ‘Mr Fromby, sir.’
Justin ignored the proffered handshake.
‘This way, sir.’
He showed Justin into an interview room. ‘I’ll just fetch your client.’
Wayne ambled into the room, followed by Jez Toynbee.
‘Who are you?’
‘Jez Toynbee, Mr Fromby. May I just say I’m a great admirer of …’
‘You rang me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. That will be all.’
Justin had picked up a certain grandeur, hauteur even, over the years.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand. I’m Wayne’s mentor. I’m his responsible adult.’
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