Ricky could see her point.
‘Look, I’m on the way to the inquest right now. We’re working on it.’
‘I’m coming home, tonight.’
‘I don’t think that’s what Mickey wants right now. He doesn’t want you and the kids involved.’
‘How do I know what Mickey wants? I can’t speak to him. How does Mickey know what he wants? He needs me. I need to be there.’
‘But what about the kids?’
‘They need to know nothing. Olive and Tom will look after them. I’ll just say I’ve got to fly home to sign some papers or something and I’ll be back soon, with Mickey. There’s plenty for them to do here, watersports, the lot. They’ll be fine.’
‘Well if you …’
‘I do, Ricky. I can get a flight out of here tonight. I’ll be at Gatwick tomorrow, around seven. Can you get me picked up?’
‘I won’t be able to come, Andi, but I know a man who can.’
‘Right, how will I know him?’
‘You’ll find him.’
‘See you tomorrow and, Ricky, give Mickey all my love.’
‘It goes without saying.’
‘No, I want it said. OK?’
‘OK, promise,’ said Ricky. ‘Oh, and, er, Andi, have you, um, still got that tape Mickey gave you?’
‘You know about that?’
‘I’m his best friend, remember?’
‘Sure, it’s here.’
‘Bring it home, OK?’
‘Yeah,’ said Andi. ‘Seven, Gatwick, tomorrow morning. Don’t go on to Spider’s, get pissed out of your skull and forget.’
‘Trust me.’
‘And don’t, just don’t, say “Trust me” again.’
Andi put down the phone and called the airport.
She threw some clothes into a bag and carried it into the hallway, just as Olive was returning from her manicure.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Olive.
Andi pulled her into the bedroom.
‘I have to go back, back to England. Mickey’s in trouble.’
‘Trouble?’
‘Big trouble. I need a lift to the airport.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way. The kids absolutely mustn’t know. Get it?’
‘Sure,’ said Olive. ‘But I don’t understand.’
‘I’ll explain. Just, please, can you look after them for a few days?’
‘They’re no trouble, honest. But what if they ask?’
‘As far as they are concerned, I’ve got to go home to sign some papers. I’ll be back soon, with Mickey.’
‘Whatever you say.’
The kids were lying by the pool. Andi hugged them in turn and explained she wouldn’t be gone for long, no, the papers couldn’t be faxed, or Fed-Exed, they had to be signed in the presence of a solicitor by both her and their dad.
What papers? Are we moving, or something like that?
Something like that. It’s a surprise.
Dad will tell you all about it when he comes back with me.
Can I have a bigger bedroom?
Calm down. First things first.
‘Has anyone seen a cassette tape lying around?’ Andi asked.
‘What, that new one on your bedside table?’ replied Katie.
‘Yeah. Where is it?’
‘I’m listening to it,’ said Katie.
‘Listening to it?’ Andi snapped.
‘Yeah, I taped some Dixie Chicks off a CD that girl I met on the beach loaned me.’
‘You did what?’
‘Wossup, Mum? It was a new tape. There was nothing on it.’
‘There was something on it.’
‘There was nothing written on it.’
‘Oh, Katie. Why didn’t you ask?’
‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I’ll buy you another one if it’s that important to you.’
Andi did not want to lose her temper. It wasn’t Katie’s fault. She didn’t want to leave on a sour note.
‘No, that’s fine, darling. I should have written on it. You weren’t to know.’
‘Know what, Mum?’
‘What was on the tape,’ Andi said.
‘What was on the tape?’
‘Oh, nothing. Really, nothing.’
It was only a copy, after all, Andi reassured herself.
Sixty-two
‘He’s bluffing,’ said Justin Fromby, spearing a baby artichoke. ‘Has to be.’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Roberta, toying with a bowl of squid ink pasta.
She’d sent Marsden to the inquest and taken a couple of hours to meet Fromby at a new highly fashionable restaurant in Hoxton.
‘Run it by me again. What exactly did French say?’
‘He said,’ Roberta repeated, ‘he said “How do you know I haven’t made copies?”, that’s what he said.’
‘And?’
‘Well that was about it really.’
‘There has to be more,’ Justin pressed her.
‘Not really. I just accused him of bluffing and he said “Am I?” That was it.’
‘So he didn’t actually say he had made copies.’
‘Not in so many words.’
Justin sipped his Pinot Grigio.
‘OK, let’s assume he has got copies. Why hasn’t he used them?’
‘He hasn’t got access to them?’
‘Of course he hasn’t, not in Paxton jail. But even if he did have copies, how could he use them? He’s been charged, remanded, it’s gone beyond back-scratching deals, surely.’
‘He might decide to take us down with him, just for the hell of it,’ said Roberta.
‘But he would have to have the evidence. You didn’t find any copies. Where would he keep them? Bank? Under the floorboards?’
‘Not a bank, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘Who does he trust?’ asked Justin. ‘He hasn’t even hired a lawyer.’
‘He’s had one visitor, yesterday, at Paxton.’
‘Who?’
That disc jockey, the one on the lorry outside the court yesterday. Ricky Sparke.’
‘Ricky Sparke, eh? What do you know about him?’
‘Piss artist, bounced around Fleet Street for years, never lasted long anywhere, then shipped up on the radio. Georgia Claye was due on his show this morning. I must find out how she got on.’
‘We can’t take any chances,’ said Justin. ‘There’s too much riding on this.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Roberta, juggling the ice in her mineral water. ‘My future, for a start. We need everything to be watertight. French must go down. We need a clean result, here. The government – I was talking to the Home Secretary this morning – are wobbling on this. They’ve been shaken by the strength of the public backlash. The tabloids are going crazy, Middle England has adopted French as some kind of a hero, and that’s all anyone wants to talk about on the radio phone-ins. The backbenchers are getting fidgety. The government is seen as weak on asylum, and weak on crime. And that reflects badly on the police service. And on me, by extension. That’s why we have to nail French.’
‘My contribution must have helped, in the Clarion. And Georgia Claye’s story was extremely useful.’
‘Yeah, but while it gets the right kind of spin in the public domain, the Clarion is preaching to the converted. Try and put pressure on our friends at the BBC and Channel 4. See if we can’t demonize French a bit more. Have a word with Everton Gibbs, at the Commission for Racial Equality. See if he can help.’
‘We have to be careful,’said Fromby.
‘Why?’
‘Well, let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that French does have access to copies of the, er, sensitive material. If he thinks he’s going down for life, no remission, murder one, as our American friends like to call it, then he’s got nothing to lose. If, however, on the other hand he still thinks there might be some kind of deal to be done, a word here, a word there, he might hold back.’
/> ‘I’ve tried that,’ said Roberta. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of him responding to me.’
‘What about the local chap, Marsden, isn’t it?’
‘Colin Marsden.’
‘Sound?’
‘Not part of the Project, but honest.’
‘How does he get on with French?’
‘OK, I guess.’
‘Fine. Look, I’m not telling you how to do your job, but pull back here, arm’s length. Let Marsden deal with it for a while.’
‘And what am I supposed to do with my time?’
‘Keep up the PR offensive and meanwhile we keep on looking.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Well, you said yourself that French may have made copies. So, if he has, and he doesn’t have them, who does?’
‘You tell me,’ said Roberta.
Justin put down his fork and wiped his chin.
‘Ricky Sparke would seem to be an obvious candidate.’
Sixty-three
Mickey French spent an uncomfortable night in Paxton prison, sleeping fitfully, kept awake by the ramblings and tappings of his fellow inmates on Fraggle Rock.
He was relieved when the escort arrived to take him back to Angel Hill for the formal opening of the inquest.
The convoy left Paxton jail three hours early for the twenty-minute journey. They were expecting more trouble and weren’t taking any chances.
The coroners’ court shared a building with the local magistrates’ court. When the Black Maria carrying Mickey arrived, sandwiched between two patrol cars, one armed response vehicle and four motorcycle outriders, crowds were already beginning to gather. The metallic chatter of radios, all tuned to Rocktalk 99FM, filled the air, an impromptu PA system.
‘What I wanted to say, like, was that this is a diabolical bleeding liberty, banging Mickey French up like this. The geezer he shot is the one what should’ve been in jail.’
‘I’m a first-time caller, long-time listener, and I think these Ruritanians should all be sent back to Ruritania.’
‘Shooting’s too good for them, if you ask me.’
‘Great show, Ricky, keep it up son. Let’s get Mickey out and these scroungers deported.’
On air, as he brought his show to a close, Ricky Sparke thanked his callers and apologized for the fact that, on police advice, the Rocktalk 99FM mobile outside broadcast vehicle would not be appearing outside Angel Hill coroners’ court that afternoon.
‘That doesn’t mean you can’t go down there and protest. This is still supposed to be a free country. Let’s make our voices heard, people. The campaign goes on. Free Mickey French.’
The crowd outside the court took up the chant with enthusiasm.
FREE MICKEY FRENCH.
FREE MICKEY FRENCH.
FREE MICKEY FRENCH.
They waved their banners and blew their whistles as the van carrying Mickey back to court swung off the main road.
DUMB, DUMB,
RACIST SCUM.
DUMB, DUMB,
RACIST SCUM.
The OPRAH/AFL contingent were back in force, too, waving their own banners and copies of that morning’s Clarion.
So were the police. Everyone entering the Angel Hill shopping was shaken down and searched. DAC Peel had decreed that while peaceful protest would be allowed, there was to be no repeat of the previous day’s violence. A dozen mounted officers were on duty, more than a hundred policemen and women with riot shields kept the factions a hundred yards apart and a cordon sanitaire was thrown around the court building itself. Around the corner, at the back of the Territorial Army centre, five coachloads of cops in full riot gear were held in reserve.
Inside the building, all was calm, though you could smell the tension. Mickey sat in a cell sipping tea. He had to wait two and a half hours before being shown into the courtroom.
Mickey took his place, still handcuffed to a uniformed prison officer. Marsden sat on the desk opposite, next to the coroner’s officer, a veteran PC approaching the end of his career.
Mickey looked behind him, surveying the ranks of Press, the line of policemen guarding the double doors. He could see Ricky Sparke, sitting at the back of the court, next to Charlie Lawrence and a fearsome-looking, pinstripe-suited woman he didn’t recognize. Ricky winked at Mickey.
Ricky must have hot-footed it to Angel Hill the moment the show finished. Now what was he up to?
Into the courtroom came the coroner himself, a local solicitor who also served as clerk to the magistrates.
Under English law, the coroner is one of the most powerful figures in the judicial system, with terms of reference far exceeding those of justices of the peace or even High Court judges.
Mickey knew that while, technically, the purpose of an inquest is to establish the cause of death, the coroner can, and does, probe all the circumstances. In a criminal court, there are strict rules of evidence. In a coroners’ court, the coroner himself is sovereign. He can investigate anything he chooses. The coroner decides what is relevant and what is not and his decisions and those of an inquest jury can have a serious bearing on any subsequent prosecution.
There was no jury. The coroner would empower a jury once the cause of death had been established and recorded. The purpose of today’s hearing was simply to open the proceedings and adjourn to a later date.
The coroner’s officer briefly outlined the facts, name of the deceased, location of incident, time of incident. Investigating officer, status of investigation. Time life pronounced extinct and so on.
The coroner then asked the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem for his initial findings.
Proceedings in a coroners’ court are more informal than in a criminal court. Witnesses do not have to take an oath and they can deliver their evidence while seated.
The pathologist, a balding, slightly overweight Pakistani, about Mickey’s age, thanked the coroner and began to read from his notes.
He had conducted a post mortem on the body of a young man, aged between twenty-one and twenty-four, at Angel Hill District Hospital.
The deceased’s stomach contained small traces of food, but he had not eaten a heavy meal. There was, however, a significant measure of alcohol present in the bloodstream and evidence of regular and substantial narcotics use. There were traces of cocaine in the nasal cavities.
Mickey did hear the pathologist detail the exact alcohol/ cocaine/blood reading but forgot to jot it down. The precise medical expression, he thought, was a fucking shed-load.
The deceased had been in general good health, though he had suffered a recent injury to his left forearm, a knife wound, most probably. The pathologist also noted that there was also evidence of sexual activity during the four hours prior to his death.
The coroner raised his eyes. He thought he heard chuckling at the back of the court.
‘At least the fucker died happy,’ Charlie Lawrence whispered to Ricky. The young woman with them did not look amused.
Neither did the coroner, but he let it pass.
As for the cause of death, the coroner said the deceased has suffered four gunshot wounds, one to the upper arm, one to the shoulder and two to the chest. His heart had literally exploded and he had died instantly.
Mickey looked puzzled.
‘Is there something you would like to ask the pathologist, Mr French?’ said the coroner.
Mickey rose to his feet, hands on the table in front of him.
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr French. You may remain seated.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mickey. ‘Much obliged to you. Doctor,’ he addressed the pathologist, ‘did you say that the deceased suffered four gunshot wounds?’
‘That is correct,’ confirmed the doctor, re-consulting his notes. ‘One to the upper arm, right arm, to be precise, one to the right shoulder and two to the chest cavity.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Mickey.
‘Will that be all, for now, Mr French?’ asked the coroner.
‘Just one more thing, sir,’ said Mickey.
‘Yes?’
‘Doctor,’ said Mickey, ‘you said the deceased was aged between twenty-one and twenty-four. Did I hear you correctly?’
‘Indeed you did.’
‘I am obliged to you, doctor,’ said Mickey.
‘Are those all the questions for now?’ asked the coroner.
‘Detective inspector?’ he said, looking in the direction of Marsden, who looked vaguely distracted. What was Mickey’s game?
‘Inspector?’ repeated the coroner.
‘Acting Detective chief inspector, actually, sir.’
‘If you insist. Do you have anything to add at this juncture?’
Marsden half rose. ‘Not at this stage, sir.’
‘Very well. I find that the cause of death in this case was heart failure due to gunshot wounds. This case is adjourned for seven days. Thank you for your attendance.’
‘Sir, may I speak?’ the woman with Ricky and Charlie Lawrence interjected.
‘What is it, dear lady?’ asked the coroner.
‘Sir, my name is Polly Kettle, sir. I am a solicitor with Kettle, Potts, Black & Partners. I represent Mr French.’
‘This is the first I’ve heard of it,’ said the coroner.
The first I’ve heard, too, thought Mickey, gazing inquisitively in Ricky Sparke’s direction.
Was this another of Charlie Lawrence’s damn-fool ratings-building stunts?
‘Sir, I am engaged by Rocktalk 99FM, Mr French’s sometime employers. This is Mr Lawrence, programme director.’
‘G’day,’ smiled Charlie.
‘Sir, I have just come from a hearing before a judge in chambers at which an application was heard to overturn yesterday’s decision by the Angel Hill magistrates to refuse bail. That application has been successful and I have here papers authorizing Mr French’s immediate release on bail.’
‘This is highly irregular,’ the coroner said. ‘Inspector?’
‘I have no knowledge of this, sir.’
Me, neither, thought Mickey.
‘The prosecution and the prison service have been informed,’ said Polly Kettle. ‘A solicitor from the Crown Prosecution Service was present at the hearing. The decision may not yet have been communicated to the prison service or to the inspector here.’
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