Acting Chief fucking inspector. Marsden was getting irritated.
‘Has DAC Peel been informed?’ asked Marsden.
‘That is not our responsibility,’ said Miss Kettle.
She’s not going to like it, Marsden cringed inwardly.
‘Sir,’ said Miss Kettle. ‘I can assure you the papers are in order. I have copies here for the inspector, for the prison service and one for your good self.’
The coroner inspected the documents.
‘These appear to be perfectly correct,’ he said to the prison officer. ‘Mr French is to be released into the custody of Miss Kettle and Mr Lawrence of Rocktalk 99FM, whom I see has put up one million pounds surety.’
‘That’s correct, your worthiness. The same deal we had on the table yesterday,’ beamed Charlie.
The prison officer nodded and unlocked the handcuffs. Ricky and Charlie walked up and shook hands with Mickey, who was stunned, speechless. He was free, for now.
‘Told you we were on the case, mate,’ said Ricky, arm round Mickey’s shoulder. ‘Someone had to make your mind up for you.’
‘Thanks,’ was all Mickey could mumble.
‘Mr French,’ said the coroner, half-wearing his clerk of the court hat, ‘under the terms of your bail you are to report back to Angel Hill magistrates in six days’ time and to this coroners’ court in seven days. You are also to notify the police of your whereabouts at all times, surrender your passport and not venture within five miles of the crime scene at Heffer’s Bottom. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Colin Marsden approached the happy throng, as the assembled Press core rushed away to file their stories.
‘Mickey, could I have a word?’
The fearsome Miss Kettle stepped between them.
‘Mr French, my client, is not obliged to say anything to you.’
‘That’s OK, pet, give us a minute,’ said Mickey.
Polly Kettle wasn’t sure she liked being called ‘pet’, but £1,000 a day of Rocktalk 99FM’s money should compensate for a bit of sexist banter.
Colin guided Mickey into a corner.
‘I knew nothing about this,’ Mickey said.
‘Yeah, me neither. That’s not what I want to talk about.’
‘No, I didn’t think so. I was going to ask to speak to you, anyway.’
‘What was with those questions, to the doctor?’ asked Marsden.
‘I knew something didn’t add up,’ said Mickey. ‘You heard him. He said the deceased was between twenty-one and twenty-four. You told me he was sixteen.’
‘That’s what it says on his immigration papers,’ Marsden said, though he’d wondered about that, too, when he’d read the initial report.
‘You’re saying the doctor got it wrong?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Right, then, hear this. If he was older than we thought he was, how do we know he is who you say he is?’
Marsden bit his lower lip.
‘And here’s another thing,’ said Mickey. ‘He was hit by four bullets.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You never mentioned that to me,’ said Mickey. ‘Four bullets.’
‘You fired the fucking bullets,’ said Marsden. ‘You should know.’
‘I’ll tell you what I do know. I only fired twice. Two shots. Double tap.’
‘There were four missing out of the cartridge clip.’
‘It wasn’t fully loaded. I always leave two empty.’
‘How convenient.’
‘Look, I’ve admitted shooting him. If I’d fired four shots I’d have told you.’
Marsden scratched the back of his head.
‘Why should I lie to you?’ asked Mickey. ‘We’re talking sheep and lambs here. Check the ballistics.’
‘Well if you didn’t fire the other two bullets, who did?’ said Marsden.
‘You’re the fucking detective, acting chief inspector.’
Sixty-four
‘Why the hell wasn’t I informed?’ Roberta screamed into the telephone.
‘I, er, ma’am. I wasn’t either,’ replied Marsden. ‘The first I knew about it was when the solicitor acting for French came forward at the inquest. It appears they went before a judge in chambers at lunchtime and he overturned the order. A solicitor from the CPS was present at the hearing.’
‘Someone is going to be singing soprano for the rest of their lives,’ Roberta promised.
Marsden didn’t doubt she meant it.
‘Ma’am. I called you just as soon as I could.’
‘I’m not blaming you. It is the damned incompetent CPS again. Thanks to them we’ve got a murderer back on the streets.’
‘Alleged murderer, ma’am,’ Marsden corrected her, then wished he hadn’t.
‘Whose side are you on, inspector?’
‘Ma’am, I was just going to make the point that I don’t think Mickey, er, French, the defendant, that is, poses any threat to the public. Quite the opposite. The public appears to adore him.’
‘That’s the point. That’s the whole point. What kind of message do you think this sends out?’
‘There’s no question of him not answering his bail. Not with a million pounds of the radio station’s money riding on it,’ said Marsden.
‘Yes, but this kind of thing is bound to influence a jury. He’s already been on the radio pleading his innocence.
How’s it going to look now a judge in chambers has given him bail?’
‘Can’t we appeal, ma’am?’
‘On what grounds, inspector?’ demanded Roberta.
‘The contract?’
‘Contract?’ Roberta sounded puzzled.
‘The contract to kill French. Put out by the pike – er, by the travelling community,’ Marsden reminded her.
‘Oh, that contract,’ Roberta said, composing herself. ‘I’m sorry, inspector.’
‘Ma’am?’ said Marsden, with trepidation.
‘Yes?’
‘The contract. It’s just that I wondered why you didn’t tell me about it. Before the magistrates’ hearing. Where did it come from?’
‘Er, I only heard about it at the last minute. There wasn’t time,’ stalled Roberta.
‘Who told you?’
‘Criminal intelligence, Scotland Yard,’ Roberta blurted.
Oh, yeah, thought Marsden. ‘I see. Who’s behind it?’
‘We’re not certain. But we are investigating.’
‘Anything I can do, ma’am? I’m not without contacts in that area, working out here for so long, as it were.’
‘No, nothing,’ Roberta cut him short. ‘Just get on with your job. Prove the case against French. Is that clear?’
‘As Waterford, ma’am,’ said Marsden.
‘I’ll talk to you later. Good day, inspector.’
I’ve had better, Marsden told himself as he replaced the receiver.
The contract wasn’t the only thing she’d kept back from him. Why hadn’t DAC Peel ever mentioned that she once worked with his dad, at Tyburn Row? You’d think that would be a natural point of contact, an ice-breaker. You don’t forget something like that. Mickey French hadn’t.
Marsden sipped his coffee and reopened the file on Gica Dinantu. Name, port of entry, age. Sixteen.
Sixteen.
The pathologist clearly stated in the post-mortem report that the deceased was aged between twenty-one and twenty-four. He’d confirmed that to Mickey, on cross-examination.
So why should Dinantu tell the immigration authorities he was sixteen? Was it relevant?
Marsden popped an extra-strong mint in his mouth.
He’d heard that asylum-seekers often claimed to be under-age to avoid deportation. Nothing more sinister than that, probably.
But he’d run it through the computer again, out of curiosity. Maybe he’d punched in the wrong name last time. Worth another check.
He logged on to the Scotland Yard database.
G-I-C-A D-I-N-
A-N-T-U.
File not found.
Now what?
The bullets. The post mortem recorded that the deceased had taken four bullets. Mickey French was adamant he’d fired only two. Why should he lie? He’d admitted shooting Dinantu, put his hands up to killing him. Two bullets, four bullets, what was the difference?
What was it Mickey French had said? Sheep and lambs.
Marsden called ballistics.
‘You’re sure there were four?’ he asked the technician who had examined the bullets.
‘Yeah, positive,’ the technician replied.
‘Are they all the same?’ Marsden asked.
‘In what sense?’
‘Were they all fired from the same gun?’
‘They appear to be. They’re the same calibre.’
‘But have you examined each and every one of them?’ Marsden pressed him.
‘No. It wasn’t necessary. Look, we were given four bullets, all found in the corpse. They looked pretty much alike, same calibre; we ran the tests on one, confirmed it had been fired from French’s gun, the Glock. We assumed they were all fired from the same gun. No one told us to look any further.’
‘Do something for me, will you?’ asked Marsden.
‘What?’
‘Run all four bullets through your system. I need to know if they were all fired from the same gun.’
‘It’ll take a bit of time.’
‘I can wait,’ said Marsden.
What was Dinantu doing at Mickey French’s house in the middle of the night?
Not knocking on doors looking for work to earn money to pay for his studies as a doctor, that’s for certain. Marsden dismissed Georgia Claye’s report in the Clarion as a parcel of bollocks.
Yeah, and that was another thing. Where had the Clarion got hold of those quotes from an official police document?
Marsden cracked his knuckles. He needed to know more about Gica Dinantu. Maybe he’d go to Tottenham, talk to the girl in the article, the one who claimed to be having Dinantu’s baby.
Or had Georgia Wossername made that up, too?
The phone rang.
‘There’s some people in the front office to see you, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘A couple of pikeys, sir.’
Marsden walked downstairs. Seamus Milne, the ‘king of the gypsies’, was standing there with a scruffy young boy of about fifteen.
‘It’s about the shooting,’ said Milne.
‘In here,’ said Marsden, indicating the interview room off the main reception.
‘Come along, you,’ said Milne to the boy.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s some stuff you need to know.’
‘Such as?’
‘OK, so we’d had some run-ins with that cozzer, but this weren’t nothing to do with us.’
‘I know that.’
‘I don’t mean the shooting. I mean this so-called contract. On French. Look, I knows everyone. I’ve been asking about. And there is no contract. Not from any of us travellers.’
Curious, thought Marsden.
‘Thanks for telling me. Appreciate it.’
‘There’s more,’ said Milne.
‘More?’
‘Go on, tell him,’ Milne urged the boy.
‘Tell me what?’ said Marsden.
‘There was this taxi, black cab, one of them official jobs. Outside the house. That night,’ said Milne.
‘Whose house? What night?’
‘That cozzer’s house. The night of the shooting.’
‘How do you know about a taxi being there?’
‘He nicked it, when they were bringing the body out.’
‘Who did?’
‘This little runt,’ said Milne, shaking the boy by the shoulder.
‘What do you mean, nicked it?’
‘Drove it off, torched it next day. You ain’t gonna charge him, are you?’
‘I’m investigating a murder, not the theft of a taxi.’
‘Good. There’s something else you should know.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was another car in the village that night, around the same time. I saw it leaving, just after the shooting.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘One of them big Mercedes. S-class.’
Sixty-five
The Chrysler Grand Voyager containing Ricky Sparke, Charlie Lawrence, Polly Kettle and Mickey French swept over the Thames and headed for the underground car park at Rocktalk 99FM.
Outside, about fifty well-wishers, kitted out in ‘Free Mickey French’ T-shirts, baseball caps and lapel badges, courtesy of the radio station, began to wave banners and cheer on cue.
There were film crews and Press photographers to record the event, all arranged by Charlie Lawrence.
The crowd pressed against the side of the people carrier, banging on the smoked-glass windows, shouting encouragement and support.
Photographers scrambled round the van, holding cameras in front of them, flashlights popping as the security barrier lifted.
‘This is like going back into court,’ Mickey said.
‘You’re a hero, Mickey. Enjoy,’ said Charlie Lawrence.
‘I never asked to be a hero, Charlie,’ said Mickey.
‘There’s gratitude,’ Lawrence teased him.
‘Leave it out, Charlie,’ said Ricky. ‘Mickey’s free, that’s all that matters. You, we, got what we wanted.’
‘What Mickey wanted, too,’ said Charlie.
‘Mickey can speak for himself, thanks very much,’ grumbled Mickey. ‘Look, I’m grateful, but I’m still under the cosh. I might be out on bail, but I’m still looking at a murder charge.’
‘Detail, mere detail,’ said Charlie, as they clambered from the van and took the lift to the third floor.
Charlie’s secretary poured champagne.
‘To freedom.’
To freedom.
‘Right, let’s do it.’
‘Do what?’ asked Mickey.
‘Let’s get you on-air. Your public awaits.’
‘Now just hang on,’ protested Mickey. ‘I’m not sure. I got myself in enough trouble last time.’
Polly Kettle spoke up. ‘I really must counsel against this. As Mr French’s lawyer I am afraid that anything he may say now may exacerbate the situation.’
‘Wooah, there, sweetheart,’ Charlie stopped her. ‘Your job was to get Mickey out of pokey. You did brilliantly. But we’re running the campaign.’
‘Campaign?’ said Mickey.
‘Yeah, mate, this is bigger than just you. We’ve touched a nerve here. The fucking government’s trembling, the police are in retreat, the people are on the march. And Rocktalk 99FM is right slap-dab in the middle of it all. Shit, mate, we’re up twenty-three points as of this morning. Ricky, you tell him.’
Ricky looked shame-faced. ‘OK, Mickey, I can’t deny there’s a drink in it for all of us. But you’ve been around long enough, you know how things work. This is the fucking big one.’
‘And it’s my fucking life on the line,’ said Mickey.
‘And we’ve put up a million smackeroos to get you out of jail,’ Charlie reminded him. ‘Not to mention Mizz Kettle’s refreshers.’ He poured Mickey another glass. ‘Anyway, what about thanking the listeners. They’ve been behind you all the way.’
‘OK,’ said Mickey. ‘Five minutes, that’s all. And I’ll only do it with Ricky.’
‘Good man,’ said Ricky, patting him on the back. ‘As soon as it’s over, we’ll fuck off to Spider’s. Sink a few scoops.’
‘This is the drivetime show on Rocktalk 99FM. Here are the headlines. After a stunning campaign by Rocktalk 99FM listeners, Mickey French was freed today.
‘Rocktalk 99FM is standing surety for Mickey’s bail to the tune of ONE MILLION POUNDS.
‘More headlines later, but now I’m joined in the studio by the man who has led the
Free Mickey French campaign, our very own Ricky Sparke, and the man himself, Mickey French. Ricky, it’s all yours.’
‘Thanks, Pete. Hello, everyone. Mickey, what’s it feel like to be free?’
‘Great, just great, Ricky. And I want to thank all the listeners who have given me their support.’
‘When we spoke on the programme the other day, Mickey, you sounded as if you felt confident about beating this charge. Still feel like that?’
‘I hope so, Ricky. I don’t want to go into it all again. I’m just glad to be out.’
‘We’ve got a couple of people want to say “hi”, Mickey. Steve, line two.’
‘Yeah, all right, Mickey, all right, Ricky.’
‘Good, Steve.’
‘Hi, Mickey. I just wanna say that we‘re all glad you’re out and I want you to know we’re going to make this right, we’ll get even with the bastards for putting you through all this.’
‘Look, Steve, stay cool, mate. I don’t want any fuss made, right now. I’m out, that’s all that matters. I’m happy to let the law take its course.’
‘The law’s rotten, Mickey. You should know that. Look what you’ve been through. Direct action, that’s what we need now.’
Mickey was glaring at Ricky, running his finger across his throat, as if to say ‘cut this guy off’. Steve ploughed on.
‘It’s not just you, Mickey. We’ve all had enough. The decent people of England can’t take much more. I mean, if you can’t shoot a burglar who breaks into your own home, what’s the country coming to? It’s payback time.’
Ricky intervened.
‘Thanks, Steve, I understand that passions are running high but we can’t comment on this case any longer. Just let’s give thanks that Mickey is out and hope to hell that the politicians are listening to Rocktalk 99FM. I’m back here tomorrow morning, let’s have some more music.’
The red ‘mic live’ button went out and Mickey got up to leave. Ricky took off his headphones and followed.
‘Top stuff,’ enthused Charlie Lawrence.
‘That’s it, OK, until after the case,’ said Mickey, uncompromisingly.
‘Whatever you say, Mickey, mate.’ Charlie nodded.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Mickey motioned to Ricky. ‘I need a drink. It’ll be quiet enough in Spider’s.’
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