by Harvey, John
‘Does he know where you live?’
‘Now? I don’t think so. Otherwise he would have been unlikely to have come here.’
‘He found that out somehow.’
‘I imagine, if he gave a good enough reason, they’d tell him at HQ where I was stationed. But they’d never let him have my home address.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We should be getting going. Don’t want to give Picard any more ammunition than we have to.’
A couple of sooty, ragged-tailed pigeons waddled towards their table as they left and went away disappointed.
31
THE MEETING HAD been called for Monday 8 October, speakers from the Kent coalfield, from Scotland and from Wales. Jenny had travelled down to Mansfield with Peter Waites, Edna Johnson and others. Five hundred striking miners in the hall, standing round the edges of the room some of them with all seats taken. Following the Labour Party’s annual conference the previous week, at which Arthur Scargill had asked for and been given an overwhelming vote of support, morale was high.
‘I condemn the violence of the stone throwers and the battering ram carriers,’ Neil Kinnock, the Party leader, had said from the platform, ‘and I condemn the violence of the cavalry charges, the truncheon groups and the shield bangers.’
Those who wanted heard the last part of what he had said, ignored the first; fed on the rumours that NACODS, the union of pit overseers, was on the verge of joining the strike. If that happened – as the speaker from Scotland told the meeting – then without overseers to ensure that proper safety procedures were in place and being followed, by law no pit could remain open. So what would the NCB do then?
‘The people of this country,’ the Welsh speaker said, rising to his feet, ‘the ordinary people of this country are on our side. No matter what the government says . . .’ Cheers. ‘No matter what MacGregor says . . .’ Cheers. ‘No matter what Maggie says . . .’ Louder cheers. ‘We have the popular support and we will win.
‘And not only have we got the people on our side,’ he continued, truly hitting his stride, ‘we have God, too. God’s spokesman, no less, the Bishop of Durham, you heard him, last week at his enthronement, calling for MacGregor – what did he call him? that elderly imported American – calling for him to go. Calling this Tory government to task for embarking on a war at the other end of the world rather than spending that money on the poor and the elderly in their own country. Calling them to task for spending more and more money on the police at a time when they are being used as a blunt instrument of government policy, in an attempt to force this movement, this union, into submission.’
Near uproar; he waited for it to subside.
‘You will have heard,’ he continued, ‘the NUM’s false promises, heard MacGregor, this unwanted old man from the other side of the ocean, who has already decimated the steel industry in this country, claim there will be new jobs within the industry for any miner whose colliery is closed, which we all know is a lie.’
‘Yes!’
‘Claim there will be no compulsory redundancies, which I know and you all know is another lie.’
‘Yes!’
‘Promise that for those who do voluntarily accept redundancy, their increased payments will be full and fair.’
‘No! No!’
‘Because we know, to echo the words of the Bishop one more time, that while redundancy payments may be all very well, what redundancy means is no more jobs for those who have been made redundant and no more jobs for their children.’
Loud and prolonged acclaim. Jenny and Edna exchanged excited glances. The palms of Jenny’s hands were damp with sweat.
While the applause was still ringing round the hall, the Kentish speaker rose to his feet.
‘Comrades, I may not have always agreed with everything Arthur Scargill has done during the course of this strike . . .’ Murmurs of disapproval, scraping of chairs. ‘I may not have agreed with everything he’s said . . .’ Scattered shouts of protest, calls for him to sit down. ‘But I wholeheartedly endorse, and call upon all of you gathered here to do so too, Arthur’s words from the month just gone.
‘“Our members,” he said, “will not submit to the butchery of their livelihoods and their communities. There was only one course of action: to fight.”’
Cheers of agreement, raised fists, banging of chairs.
‘And . . .’ the speaker continued, shouting above the crowd, ‘“That fight has been an inspiration to working people around the world.”’
Anything else was lost in a tumult of sound.
In the car, heading home, Peter Waites leaned across to Jenny in the back seat.
‘Don’t you wish that’d been you up there? All that acclamation. All that applause.’
‘Me? In front of all those people – you must be joking.’
He patted her hand. ‘Can’t keep putting it off, you know. No need to start with hundreds, not at first. Thirty or so will do.’
The headlights cut through the gathering mist, lighting the road ahead.
32
A BOTTLE OF single malt aside, and that destined for McBride’s bottom drawer, Sandford and Cresswell came back from north of the border empty-handed. The address in Fort William turned out to be a one-room flat above a pizza restaurant close to the station. Single bed, sink, two-ring cooker, one easy chair, pint-sized television, shared bathroom one floor down. Danny Ireland had been there a little over three months, firstly doing manual work at the Lochaber Smelter north of the town, after that picking up odd jobs here and there, including a spell in the restaurant kitchen, washing pots.
Those few who had met him described him as distant, not exactly unfriendly, but the kind who liked to keep himself to himself; reliable, though, a good worker, not afraid to roll up his sleeves, muck in. Ask him to come for a drink after work and the answer was always a shake of the head.
One of the men Cresswell spoke to, someone who’d worked with Ireland at the aluminium smelter, said he’d come across him once, quite high on the hills to the west of Glen Nevis.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ the man, who was out walking the West Highland Way, had asked, surprised.
‘Keeping the fuck away from the likes of you,’ had been the reply.
The restaurant proprietor, who also owned the lease on the flat, told them Ireland had just disappeared, no warning. One evening he was there, the next morning gone.
‘Sneaked off in the night, then?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Any rent owing?’
‘Gonna pay it, are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Anyway, only kidding. Left what he owed, tucked under the corner of the TV. Correct to the penny.’
‘Any idea where he was headed?’
‘Not a one. But aside from what he stood up in, everything he owned fitted into a duffel bag he could sling over his shoulder. Could have gone anywhere. Tell you one odd thing about him. Even though he had a bed in his room, far as I could make out he chose to sleep on the floor. Like he was camping out. Some people, eh?’
When they asked at the station, the clerk thought he remembered a man answering Ireland’s description buying a ticket for Mallaig. But then, someone they got into conversation with in Cobbs Bar reckoned to have seen a man with some kind of big rucksack hitching a lift on the A82 north towards Invergarry and Fort Augustus on Loch Ness, this the day that Ireland had disappeared.
Catherine Njoroge was quite adamant when they phoned in for instructions. ‘Check back in with the local force, whoever you spoke to before, then get yourselves back down here as soon as possible.’
‘No passing Go then, boss,’ Cresswell asked, ‘not even if it means picking up two hundred pounds.’
Catherine broke the connection without answering. Monopoly, a game that brought out the worst in everyone.
She’d confronted John McBride first thing, the morning after her uncomfortable interview at Serious Organised Crime Unit headquarters.
/> ‘Detective Chief Inspector Picard – you’ve been passing on information to him about the investigation.’ More a statement than a question.
‘No more than he asked me.’
‘Which was what?’
‘He wanted to know how things were going. Simple as that. I told him.’
‘It didn’t occur to you to ask yourself why he was making enquiries through you and not me?’
‘I thought he must’ve had his reasons.’
‘And what did you tell him exactly?’
McBride lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. ‘What’s been happening with the inquiry. Just a summary. Interviews carried out, information received, actions allocated.’
‘And that was all?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘He didn’t ask you to express an opinion on how things were progressing?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘How many words, I wonder?’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Don’t you? I think you do. I think you saw an opportunity to stick a knife in my back and you took it.’
‘Not true, boss.’
Catherine steadied herself, straightened, making use of all the height she had.
‘Nobody else here, Sergeant, just you and me. So listen. In future no detailed information about this investigation is to be passed on without my explicit say-so. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘We’re understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘And is that the beginnings of a smirk on your face?’
‘No, boss.’
‘All right. Now listen. Names that have come down to us from the Swann investigation, the file you showed me, how far have we got with winnowing down that list of names?’
‘Only so many hours in the day, boss.’
‘Okay, but let’s speed things up as much as we can.’
‘Will do.’
‘And Cartwright? Where was it, Saskatchewan somewhere?’
‘Another call in today, RCMP.’
‘Good.’ Still focused on McBride’s face, she took a step away. ‘We’re going to nail this, right?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘God, Charlie, you’d have handled it better.’
‘You’ve got to stop thinking that.’
‘Believe me, you would.’
They were in the Half Moon on the Chesterfield Road, a barn of a place with low ceilings, fake wooden beams and a range of two-for-ten-pounds Square Deal meals. But it was out of the town centre and, at that time of the evening, quiet enough to talk without being overheard.
‘Other things aside,’ Catherine said, ‘McBride would have responded better to you. Man to bloody man.’
‘He’s got issues with you being a woman, that what you mean?’
Catherine smiled. ‘Not just a woman. I’m black, Charlie, in case you hadn’t noticed. And not Beyoncé black. Very black. The kind you can’t miss. And promoted above him. Giving him orders. How do you think he feels about that?’
‘He may not be as prejudiced as you think.’
Catherine shook her head. ‘How many years do you think he’s got in, McBride?’
‘Twenty? Twenty-five?’
‘And I’ve less than half that. Which leaves him sitting there asking why is she a DI while I’m still a DS? And the answer comes, positive discrimination.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come on, Charlie. So many points for being female, so many more for being black, a few more still for a halfway decent degree. And McBride’s what? White, Scottish, most likely not a graduate. What’s that expression my father used to use? Pulled himself up by his boot straps? And how far? I might be pretty angry if I were him.’
Resnick reached for his glass. ‘I had a DS at Canning Circus. Graham Millington. Practically all the time I was there. Good copper. DS when I arrived, DS when I left. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. A little responsibility but not too much. Go home nights and forget about the job.’
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think McBride’s married?’
‘Between divorces, far as I know.’
‘Children?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What’s he got, then, Charlie, aside from the job?’
‘Partick Thistle?’
‘What’s that?’
Resnick grinned. ‘The Notts County of Glasgow?’
It was growing dark when they left. Catherine taking the opportunity for a cigarette before the drive south. Lorries heading off towards the motorway. Years ago, Resnick thought, they would have been carrying coal, coke, steel. Lord knows what they were carrying now. Logistics – what the hell was that?
‘Swann,’ Catherine said. ‘We’ll go and see him?’
‘We probably should.’
She dropped her cigarette to the ground in a small shower of sparks before stubbing it forcefully out.
‘Night, Charlie.’
‘Goodnight.’
They climbed into their respective cars and eased out into the traffic.
Resnick was still driving up and back in his borrowed car, neither relishing the time he spent alone in the house at the end of each day, nor feeling strongly enough that he wanted company, wanted a change.
For all it held memories that as well as being pleasant, happy even, could be disturbing – the sound of a door opening and then closing above, a footstep on the stair, reminders of a presence no longer there – there was something about that house where he had lived for many years now that was reassuring. Comforting. His own things for one, things that had accumulated over time; pieces of furniture moulded to his shape and size. Records, far too many of those, CDs. A shelf or so of books, including, with the train ticket still marking her place, the book Lynn had been reading the day she died. The way the cat would circle round his chair, push its nose against his leg, then wait, poised, before jumping into his lap, circling and then settling down, head between its paws.
Catherine drove with the radio on, items of news spooling out largely unregarded: youth employment reaching a new high, a car bombing in the centre of Beirut. There’d been a large bouquet of flowers waiting for her at the station in Potter Street that morning, a note of apology written in Abbas’ practised cursive hand.
‘Admirer, ma’am?’ the officer on the desk had said.
She had torn the note in half and half again, asked the duty sergeant to make sure the flowers got to the local hospital before they wilted and hoped that would be the end of it.
Indicating clearly, she accelerated into the outside lane.
33
THERE HAD TO be, Catherine thought, a more appropriate address for HM Prison Wakefield than Love Lane. A high-security prison, with four units housing somewhere in excess of seven hundred prisoners, one hundred or more of them Category A, it specialised in high-risk sex offenders and those found guilty of violent crimes against women and children.
Catherine had dressed carefully: a dark loose-fitting trouser suit, flat shoes, hair tied back, no jewellery, little or no make-up. Nothing that would emphasise her femininity. Alongside her, Resnick, nevertheless, looked drab, ordinary: a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit with creases in his shirt and fading food stains on his tie. Over the past fifteen to twenty years not so much about his overall appearance had changed; he had just got older.
They would be seeing Michael Swann in one of several small rooms separate from the main visiting centre. A low table with four chairs, in one corner a small play area for children, against one wall a machine dispensing drinks and snacks.
With apologies, it was explained there would be a short wait.
Resnick thought about getting a Mars Bar from the machine; thought better of it.
‘You’ve been here before, Charlie?’ Catherine asked.
‘This particular unit, no. But Wakefield, yes. More than a few times, unfortunately.’
; ‘Bad place? Bad memories?’
‘All prisons are bad places, pretty much all, just a matter of degree. Ones like this – Long Lartin, Full Sutton, Manchester – lifers, prisoners on lockdown, there’s a sort of hopelessness – I don’t know – malignancy. You want to shake it off, wash it away . . .’
Footsteps approached the door, stopped, went off in another direction.
‘Last time I was here,’ Resnick said, ‘Wakefield, it was to see a man who’d systematically abused most of the children in his family, boys as well as girls, children as well as grandchildren, over a period of thirty years.’
‘And nobody knew?’
‘Of course people knew,’ Resnick said, suddenly angry. ‘They knew, somewhere inside they knew, but to say anything would have been to admit those things had really happened. Not that, in that respect, he was any different. Didn’t matter how much therapy, how much talk, multidisciplinary intervention, whatever they call it, he remained in denial. Which meant, of course, when he went before the parole board they turned him down.’
‘He’s still here?’
Resnick shook his head. ‘After he failed to get parole a second time, he started self-harming, talked about taking his own life. For the next two months he was on suicide watch, round the clock. The day after the psychiatrist pronounced him safe and the watch was withdrawn, he was found dead in his cell. Hanged himself.’
Catherine hesitated. ‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Not good. Not necessarily. But then I thought about the children, the harm he’d done to them and I didn’t feel so bad.’
The door opened and Swann was escorted in.
Late sixties, he looked older. Below medium height, he walked slowly and with a slight stoop, the beginnings of a hunched back. His face was round, its shape accentuated by his glasses; cheeks that sagged a little, a surprisingly small mouth. Grey trousers, grey shirt, black socks, brown slip-on shoes, no laces.
Several paces into the room he stopped, looking at Catherine with evident surprise.
Catherine promptly introduced herself and Resnick and, as if playing host, Swann gestured towards the chairs, bidding them sit.