‘Sorry about that, miss,’ the custody sergeant offered jovially from behind his desk, attempting to defuse the atmosphere. ‘Not our usual service, I assure you. I don’t normally allow fighting before my second cup of tea.’
The mild humour had no effect on Jya-Yu.
‘Now, what have we got here?’ The sergeant straightened his glasses as he examined the Charge Sheet.
‘She’s not having any of it, Sergeant,’ the arresting constable volunteered. ‘Not a word, in spite of the forensic. She’s keeping schtum.’
‘Nothing more to add. Is that correct?’ the sergeant enquired.
Jya-Yu didn’t move a muscle, seeming scarcely to be breathing.
‘It doesn’t help, miss, staying silent. It may be used against you in court. The lab report confirms that the substance was the bone of a large cat which we believe was tiger bone, yet you’re offering no explanation for it.’
Still she would say nothing.
The solicitor decided it was time to intervene, rising on his toes. ‘You sure now? Nothing you want to add by way of elaboration or elucidation, Miss … er?’ Oyster Man began to rifle through his file, he didn’t even know her name. ‘Miss Yu?’
‘Your client’s name is Pan Jya-Yu,’ the sergeant rebuked, pronouncing the name perfectly and making it clear he considered the solicitor to be a waste of public funds and, still more exasperating, a waste of space in his crowded Charge Room. He returned his attentions to Jya-Yu who stood before his desk, doll-like. ‘Well, miss, you’ve got no previous and you’re not an illegal immigrant. There’s no hard evidence to support the allegation of soliciting. And the constable’s nose we can consider an accident.’ For a moment, Goodfellowe’s heart began to rise in optimism. And in vain. ‘But although this is a first offence, it’s a very serious offence,’ the sergeant continued, ‘dealing in an endangered species. So I must tell you that you will be reported for being in possession of a restricted substance which we believe to be tiger bone, for the question of prosecution to be considered. Have you still got nothing to say?’
‘What does this reporting mean?’ Jya-Yu uttered her first words in a voice which sounded as softly as a sparrow’s.
‘It means they will formally charge you and may prosecute. Bring you to trial,’ the solicitor replied. At least he’d got that bit right. Jya-Yu fell silent once more.
‘Very well,’ the sergeant sounded resigned. ‘Wait over there on the bench, miss, and you gentlemen, please.’ He began to prepare his papers and summoned the inspector who had managed to free himself from mayhem further down the long custody desk. Rapidly, Goodfellowe intercepted him.
‘Inspector, what’s going to happen? To Miss Pan?’
‘Mr Goodfellowe,’ the policeman greeted, but with no more than adequate enthusiasm. ‘I did warn you on your last visit. This is a serious matter.’
‘All the more reason for me to try to help then, Inspector. What’s going to happen?’ he repeated.
‘Depends very much upon the young lady. What she decides to do.’
‘But if you’re charging her, what choice does she have?’
The inspector hesitated. He was a busy man, little time to spare for unnecessary complications, let alone public figures who got themselves wrapped up in this part of town with girls half their age. Yet at the first whiff of gunsmoke most such figures disappeared behind the protective fire of their lawyers and PR advisers. Not this one. Something in the mettle of the man encouraged him. ‘What about a quiet word, sir? Off the record? Just the two of us?’ He led Goodfellowe to the quietest corner of the Charge Room, away from the bodies and their bustle. ‘Mr Goodfellowe, your young friend has been found in possession of an illegal substance. No question about it. And she refuses to offer any explanation. She’s been no help whatsoever. Leaves me with little choice. We’ll recommend that she be prosecuted and she will have to take her chances in front of a jury.’
‘Chances, Inspector? Is that what justice has become?’
Goodfellowe’s tone was concerned, sharp. And ill-advised. The inspector was well armed. ‘You should know that better than me, sir. It’s politicians who are always pressing us to take a stronger stand against the smuggling of rare animals. Some ordinary people might argue that we’d be better off targeting burglars and muggers, but animal rights are the flavour of the month. That’s where the pressure is. The political pressure, Mr Goodfellowe, to secure convictions. Even outside the court you get political pressure. Banners, demonstrations, picket lines – that’s what happens to those sort of trials once the activists get their hands on them. Don’t care for that myself, not at all. Trial by pressure group. But that’s what Miss Pan is facing.’
‘I apologize, Inspector. Moralizing is a trap politicians fall into at their peril. I don’t often do it. Not even on Sundays.’
‘No need for apologies, sir. I think we both understand each other. And the pressures of public life.’ The ripple of tension subsided. ‘There’s another practical point which the lady ought to consider if it goes to trial. We’d probably have to raid her uncle’s premises in order to show we’ve taken the matter seriously. Who knows what we’d find? It all becomes very messy, even if she’s not found guilty.’
‘Is there no alternative? Even you appear to accept that a trial may not be fair.’
‘This is the difficult bit, Mr Goodfellowe. I’m not applying pressure, not suggesting anything, you understand. Not my job. Could get me into trouble, even the slightest hint that I was applying pressure. I’m merely outlining the options.’
‘Please go on.’
‘Since this is her first offence, I could give her a formal caution instead of pushing for prosecution. If she accepted the caution it would be the end of the matter after three years so long as nothing else came up. It wouldn’t even count as a criminal record.’
‘Then why not caution her?’
‘Because in order for me to do that she has to accept the offence. Admit her guilt.’
‘You’re suggesting that accepting a caution is the easy way out?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. Merely outlining the alternative. As you asked. Man to man.’
‘And I’m grateful.’
‘A caution isn’t even declarable on employment forms. No fine, no fuss. How can I put it tactfully? Yes, I’ve known of more difficult solutions.’
‘Even though it’s a formal admission of guilt.’
‘That’s the bacon in the butty.’
Goodfellowe pondered. Her only guilt was that of loyalty to her uncle. Her devotion had deprived her of her innocence yet nevertheless he knew she would remain loyal. Not compromise him. ‘She doesn’t deserve this, Inspector. I think she’s a victim. But the Chinese have a saying. Never set to sea in a borrowed junk. I’m afraid that’s what Miss Pan did and ran straight into a storm.’
‘If she were able to accept the caution, I think the waters may grow a little calmer for her.’
‘The quiet life? Or justice?’
The inspector offered no response.
‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ Goodfellowe repeated. ‘But I’ll put it to her.’
‘It might save everyone a great deal of time. And torment.’
Thoughtfully Goodfellowe returned to the bench on which Jya-Yu was sitting. Oyster Man sat sulking beside her, complaining that she had refused to say anything to him, but as Goodfellowe drew near she sat up. ‘What must I do now, Mr Goodfellowe?’
While the solicitor snorted in frustration, Goodfellowe began to explain. About prosecution. And the alternative. Admission of guilt and acceptance of a caution.
‘If I accept, will there be any more … procedures?’
‘You will be photographed and fingerprinted,’ the solicitor interrupted, trying to get his own back.
‘Like a criminal?’
‘It’s a serious crime you are charged with,’ he admonished, as though trying to justify his fee.
She sat very still for a few moments,
concentrating, forcing out from her mind the distractions which filled every corner of the Charge Room. Her nails dug deep into the flesh of her hand. But to Goodfellowe’s surprise there were no tears. She was putting up a fight, struggling hard for her dignity. Then her features softened. The taut muscles around the mouth seemed to relax and an expression of acceptance took control, wiping away the dread. She turned to Goodfellowe. ‘For Uncle Zhu,’ she whispered, and forced the smallest of smiles. ‘The best way, I think. The easy way out.’
He shook his head in wonderment as, moments later in the company of the solicitor and the constable, she returned to the Interview Room to record her admission of guilt on tape.
As he watched her tiny back disappear, something rattled at Goodfellowe’s bones. Perhaps he was becoming a natural pessimist, maybe his own experience had taught him that life rarely provided an easy way out. Not where he was concerned. In spite of the inspector’s reassurance, instinct told him that the only plain sailing to be found was usually in the eye of the storm, at the moment before the skies were about to darken and the hurricane to hit. And Goodfellowe’s instincts were usually remarkably accurate.
The late-afternoon sun spread sheets of amber across the market square of Wooton Minster. All day it had blazed upon the ham-stone shops and painted doorways that huddled around the rim of the square, and now the shadows of the lichen-clad steeple of St Maud’s began to spread out, pointing like an elegant finger across the cobbles and almost to the doorstep of the coffee shop. Around the table that stood in the window the conversation was ebullient. Talk of summer holidays, the boys they might meet, the boys they had already met, and of indiscretions both planned and performed. The senior girls of Werringham were on town time, enjoying their cappuccino.
The door opened and a light breeze entered bearing on its back a young woman. She was in her early twenties with a tomboyish face and cropped hair, and wore a red AIDS ribbon. She was alone, seating herself at a small table near the window to catch the last of the sun. For a few moments her presence inhibited the conversation of the five schoolgirls but by the time the newcomer had started on her pot of coffee the ripple of gossip had once more grown to a bubbling cascade, only to be interrupted for a second time as the young woman stood up and approached.
‘Hi. My name’s Jani. I’m involved with Oxfam. And I couldn’t help noticing you were from Werringham. Were any of you by chance involved in the recent fashion show?’
Three of the girls indicated that they were.
‘Great. That’s a stroke of luck,’ the woman enthused. ‘Look, I need your advice. Please, may I join you? Perhaps order some more cappuccino all round? A bit of cake?’
They needed no extra encouragement. They shuffled round and made a place for their new friend.
‘You see, we were planning to do something very similar at Oxfam, then we heard of your success here. It’s a brilliant idea and you got there first. So I thought I’d come and see what we could learn. Pinch a few of your ideas, if that’s all right. Perhaps even get some of you to help. We want this to be big, plenty of television coverage, lots of personalities. We’re hoping one of the Royals might even do some of the modelling.’
The woman found herself surrounded by excited chatter.
‘I understand the show was organized by a Samantha Goodfellowe. She’s not one of you by any chance?’
‘Bet she wishes she were,’ one of the girls chirped as the cakes and coffee arrived. ‘One-Sip Sam would love all this.’
‘One-Sip Sam?’
Some of the girls wriggled in discomfiture. ‘It’s a sort of … nickname. She doesn’t have a lot of money so she makes a drink last all afternoon. One sip at a time.’
‘I’d like to meet her. Perhaps outside of school where we can be a bit more relaxed, not bothered by class timetables. Any idea where I would find her? Trouble is, I’m only in town for a couple of days.’
‘You could try Red Hot Dutch – the local disco,’ one suggested, giggling.
‘No, not until the weekend, stupid,’ a second responded.
‘Anyway it’s Tuesday. She gets late leave on Tuesdays to go to her art classes,’ a third added.
‘She has an art class?’
‘Yes. She’s rather talented, really. Gets special permission to go to local evening classes. In the Methodist village hall just outside of town. Even draws at life classes sometimes.’
The shared thought of all those bodies brought the schoolgirls to life. ‘Some of the men have gorgeous muscle definition, Sam says.’ – ‘They’re usually ancient.’ – ‘Sometimes they’re below fifty.’ – ‘She says they often have varicose veins.’ – ‘Yes, but where?’ Youthful laughter gripped them all. The sun had slipped sadly away behind the steeple, casting the market square into a sudden monochrome gloom, but no one seemed to notice.
By the time the cake had been reduced to crumbs and there was nothing left of the coffee but dark dregs, Jani had learned considerably more about Samantha. Much was of no consequence but there were valuable insights into a talented yet unhappy teenager who broke school rules on occasions and boys’ hearts at every opportunity. Opinionated, direct, an individualist. The sort of girl who stood out from the crowd, even if only to shower it in red paint. As the pieces began slowly to fit together, Jani made a decision. She determined to make a visit to Red Hot Dutch to see whether she could find out more about a girl who made a drink last all night, and she would also drive out to the Methodist village hall that evening. There might not be too much to be gained from an art class, but it would justify the good meal she was planning at a four-star restaurant she’d found in one of the guides. It was an extravagance, of course, at a time when all expenses were being put under the budget manager’s microscope, but it would seem unquestionably as though they had been incurred in the course of duty. She felt sure her editor back at the Herald would approve. After all, he’d said this Goodfellowe story was top priority.
The nightly exodus of MPs after the ten o’clock vote had left the corridors of the House strangely silent as Goodfellowe paced his way wearily back to his office. He’d almost not made it past the Speaker’s Chair. A small cabal of colleagues had waylaid him with an invitation. Whisky and wickedness.
‘The next election is drawing close. Too close,’ one had suggested. ‘We thought a few of us should discuss the problems. And possibilities.’
‘Very privately,’ emphasized a second.
‘A free discussion. Frank exchange of ideas,’ suggested a third.
‘You mean whether we turkeys should try to save our own necks by plucking and stuffing the Prime Minister,’ Goodfellowe had responded.
‘Nothing should be ruled out.’ – ‘For discussion.’ – ‘If that’s what you think should be discussed, Tom.’ They had huddled around him, seething discontent from the shadows, whispering like witches at their cauldron.
‘Why me?’
‘We know you’ve had run-ins with the Whips. You’re on their list of bad boys. We thought you’d welcome an exchange of ideas. With no inhibitions. No rules. And no minutes.’
He had considered the proposal briefly, but had declined. ‘My reputation is in sufficient peril without being seen in the company of free thinkers,’ he declared, turning away.
‘Better a man of any reputation than a forgotten one,’ they had retorted, intentionally cruel.
So … He had been marked down by the trouble tendency as one of their number. Goodfellowe hadn’t realized that, but he knew the Whips would have, and come to their own conclusions. Politics was a team game and he seemed to have no home any more. He felt very alone.
As he opened the door to his office a shaft of high moonlight found its way through the mullioned window and splashed eerily across the floor. In the middle of the puddle, where Mickey had left them, lay the back copies of the Herald. He picked up an armful and spread them across his desk.
‘So, Mr Corsa, let’s see if we can rake through the ashes and find a few sparks
.’
The pub was hot and stuffy in spite of its size. Customers crowded in like battery hens, pressing into every corner, sweating mildly, spilling their beer and wine in their eagerness to get served and, of course, to get a better view. The music from the sound system was not the usual pub fare. They were playing an aria from The Magic Flute, which felt painfully loud in the cramped quarters, forcing all conversation to be brief and bawled. Not that many of the customers were there to talk. Most of their attention was focused on the point where two spotlights, battling though the rising smoke and heat, focused on the small raised platform next to the emergency exit. Upon that platform a woman was standing. She wore a blonde wig. Slowly, and with only a suggestion of boredom, she was miming eloquently to the music. She was also taking off her clothes.
It was showtime at Mozart’s, Covent Garden’s newest and most fashionable watering hole, which, after the theatres and cinemas had disgorged their multitudes onto the streets, performed a public service by taking a remarkable number back off again. Mozart’s was far more fun than the gastric obstacle courses offered by most late-night hostelries, and the supply of well-formed RADA students and resting actresses who needed a little extra cash appeared limitless. Mind you, it was all conducted with what Kenny, the Liverpudlian proprietor, regarded as being commendable restraint. Some only stripped as far as the waist, bearing their breasts in the authentic manner of an abused handmaiden or abandoned wife, but after ten o’clock the punters knew that poetic licence would hold sway and Pamina, driven to despair by Sarastro, would go all the way. They also knew that at this point in the evening the price of drinks would double, but still they queued.
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