by James Oswald
Janie stared out the side window at the passing tenements as they sped their quiet, electric way around the Cameron Toll roundabout and on to Dalkeith Road. She could see things getting more and more complicated with each new revelation.
‘I’ll run a proper background on Whitaker soon as we get back to the station.’
‘Aye, Lofty. You said. Don’t fret about it. Mistakes get made.’
Crammed in behind the wheel, the detective constable already looked uncomfortable, but Janie thought she saw an added level. Something more than physical was paining Blane. ‘What’s up, Lofty? You’ve been acting weird for weeks now.’
‘It’s nothing. Tired, I guess. Meg’s overdue already but she’s been nippy sweetie for months now. Sooner the wee one’s born the better . . .’ He tailed off, clearly as uncomfortable talking about it as he was squashed into a space designed for someone a foot shorter than him.
‘Oh God, Lofty. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten. Is she very late?’
‘Coming up on a fortnight. They’re going to induce her if she doesn’t start soon. I was told it got difficult once the wain was born, but see these past few months . . .’
‘You’ll be away on the paternity soon, then?’ Janie voiced it as a question, even though she knew the answer.
Blane shrugged, causing the car to swerve dangerously towards the oncoming traffic before he pulled it back into the right lane. ‘Thought about putting it off, given how short-staffed we are. But there’s some new DCs arrived now so I don’t feel so bad.’
‘Just have to hope they shape up. Who knows? We might even get a new DCI too. Place could be awash wi’ detectives.’ Janie stared at the lines of squad cars as they pulled into the station car park, noticed DI McLean’s black Alfa Romeo squeezed in between two armoured Transits. Brave or foolhardy, she couldn’t really decide. ‘Seriously though, Lofty. Is it any surprise we make mistakes like that, given how few of us have been here to do the work? Anyone calls you out for missing that Whitaker was out on bail and on the register? You let me know and I’ll give them a piece of my mind.’
17
Gary sits at the front of the room, impressed by the number of people who have come to see Tommy Fielding speak. There must be over a hundred, maybe more. He’s surprised to see a few women in the crowd too. Why would they want to come along to this? Are they press? And why would Tommy let them listen to him? Surely they’re the enemy.
‘Take Jim here.’
Mr Fielding’s standing behind a modern glass lectern, and he points with an open hand towards a man sitting not far from Gary. Jim shuffles nervously in his seat, clearly unhappy at being picked out from the crowd.
‘Jim was happily married for eleven years. He’s got two kids, Fiona and Esme. Twins, but not identical, is that right?’ Fielding waits for the man to nod before continuing. ‘Jim thought everything was fine in his life. Good job, beautiful wife, kids doing well at one of the top schools in the city. Then he comes home one day and the house is empty. Well, I say empty. There was a letter on the kitchen counter, from his wife, telling him she wanted a divorce and had taken Fiona and Esme away.’
A murmur of outrage ripples around the room, people shifting in their seats as the terrible tale begins to unfold. Gary takes another look at unhappy Jim. He’s perhaps mid-forties, short-cropped hair going grey at the temples and receding completely from the shiny top of his head. He wears narrow-framed specs and his jacket’s one of those expensive designer jobs that Gary thinks looks shit but knows costs more than he earns in a month. Earned in a month, fuck it. When he even had a job. Jim’s shoes look expensive too, even if he is wearing a faded pair of jeans like half the men in the room.
‘Jim’s wife claimed he’d been molesting his daughters.’
Gary’s still looking at the man as Fielding lets slip this new nugget of information, and he sees Jim stiffen visibly, as if he’s been prodded with a sharp stick. Well, fair enough. Gary reckons he’d feel the same, having his dirty laundry aired in this room.
‘She has no evidence, of course. Because there’s no truth in the allegation. Just her say against his. The judge, though? She . . .’ And here Fielding pauses for maximum effect. ‘. . . she took Jim’s wife’s side. Granted her the divorce and custody of the children. Jim was denied visiting rights pending an investigation into the allegations. That was two years ago and he hasn’t seen them since.’
The murmur of outrage grows, rumbling around the room like a drunk man in a pub. Gary looks over his shoulder, sees some of the women glance nervously at each other, the environment suddenly turned more hostile than perhaps they were expecting. Well, it was their choice to come, only their fault if they get hurt.
‘Jim’s not the only one here today who’s been cheated. His is a tragic, terrible injustice, but we’ve all of us suffered at the hands of our so-called courts.’ Fielding is working himself up now, fuelled by the simmering anger in the crowd. It’s intoxicating stuff, Gary has to admit. The man knows how to work an audience. If he’s half as good in court then Bella’s in for a shock. Well, she will be if he can come up with the cash to pay the lawyer.
‘You’ve all come to hear me tell you how to fight back, right? You want to know how to get justice in a system rigged against us.’
A murmur of agreement works its way around the room, but as Gary looks back towards the rear, he hears other noises too. It sounds like voices chanting, and he remembers the crowd outside the hotel as he came in. Protesters, making out that Fielding was some kind of monster, woman hater, Christ only knew what. A moment later, and the double doors into the room burst open, the noise suddenly painful as a gang of them rush in, screaming.
Gary’s on his feet before he knows it. Who the fuck do these people think they are? Breaking in here, accusing him and the others of all kinds of sick filth. They look like lesbians, all short-cropped messy hair, baggy clothes and piercings. As if they weren’t ugly enough as it is. He’s facing up to them, spoiling for a fight. Ready to clock one as she strides towards Fielding at the podium.
‘Crawl back under your rock, you disgusting paedo.’ She points an accusing finger at him, even as a security guard grabs her around the waist and pulls her away. She shrugs him off, face almost as red as her ugly, stubble-shaved hair. Her anger’s contagious, stoking Gary’s own, and he moves to intercept her before she can get to the lawyer. He starts to raise his fist, soon put her in her place, but a hand grabs his wrist.
‘Not now, Gary. Not here.’
The voice is pitched low, almost a growl, and with enough menace in it that it penetrates the red mist beginning to descend, blows it away. Gary turns swiftly to find Fielding standing close, almost too close. Their eyes lock for a moment, and then the lawyer lets go of his wrist, jerks his head towards the podium.
‘Come on. Leave security to the pros. We can get out this way.’
Gary follows Fielding through a small door at the back of the stage, into another room. Half a dozen men are there already, including Jim, the one whose wife accused him of molesting his daughters. They’re a bit shaken, but more angry than afraid, ready for a fight. Fair enough, it was only a bunch of ugly dykes who could do with being given a hard lesson in manners, after all. As one, they turn to see who’s come in.
‘Lads, I’d like you all to meet Gary.’ Fielding makes introductions, although Gary isn’t sure he’ll remember many of the names. Jim, sure. He’s easy enough to recognise. The others all look alike, as if they all buy their clothes from the same shop, or maybe subscribe to the same gym. He can see they’re better off than him, maybe a bit higher up the social ladder too. None of them seem to look down on him, though.
‘What’s going on out there, Tommy?’ one of them asks.
‘Just a few bitches getting uppity, Christopher. No need to worry about it. Security’ll deal with it, and I had a word with the polis. They’ll treat this lot a bit more s
eriously now.’
Gary notices that word, polis. The inflection of it jars with Fielding’s otherwise polished accent. It feels more like the way Bazza would speak than a posh lawyer. But then Fielding’s not really posh, is he?
‘Reckon it’s safe to go back out there?’ one of the other men asks, earning stares from his comrades. He goes a little red in the face as he realises what he’s said, what he’s admitted to. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. Just don’t want to get in the way of the security men, right?’
There’s a moment’s silence, which is as much an answer to the question as any. Then Fielding slaps the man on the back. ‘It’s OK, Don. We all know what you meant. Sounds like they’re done in there anyways. Shame about the meeting, though. I thought it was going well before those witches broke in.’
‘Witches?’ Gary asks, earning himself a puzzled look from the others.
‘All women are witches, Gary. Thought you’d know that. Of all people.’ Fielding puts a fatherly arm around his shoulder and steers him towards the door. ‘Come on, you lot. Let’s go get a beer, shall we?’
18
‘You paid a visit to that fathers’ rights bloke, didn’t you?’
Detective Sergeant Janie Harrison looked up from her desk to see who had spoken, saw the duty sergeant standing in the doorway. ‘Aye, what of it?’
‘We’ve just had a report of a disturbance. Bunch of protesters broke into the meeting and started screaming at everyone there, apparently.’
Janie sat up straighter, resisting the urge to glance at the clock on the wall. She’d been filling the time to shift end going over the Cecily Slater case notes for perhaps the thousandth time, but now she could see both that and an early night slipping from her grasp.
‘Who’s attending?’ she asked.
‘Uniforms out of Torphichen Street mostly. It’s a bit of a mess, way I hear it. You know what these angry feminists can be like.’ The duty sergeant’s brain caught up with his mouth and he shrugged away his embarrassment. ‘No offence.’
Janie wondered how it would go down if she told him that actually yes, there was considerable offence. Reg was a time-served sergeant, close to retirement, old school and very much set in his ways. She might have been the same rank as him now, and as a detective sergeant the senior officer in the room, but given she’d only been a detective sergeant for a few weeks, it was a point she thought best let go.
‘Who’s in charge over there?’ She picked up her phone and notebook, both lying on the desk beside her keyboard.
‘Kenny Stephen, I think. No’ really something plain clothes need to be involved in, but I thought you’d want to know. Seeing as you were there before.’
He was right. There was no need for her to get involved at all. The hotel wasn’t far from her flat though, or at least it was a good deal closer than the station. And it wasn’t all that long until shift end.
‘I’ll just pop over and see what’s happening all the same. It’s on the way home, and chances are Fielding will be bending the ear of anyone he can find. Better to be one step ahead, aye?’
The duty sergeant raised an eyebrow but said nothing more as Janie gathered the rest of her things together and turned off her computer. He stood aside to let her leave the room, and only then did she remember her manners, or rather that it was always a good idea to be nice to the duty sergeant, however misogynistic he might be.
‘Thanks for the tip-off, Reg. I owe you one,’ she said, but hurried away before he could make good on her offer.
By the time Janie reached the hotel, there was nothing left but a pair of squad cars parked on a double yellow line. A uniformed constable stood a few paces from the front door, chatting with Detective Constable Blane. With his back to her, Lofty didn’t notice she was there until she tapped him on the arm.
‘What the—?’ He whirled around in surprise, almost clocking her on the side of the head. ‘Jesus, Janie. What’re you doing creeping up on me like that?’
‘You got my message then?’ she said, to cover her alarm. It was one thing to know the detective constable hadn’t meant her any harm, quite another to still feel the rush of air on her face as a hand not much smaller than her head brushed past it with millimetres to spare.
‘Aye. Was heading home, but I figured this must be important. Davey here was telling me they’ve got it all under control, mind.’ Lofty waved his dangerous hand at the uniformed constable, and Janie recognised one of her old colleagues hiding under his hat and cold weather gear.
‘Hey, Janie. How’s it goin’? Hear you made sergeant now so I s’pose I should call you ma’am.’
‘Funny, Dave. How about you just let me know what happened.’
‘Well, you know that bloke Tommy Fielding’s here, right? Giving talks about men’s rights and all that stuff?’
‘Aye, Davey. I spoke with him a while back. And the protesters outside. Seemed peaceful enough, if a bit loud and smelly. I don’t need the full story, just where you came in.’
‘We got a call from hotel security maybe an hour, hour and a half ago? Some of the protesters had managed to get in through a fire door round the back. Fielding was talking to a group of maybe a hundred or so in the main conference room when they all burst in and started screaming.’
‘Screaming?’
‘Aye, that’s what it was. They didn’t do anything violent. Didn’t break furniture or try to hurt anyone, like. They were just wailing at the top of their lungs. Proper banshee stuff, y’know? Security dragged them out best they could, but it ruined the event.’
‘My heart bleeds for them. Where are the protesters now?’
‘Some of them got away. Some the security guys threw out. Most of them had dispersed by the time we got here, but there’s a half-dozen had somehow managed to barricade themselves in a smaller function room. They’ve been taken off to your nick, seeing as ours doesn’t have enough holding cells any more.’
‘Ah well, I guess that’ll keep Reg happy. Suppose I’d better go and speak to Mr Fielding again. Then I can go home and have a shower to wash the dirt off.’
‘He’s no’ that bad,’ the constable said.
‘Aye he is. Worse. He’s the reason women can’t go out on their own after dark. He’s the reason we have to think twice about what we wear and who we talk to. It’s people like him putting stupid ideas into young men’s heads that means I spend half of my life interviewing victims of domestic violence and lying when I tell them we’ll keep them safe.’ Janie walked off before she lost her temper, or had to hear any reply, only stopping when she reached the front door and saw Lofty wasn’t following. ‘Come on, then,’ she shouted. Eventually the detective constable nodded goodbye to his friend and followed her inside.
‘Was that really necessary, Janie?’ he asked once they’d stepped into the reception area.
‘Was what necessary?’
‘Chewing wee Davey’s ear off like that. And what you said about Fielding. He’s the injured party here, remember?’
Janie stopped herself from shaking her head. This wasn’t the time or place to get into an argument with a colleague she had a lot of respect for, even if on this particular point he was as wrong as wrong could be.
‘Let’s just get this over with, shall we?’ She went to the reception desk and showed her warrant card. Before she could even ask, the receptionist pointed to a door across the hall.
‘Mr Fielding’s in the Walter Scott bar at the moment.’
Janie thanked the man, then led Lofty in the direction they’d been pointed. The Walter Scott bar was much like any posh hotel bar, quieter than most pubs and with an interior design that leaned rather too heavily on shiny red leather and polished wood for her tastes. Standing in the doorway, she didn’t have time to scan the whole room before an angry voice piped up from a table of people off to one side.
‘Detective Sergeant
Harrison. It’s about bloody time someone showed up.’
What was it the boss said to do in situations like this? A silent count to ten, wasn’t it? Janie curled her hands into loose fists as she let the numbers grow, then turned slowly to meet her accuser, fake smile plastered across her face.
‘Mr Fielding. I’m so sorry your event was disrupted. I gather nobody was hurt?’ A slight inflection at the end of the sentence made it a question, even though she knew the answer. It was more an invitation to the man to talk, which he clearly needed to do. Or at least rant.
‘It’s a disgrace. You should have moved them on when I asked you to. None of this would have happened if you’d just done your job.’
Janie only half heard what the man had to say. She was too busy looking at the group of men who were sitting with him. She didn’t immediately recognise any of them, but they all seemed cast from the same mould. Middle-aged, fairly well-to-do, well groomed and yet somehow greasy. Or was that just her prejudices getting the better of her? Only one of the men seemed out of place. A bit younger than the rest, rougher around the edges. He caught her eye and then looked away like a guilty suspect.
‘I can assure you we take the matter most seriously, Mr Fielding. I will speak with hotel security and find out how the protesters got in. As I’m sure you’re well aware though, whilst they were outside and not causing an actual public nuisance, there wasn’t much we could do about them.’
She knew it wasn’t going to mollify him, and she wasn’t disappointed. Perhaps it had been a mistake coming here; better to have sent a male officer. Maybe even Lofty on his own, although Janie knew that Fielding would have taken it as an insult to be dealt with by a mere constable.
‘Preposterous.’ He mangled the word, something of his true nature fighting through the false posh Edinburgh accent he affected most of the time. ‘I’ll see the ones who broke in prosecuted. Mark my words. They’ll do time for this.’
Janie found herself clenching her fists even tighter, started mentally counting to ten again. To her surprise, and relief, Lofty stepped in before she could say anything she might regret later.