by Jennie Finch
‘Fine bloody guards you two is,’ said Ada fiercely. ‘First sign of some stranger and you both sit down and let ‘um scratch your ears and walk right past!’
‘Ah, don’t take on so Ada, they can tell I’m not a threat,’ said Tom, leaning on the doorframe. ‘Don’t know as I’m that much of a stranger neither. Known each other for years, we have.’
‘Well, not when they’s been around,’ Ada pointed out. ‘First time you’ve been here in their livin’ memory. Don’t know you from Adam, they don’t. Should’ve had the arse out of your trousers, they should, not listen to your gypsy whispering and such like.’
She set the bowls down in front of the dogs and straightened up, flapping her hands at her visitor. ‘Go on now, get out my light. Standing there in the way.’
Tom straightened up and strolled through the kitchen into the tiny front room, settling himself on Ada’s worn sofa.
‘Cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,’ he called hopefully.
‘Who invited you in there,’ said Ada crossly, but she filled the kettle, set it to boil on the range and, after the briefest of hesitations, reached up to a top cupboard and pulled out her best cups and saucers. After all, she thought, it was a long time since she’d had much in the way of company.
The day after Derek Johns’ funeral was a Friday and Alex was looking forward to a quiet morning at her desk. There was just one session planned for the centre, a couple of hours in the afternoon where she expected to spend a lot of her time helping her younger clients fill in forms for job applications. Gone were the days when they could turn up at a factory gate and try their luck, she thought. In fact, apart from the chicken factory there wasn’t anywhere left and even those jobs – cold, tedious and rather repellent as they were – were in great demand. When even the chicken factory could afford to be choosy, things were very bad indeed. The giant plastics complex to the north was firing a good proportion of its workers and everything else needed some kind of qualification.
Lost in her own thoughts, she almost skipped up the steps, swung through the double doors and cannoned into Gordon, the acting senior. Unlike his predecessor, Gordon was a thoughtful, considerate and immensely likeable man and in the few short weeks since Garry, the previous senior officer, had been gone, he had done wonders for team morale. Despite his undoubted air of authority, Gordon worked by negotiation and persuasion, teasing the very best from the band of exhausted probation officers. Everyone agreed it was a great shame he was not going to stay in the post much longer. Well, almost everyone. The latest addition to the office, Ricky Peddlar, was already acquainted with the senior appointed by Headquarters and took every opportunity to compare Gordon’s actions with how she would do things. In common with most of the staff, Alex disliked Ricky intensely.
‘Ah, Alex,’ said Gordon, recoiling from the collision. ‘I wondered if I could have a word.’
A sinking feeling in her stomach, Alex led the way through the deserted day centre and down a narrow stone corridor to the converted storage cupboard that served as her office. Switching on the lights, she shuffled a pile of paper off the spare chair and gestured him to be seated.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Gordon. ‘Really, this is most unfortunate but you are the only other officer involved with this particular client.’ He paused, tugging at his neat, greying beard for a moment before continuing.
‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to take the breach.’
Alex blinked at her senior for a moment before she recalled the last staff meeting. In an effort to save money (and probably to wring the last drop of enthusiasm out of the probation service) the government had decided the Crown Prosecution Service would no longer handle the return to court of probationers in breach of their orders. Instead they would be handled in court by the breaching officer, using the notes from the arrest and original trial supplied by the police. The move was deeply unpopular amongst officers and there had been a growing sense of dread as several weeks passed and offenders began to slip off the ‘straight and narrow’. No-one wanted to be the first to go through the ordeal of what was, basically, presenting a prosecution in open court.
‘But I’ve not breached anyone,’ Alex protested. ‘Mine are all behaving themselves for once, especially now we’ve got rid of the drugs coming into town.’
‘He’s a client at the day centre,’ said Gordon. ‘He’s actually one of Ricky’s but …’
‘And Ricky’s not turned up today, has he?’ said Alex angrily. ‘He’s chickened out.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Who is it then?’
Gordon shook his head slightly and said, ‘Martin – Martin Ford.’
‘Flasher Ford? You’re joking, right? I’m supposed to stand up in court and read out the police notes on Flasher Ford?’ Alex felt a surge of fury run through her body and her already limited tact and diplomacy failed her utterly.
‘The shiftless, spineless little shit!’ She wasn’t referring to Martin Ford, either. ‘Look, I’ll have to go home and change. Have I got time?’
Gordon glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘Just about. You’re due in at ten. Alex – I will have a word with Ricky about this if he’s not genuinely sick. He’s the court duty officer today and I do feel he needs to ensure he’s playing his part in the team.’
Not in the least mollified, Alex set off down the old towpath beside the river, heading to her little terraced house in search of her court suit. Just one more thing to make the whole business more uncomfortable, she thought. Skirt, tights and stupid shoes – when would the damn magistrates drag themselves into the twentieth century? She recalled one of her tutors telling her there used to be a ‘court hat’ at most probation offices as some magistrates demanded women appeared in hats and gloves. The idea was so ludicrous she gave a snort of laughter as she hurried through the front door and upstairs to her room.
When she arrived at the magistrates’ court there was a flurry of consternation amongst the clerks.
‘We were expecting Mr Peddlar,’ said the chief clerk, his eyes darting around anxiously as if hoping to spot Ricky lurking in a corner.
‘Well, he’s not in today so you’ve got me,’ said Alex grimly. ‘May I see the notes please?’ She put out her hand and, very reluctantly, the clerk passed over the folder. He hovered next to her, anxiety oozing from every pore.
‘Um, if you look at the front pages – er, here to here, are the relevant sections. I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of it …’ His voice trailed away and he looked round again, hoping someone would intervene and call him away.
Alex skimmed over the first of the pages and felt her heart sink. It was written in Police English, a strange and rather stilted form of language that presumably aimed at clarity but frequently provoked hilarity amongst the initiated of the court. Even the short, formal statements could not do much about the content, however, and she wondered how she was going to get through the prosecution’s evidence without either collapsing with embarrassment or succumbing to hysterical giggles. She was hard pushed to say which would be worse.
‘That’s fine, thank you,’ she said, heading towards the bench outside the court. The previous hearing was still going on inside and she had a few minutes to read through the prosecution evidence from Martin Ford’s trial. She had just reached the statements from the two main witnesses when a shadow fell across the page and, looking up, she recognised one of the local solicitors. One of the original team in the prosecution of Martin Ford, in fact.
‘May I?’ he asked and sat down next to her before she could answer. ‘This is not right,’ he said, tapping the case file.
Alex shrugged and tried to convey professional resignation without showing too much impatience. It was very nice, this display of solidarity from the court, but at the moment she needed every second to study the file. Although Martin was ostensibly a client at the day centre, she had hardly seen him and had sent several notes to Ricky Peddlar highlighting the non-attendance. As the officer holding Martin’s order, it was Ricky�
�s job to issue a breach and send him back to court for sentencing. Alex could only point out his client’s nonconformity, but here she was, stuck with the very first order to be presented by a probation officer for Highpoint. She realised the solicitor – what was his name, she wondered – was still talking.
‘We’re not happy with the whole issue, you know, but to expect you to present this particular case, well …’ He shook his head and twisted his long, thin face into what he presumably thought was an expression of profound sympathy. Alex thought it looked more like a bad attack of wind. The arrival of the clerk saved her from further platitudes and she rose, gathering up the file to follow him into the court.
There were more sympathetic looks as she made her way to the front amid a murmur from the small public gallery. Glancing up, she saw Martin Ford’s family – father, mother and three brothers – sitting in unaccustomed splendour, the men in slightly shiny suits and a job-lot of carnival club ties. His mother sat in the centre of the row, squeezed into a polyester dress of quite shocking peacock blue and clutching a green handbag that looked large enough to hold several sawn-off shotguns. Given the family’s reputation for solving disagreements with violence, Alex wouldn’t have been surprised if it did.
She tried to sneak another glance at the statements but the clerk called the court to its feet and the magistrates entered and seated themselves at the bench. One of them, a woman called Veronica House, nodded to Alex and raised one eyebrow, either in sympathy or perhaps querying the absence of Ricky. As the ushers escorted Martin Ford to the seat behind the defence table there was a rustle from where his family were seated and the Chair of the Bench turned to glare at them.
‘I want to say that we will tolerate no interruptions or remarks from the gallery. This is a serious issue and we expect it to be treated as such.’ He nodded to the clerk who rose and began reading out the charges.
Alex had appeared in court many times before but always in a supporting role. Often she merely had to acknowledge a report submitted days or occasionally weeks earlier and at most had to respond to questions from the bench. She’d never had to get up and actually prosecute someone and the shaking in her hands and legs made her feel sick. As her name was called, she rose to her feet, convinced everyone could see how nervous she was.
‘Are you ready to proceed?’ asked the Chair of the Bench.
Alex nodded, then swallowed and managed, ‘Yes, thank you Sir.’ Her voice sounded squeaky in her ears and she took a deep breath before turning her attention to the pages from the prosecution’s original case.
It started reasonably well, with an outline of the times, days and places of the offences and some dry and factual notes on Martin Ford’s arrest and initial interview. It was when Alex got to the crucial statements from two witnesses that things began to go wrong.
This was the part of the file she had not been able to read properly beforehand and as she embarked on her recitation, she realised with sinking heart that had been a terrible mistake. As she skimmed ahead, her voice faltered and the bench leaned forwards, straining to hear. She cleared her throat again and started at the beginning of the first statement. There was only one way to do this, she thought fiercely. Absolutely deadpan, just straight out with it. And be sustained by the knowledge she would have Ricky-bloody-Peddlar’s heart on a stick for putting her in this position.
‘Witness statement from Mrs Vera Bond,’ she read. ‘On the morning of February 12th, 1987, I was walking with my daughter, Mabel Smith, on the beach at Hinkley Point. We had been walking towards the power station for about fifteen minutes and there was no-one else around. Just as we decided to turn round and go back to our car Mabel grabbed my arm and pointed to something near the fence. We were quite close by now and I could see a figure standing there and sort of waving …’ Alex hesitated, wondering how anyone could ‘sort of’ wave but there was silence in the room and she hurried on.
‘Mabel tugged at my sleeve and pointed again. “I think he’s flashing at us,” she said. I stopped walking and tried to see what the man was doing but I couldn’t make out any details so I put my glasses on to check. Mabel put her glasses on too but we wasn’t sure.’
A ripple of laughter ran floated round the room but Alex kept her eyes fixed firmly on the notes in her hand, not looking up as the chairman gave a warning sign to the court. As order was restored she sneaked a glance at the defendant. Martin was scowling, hunched over in his chair and chewing angrily at a large wad of gum – one of his numerous delightful habits, she recalled.
Alex resumed her reading, desperate to get to the end without laughing.
‘I took my glasses off and cleaned them as they were a bit smudged and we went a few steps closer, to be sure, and it looked like he was flashing at us. I think he was a bit upset about something because he made a gesture in our direction and pulled up his trousers. I heard him call out a rude word before he ran off.’
The room was rocking with laughter as Martin Ford sprang to his feet, his face scarlet with fury.
‘Was cold!’ he yelled. ‘Was February, all right?’ He thrust his hands back in his pockets and glared round him, jaws clacking loudly on the gum in his mouth.
The magistrates all leaned forwards and Veronica House whispered something to the clerk of the court who held up one hand, calling for order and gesturing to the usher as he did so. The court usher on this occasion was a tiny woman who probably weighed less than seven stone wringing wet. She was also in her sixties but when she bustled over to Martin and rapped him on the shoulder, he glanced down at her and fell silent. Alex hid a grin. She had seen this before. It must be a bit like being scolded by your granny in public, she thought.
‘I will not have this sort of behaviour in my court,’ said the chairman when some semblance of order was re-established.
‘And you.’ He pointed at Martin. ‘Yes, you, stop masticating!’
Martin shot a horrified look at the bench and jerked his hands out of his pockets.
Back in the probation office, Alex related the story to a fascinated audience that had gathered in the day room within minutes of her return. When she got to the part about the gum Lauren shrieked and covered her mouth in horror. Sue, on the other hand, was almost helpless with laughter, rocking on her chair as she revelled in the young man’s discomfort.
‘Serve him right,’ she managed, gasping and giggling. ‘Sleazy little oik.’
‘So what was the outcome?’ asked Pauline, ever practical. If Martin Ford was on his way to prison then Ricky had room for another probationer and after his oh-too-convenient sick day, she had several interesting candidates in mind. Pauline was the consummate professional and she was very slow to anger but she made a bad enemy when finally roused. From the glint in her eyes, Ricky was going to regret his actions on his return to work.
‘Back on probation,’ said Alex. ‘There was a long speech from his solicitor arguing he hadn’t re-offended so the probation order was doing some good. Don’t know how, seeing as he hardly ever attends the day centre,’ she added with a twist of bitterness.
‘I think you should have a word with Gordon,’ said Pauline. ‘He needs to make sure Ricky reads the riot act to Martin this time. One more slip and he’s back in court with a strong recommendation he doesn’t get a third chance.’
‘They just seem to keep sending them back, like unwanted parcels,’ said Sue. ‘I know we are often a better alternative than prison but when they don’t bother even turning up, there’s not much we can do to help them. It just means we waste a load of time that could be spent on someone who wants to do something positive.’
‘Speaking of which, I’ve got a group coming in at two,’ said Alex. ‘See you later.’
‘She works too hard,’ said Pauline eyeing Alex’s retreating back.
Sue nodded in agreement. ‘Still, do you want to tell her?’ she asked sweetly.
Pauline shook her head. ‘Maybe another time,’ she said.
Highpoint Probation
Hostel was only half-full, partly owing to a recent swoop by the local constabulary who, acting on information gathered by then-Constable Dave Brown, rolled up a network of minor drug dealers and couriers. Out on the Levels, a gang of local opportunists led by Tom Monarch had been forced into an uneasy alliance with Max Long, a young but enthusiastic criminal from Bristol. Max used the traditional smugglers’ routes across the emptiness of the Levels to bring in a lethal cocktail of ‘recreational’ drugs, with tragic consequences for at least one of his inexperienced customers. Max’s capture and the removal of his fledgling dealers was a cause of great relief to the local men, who used the confusion surrounding his arrest to disappear into the background. The successful operation had left the hostel with a lot of space, however, and Samuel was finding it hard to understand why, with so many empty rooms, he was crammed into a four-bed dormitory with three strangers.
‘That’s the system,’ said Peter Marks, the warden. ‘You start in a four bed room, just like everyone else. You get to move up if you can prove you’re trustworthy. This ’ent just a place to sleep you know. Is part of your rehabilitation and the ‘Ladder of Achievement’ is an important aspect of that.’
He gestured to the wall behind his desk where a diagram of the ‘Ladder of Achievement’ was pinned up, slightly crooked.
Samuel studied it for a moment before turning his unblinking gaze back to the warden. He had a strong – almost overwhelming – urge to rip the stupid thing from the wall and force it down the throat of this smug, petty little man. For a second he allowed himself the image of that podgy face, the eyes bulging in terror between his hands, before taking a long slow breath and without a word turning on his heel.
‘I suppose we get a certificate if we get to the top, do we?’ he called over his shoulder as he left the room.
Oblivious to the sarcasm in Samuel’s voice, Peter beamed in what he mistakenly thought was a fatherly way.