‘Yeah, why not? I’ve gotta window in my diary right about now.’
‘Good man.’ The cop draws back a chair and seats himself. Reading from his clipboard, he flips a couple of sheets, absently removing a pack of cigarettes.
Head down: ‘Barry, is it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Well, that’s what the driver’s licence in the wallet found at the crime scene says.’ Quick grin. ‘Nice move trying to ditch it before the shit hit. That could have set the pen-pushers back days. Cigarette, Barry?’
‘Just put one out, pal.’
He flips the packet on the table. ‘Help yourself whenever. Yeah, let’s see here: Barry Reginald Trotter. Builder’s labourer. Got a record, Barry?’
‘You tell me, mate.’
‘According to the database, Vegas have a pretty extensive sheet on you, but your age got you out of anything concrete for a long time. Since turning eighteen you’ve had several assault charges filed against you, but the plaintiffs later withdrew the charges.’ Shrugging: ‘It barely seems worth keeping a note of to me; boys will be boys, after all.’
‘Since when was it legal to keep unofficial files on people?’
‘How long ya been in the Smoke, Barry?’
‘Year or four.’
‘What did ya come up for?’
‘Work.’
The cop nods neutrally, consulting his clipboard. He eventually draws a weighty breath and leans forward, suddenly intent. ‘OK, my name’s Detective Constable Troy Wilkinson.’
Barry, dire advice for a phantom third party: ‘See what I mean? Turn your back for a second and they sneak in with the humans.’
‘Now, that’s not the attitude, Barry. What you’ve gotta understand here is that right now you’re in a world of shit … and I’m the best friend you’ve got.’
‘Got a glass’a water to go with that? I’m having trouble swallowing.’
Earnest: ‘It’s true, Barry. You see, the Skins are my pet project. That raid was mine, and you’re proving a real fly in my ointment. Those coppers you hurt, Barry, they got wounded under my command, and my chief wants the book thrown at you. I’m keen to avoid that, because the last thing I need is an official logging of the belief that I can’t look after guys under my leadership. And the fact that you aren’t a Skin means I’ve nothing to gain at all in seeing you take a rap for this.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘You don’t know how lucky, Barry. You need all the support you can get, because right now, in addition to the pot, the chief wants to see you charged with resisting arrest, assaulting officers of the law with the intention of causing grievous bodily harm, and perhaps an attempted murder rap on the bloke you bludgeoned with the torch.’
Barry, frowning: ‘Back up a sec, there, Sarge. What pot are you talking about?’
Troy, stern: ‘Let’s not play silly buggers, Barry. I don’t have the time, and you certainly don’t: the chief wants the charges against you filed by noon.’
‘Tell me what you’re on about, then.’
Troy, ignoring: ‘What’s gonna happen if you don’t co-operate is you get charged with everything I just listed, it comes to court, you plead not guilty without a leg to stand on, and the judge bangs you up for near on two decades. Do things my way, plead guilty to just the reefer, and I’ll personally see all the violence charges go down the self-defence gurgler. This way I don’t get painted an incompetent leader, the Sarge stays happy because you’ll still do a little time, and my Skins project gets saved a mountain of needless paperwork.’
‘… I’ve only got one problem with that scenario, Troy.’
Troy, eager: ‘What?’
‘I’ve no idea what the fuck you’re on about.’
Sighing: ‘C’mon, Barry. Jerk me around and I won’t be able to help you.’
Barry, an artless laugh: ‘Jerk you round how? What the fuck are you talking about?’
Disappointed: ‘All right, Barry. If you insist. I’m talking about the cannabis. The hoochie-coochie. The sixty pounds of marijuana you and your mates took to the Skins to try and move.’
Startled: ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of any cannabis … or any mates. I went there to try and pick up some whizz.’
‘Lying to me’s only gonna cost you in the long run, Barry. We had surveillance on the place and we saw you and four friends arrive in the Torana and unload six ten-pound sacks of marijuana, before the car pulled away.’
A flash of remembrance: ‘Oh, those guys. Na, they were just some fullas I met round at a tinny house about a week ago. They said they could help me score some speed so I gave them my number and they phoned me yesterday, said they’d pick me up on the way to the dealer’s. I never even caught their names. I know they didn’t have no six sacks of cannabis in the car, though.’ A startling thought: ‘Hey, shit! That might’ve been what those sacks I saw up in the Nazi den were! Were they greyish?’
Troy, smiling sadly: ‘Come on, Barry. We’ve got fingerprints tying you to the dope, and we’ve got photographs showing you all unloading it. As well as the written accounts of five-odd eyewitnesses.’
‘Yeah, five skinheads. They’ve hardly a vested interest in lying, have they, Troy? As for fingerprints: I’m not denying being in the house …’ Pauses suddenly. Then, quietly: ‘Are the prints off the actual sacks, are they?’
Troy waits a beat … grimaces sympathetically: ‘Of course they are, Barry. They’d be of no use to us otherwise.’
Barry, impressed: ‘That’s a fucking top effort on the part of forensics then, isn’t it? Not only were they able to beam themselves into a dimension where I actually touched the sacks, they were also able to advance technology to the state where prints can be lifted from hessian. Fuck me, that’s first-rate oinkering. Congratulate them for me, will ya, Troy? While you’re at it, bring those pictures in here. I’m interested to see how photogenic I am under a long lens that can see through corrugated iron.’
Troy’s eyes narrow, upper lip lifting a little. He shifts his stare from Barry’s raised eyebrows. Takes the time to light a cigarette, settling himself.
Barry, brightly: ‘You mind if I grab one of those, friend?’
Leaden: ‘Help yourself.’
Barry does, contriving to make the proximity of his cuffed hands appear part of long routine. Exhaling smoke with a sigh: ‘Ahhh, B&H. That’s a man’s fag, isn’t it, Troyo?’
Troy, scratching inside his jacket absently: ‘Ya know, I wish you’d begin to appreciate the trouble you’re in, Barry. Constable Nightingale — the young guy whose head you smashed in with the torch — he’s lying in intensive care right now, fighting for his life.’
Barry: ‘And I’m rooting for him every step of the way.’
‘That’s why everyone round here is keen to see you locked up for a very long time.’
Smiling: ‘But not if you get your way, eh?’
Troy, shrugging: ‘I’ve been around the block enough times to see past the emotion. He was a copper on a chase. He knew the dangers. I can’t be there to hold the hands of everyone under my command, and I’m not willing to see my career damaged because some rookie was negligent enough to leave a desperate man with no options. For that reason, when you own up to the pot, I’ll see the chief placated and I’ll make the self-defence angle stick.’ He stands slowly. ‘In the meantime, Barry, if you’re gonna treat me like an arsehole, I’ve got other work to do. There’ll be an officer to escort you back to your cell soon. Keep the durries; I reckon you’ll be needing them more than me.’
He starts toward the door slowly, stopping to examine his clipboard.
Knock, knock.
The door’s opened to an anxious policewoman. She hands Troy a mobile phone. ‘It’s for you, Troy. Greenlane Hospital.’ Exits quietly.
Troy, holding Barry’s eye: ‘Yes? … Hello, doctor … I know. How is …’ His face crumples. A deep sigh: ‘I’m sorry to hear that … I’m sure you did all you could. OK. I’ll pass that on. Bye.’
He ends the connection, hanging his head for some seconds. Takes two deliberate steps toward the table, flopping down again. Distracted, he pockets the phone.
Meets Barry’s eye at last. Grimly: ‘That was Dr Wu from the Greenlane IC unit.’
‘Wrong number, was it?’
‘No, Barry.’ Weighty pause. ‘I’m afraid the doctor phoned to inform me that Constable Marcus Nightingale lost his battle for life at 9:25 this morning.’
Barry’s silent for a long time, cockiness ebbing from him visibly. His eyes roam everywhere, seeing nothing. Eventually he slumps forward, elbows to the table, face in hands. ‘Shit. Oh, for fuck’s sake. That leaves me on a cop-killer rap. Yeah?’
Troy, leaning toward Barry with sudden intensity: ‘Not if we act now. If I can take your confession to the chief right now, I give myself a seventy per cent chance of getting you exonerated on a self-defence plea. Come on, Barry! Work with me here! Our nuts are on the line, and I can get them off it … but only if you work with me!’
Barry, gazing at him, haunted: ‘What am I looking at now?’
‘Barry, it’s a cop-killer rap. You’ll never see daylight again, mate! Max security without parole. You’ll never hold another woman. You’ll never share another beer with your pals. You’ll spend every day for the rest of your life rumbling tooth and nail to keep your anal virginity intact.’
Barry, vanquished, tears very near: ‘Fuck. Oh, fuck!’ His eyes plead with Troy’s. ‘Can you really help me?’
Adamant: ‘Yes. I can and I will.’ Hurriedly, Troy takes a statement sheet from his clipboard. ‘I took the time to smooth things earlier.’ Placing the page before Barry, he points to a middle paragraph.
… with the intention of offering it to the Skins for sale. Rumour told us they might be interested. Around 10.30pm,
* * *
and I removed about sixty pounds of cannabis from the interior and boot of the car. The car was then driven away by
* * *
The three of us were led through the front doors of the Skins’ house and up to the hall on the top floor. I began negotiating a price, but the Skins were yet to express interest when the police raid began …
Barry, voice catching on a sob: ‘Will I have to nark on my mates?’
Troy, gentle: ‘Not for the moment mate, but the more you give me the more likely the chief’s gonna let the violence charges slip.’
Barry, nodding, swallowing: ‘I’ll think on that part for a while. Have you got a pen, please?’
Troy, handing one over: ‘You’re a smart young man, Barry.’
Taking the sheet from the table to his lap, Barry begins scribbling.
Troy eases back in his chair.
Barry, returning the confession, sniffing: ‘Here you go, mate.’
The preceding statement is true and authentic to the best of my knowledge.
Name (Printed):
Name (Signed):
Keep ya day job, pig. Tell ya floozy not to hold her breath 4 an Oscar either. I’ve seen possums run after nailing them with X4 of what your faggot pal got.
Date:
Snarling, Troy lunges across the table, snatching Barry by the shirtfront. Drags him to the floor, furniture tumbling. A clenched yell: ‘You fucking little piece of shit! You think you can fuck with me! You’re pond scum! You’re just white fucking trash! I’ll nail your balls to the wall over this!’
Barry, ostensibly stunned: ‘What are you saying, friend? Are you and I no longer?’
Troy, holding Barry’s head against the cold floor, cocking his fist: ‘You little cunt! What makes you think I won’t just bash you into signing it?’
Barry, chuckling: ‘Hate to spoil your ego trip, Troyo, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve copped extra-legal punishment at the hands of the Thin Blue Line. I’m no fool: I know every nick in this country’s got a slippery staircase in it. But you’re no fool either — this isn’t Russia: confessions obtained under duress don’t tend to stick in these parts.’
Huffing deeply, Troy finally climbs to his feet. A menacing mutter: ‘Let me tell you this, you mouthy fuck: that pot was yours … and you’re going down for it. That’s a promise.’ He walks from the room stiffly, slamming the door behind him.
16
Saturday, 18 March, 6.18pm
‘Look, Barry, you’re obviously a man of staunch principle, and I respect that totally. But this has gone beyond loyalty. This is madness.’
As opposed to Troy seated beside him at the interview table, Detective Inspector Duncan Fletcher — compact and dapper, moustached and methodical — waves two fingers at the stereotype of a plainclothes copper. To Barry, his appearance and bearing seem more to befit an accountant.
Or an Inland Revenue auditor.
Barry first met Duncan thirty minutes ago, when the three of them began their ‘chat’. Duncan had handled most of the talking, smooth and obliging, Troy confining himself to black stares and veiled threats which Duncan seems to find quietly unpalatable.
He continues: ‘Because, Barry, how can you expect me to help you if you won’t co-operate even marginally?’
‘You’ll have to refresh my memory here, Duncan: when exactly was it that I asked you for help?’
Duncan: ‘Well, Barry, you really should give that some serious thought, because if you decide you want to let your mates walk away scot-free, not only are you going down for the resisting arrest we charged you with on Thursday, but you’ll also be done for GBH on an officer, attempted murder — charges worth fifteen years, should we prosecute with full vehemence — and you’ll be taking the rap for possession with intent to supply sixty pounds of cannabis. You’ll be lucky to see a sunrise before your fiftieth, mate.’
Troy, gloating: ‘Just think of alllllll the pussy that’ll slip through the fingers of a young stud like you over a period like that, Barry. When did ya last spread a nice bird wide and slip into the honey? I hope it was a good root, mate, because, let’s face it, an old man and out of the loop for thirty years … Even when you get out you’ll be lucky to find somewhere to stick it. Of course, by then you’ll be so conditioned to doughnut-punching you probably won’t want any fanny.’
Duncan, tutting, edging from Troy minutely: ‘Just one name, Barry. It’s only fair that one of your friends share the weight of your misfortune. Just give us one name and we’ll go easy on both of you. The prison time’ll be split between you both, and with good behaviour you’ll be lucky to serve a year each on a wilderness hobby farm. Assuming they’re half as loyal as you, Barry, were they sitting here right now, given the choice between two of you doing a year each, or just yourself doing thirty-odd mandatory, they’d jump on my offer in a shot … and you know they would. If you won’t forsake this idiocy for your own sake, Barry, do it for theirs. Because how do you think they’re going to face themselves in the mirror knowing they cost a mate the best thirty years of his life?’
Troy, crooning: ‘Ever seen the inside of Paremoremo, Barry? The cells are about as big as this room, and you’ll be sharing it with eight sick pieces of shit. The food? Think of the worst meal you ever ate, douse it in dog spoof, and that’s all you’ll be eating for three decades. But that’ll seem a minor inconvenience when the lights go down. You see, that’s when the big men on campus — psycho Maoris and bongas to a number — that’s when they choose which white boy they wanna make wear a dress for them and park their cock inside of for the night. And don’t count on any help from the screws: they know better than to fuck with those who really run the nick.’
Barry, yawning: ‘You know what I reckon? I reckon you ladies should switch roles for a while, just as a change of routine for us all. You play good cop for a spell, Troyo. God knows your acting could use the practice.’
Jaw bunching, Troy forces himself to shift attention to the papers in front of him.
Duncan: ‘The thing is, Barry, without one of your friends …’
Barry, irritated: ‘No, Duncan, the thing is, I’v
e told you guys ten thousand times and I’ll tell you just once more: I met those clowns at a tinny house in Otara about a week before the bust. We got talking, and they reckoned they could score nose-candy round at the Skins’ pad. So I gave them my number. We went to the Skins’ to score speed. I couldn’t name or identify any one of them if you offered to make me the new Commissioner of Oinkers. The sacks of whatever was in them were in the Reichstag when we arrived. Is that quite clear? Now that’s my final word on the matter. So if you pricks can’t think of anything different you’d like to shoot the shit about, I’m not gonna be saying another word, as is my right, and as advised by my lawyer.’
He leans back in his chair, hands behind head, eyes closing.
A mobile phone rings.
Duncan: ‘Yes? OK, chief, we’ll be right along.’
Standing: ‘There’s been a new development. We have to leave I’m afraid.’
Troy: ‘Don’t go anywhere, Barry.’
‘And miss another of your performances? You’ve gotta be kidding.’
Slam.
Barry folds his arms on the table, rests his head on them, handcuffs cold on his cheek.
He wonders how much longer before the Ds lay more cards on the table.
Down the corridor from the interview room, the policemen lag momentarily.
Duncan: ‘That’s that, as far as I’m concerned. The kid’s no fool. Despite our best efforts, he knows that with what we’ve got on him so far he’ll be unlucky if he serves more than a year or two. His lawyer’s assured him of that. He’s not gonna rat on anyone … for the moment. It was worth a try, though, because there’s no telling which way he’s going to jump when the ante ups. You might as well add the dope to the charge sheet you’ve got on the Skins. I’ve no doubt that’ll please you.’
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