"It's the career I've always wanted, sir," he said.
"A chance to do something for the community. To help. To make a difference."
Latham studied Fullerton with unsmiling brown eyes, his face giving nothing away. Fullerton found the face impossible to read. He widened his smile a little and sat back in his chair, trying to look as relaxed as possible.
"I'm not totally altruistic, obviously," said Fullerton, lifting his hands and showing his palms, doing everything he could to show the body language of someone who was open and honest, with nothing to hide.
"I don't want an office job, I don't want to sell people life insurance they don't want or spend my life with a phone stuck to my ear. I want to be out and about, dealing with people, solving problems."
Still no reaction from Latham. No understanding nods, no smiles of acceptance. Just a blank stare that seemed to look right through Fullerton.
"Frankly, sir, I'm not sure what else I can say. Everyone knows what a police officer does. And it's a job that I want to do."
Fullerton smiled and nodded, but there was no reciprocal gesture from Latham. His neatly manicured fingers continued to drum softly on the desktop.
"How did you feel when you weren't accepted on to the accelerated promotion scheme?"
"A little disappointed, but I figured that if I joined as an ordinary entrant, my talents would soon be realised. It might take me a year or so longer to reach the top, but I'll still get there." Fullerton deliberately tried to sound as optimistic as possible, but he was already beginning to accept that something had gone wrong and that Latham had no intention of allowing him to join the Metropolitan Police. Why the clandestine meeting, though, why hadn't they just written to him with the bad news? None of this was making any sense at all, and until it did, Fullerton had no choice but to go along for the ride.
"Those talents being?"
Fullerton was starting to tire of Latham's game-playing. He leaned forward and looked Latham in the eyes, meeting his cold stare and not flinching from it.
"The talents that were recognised by the interview board, for one," he said.
"The talents that got me in the top five per cent of my university year. At Oxford." He used the name like a lance, prodding it at Latham, knowing that the Assistant Commissioner had only managed a second-class degree from Leeds.
For the first time Latham allowed a smile to flicker across his face. He stopped tapping his fingers and gently smoothed the peak of his cap.
"What about your other talents?" said Latham quietly, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
"Lying? Cheating? Blackmail?"
The three words hit Fullerton like short, sharp punches to his solar plexus. He sat back in his chair, stunned.
"What?" he gasped.
Latham stared at Fullerton for several seconds before he spoke again.
"Did you think we wouldn't find out about your drug use, Fullerton? Do you think we're stupid? Was that your intention, to join the Met and show us all how much smarter you are? To rub our noses in our own stupidity?"
Fullerton put his hands on his knees, forcing himself to keep them from clenching.
"I don't know what it is you think that I've done, sir, but I can assure you .. ." He tailed off, lost for words.
"You can assure me of what?" asked Latham.
"Someone has been lying to you, sir."
"Oh, I'm quite sure of that, Fullerton," said Latham.
"Whatever they've told you, it's lies. Someone is trying to set me up."
"Why would anyone do that?" asked Latham.
Fullerton shook his head. His mind whirled. What the hell had happened? What did Latham know? And what did he want?
"Are you denying that you are a regular user of cocaine?" asked Latham.
"Emphatically," said Fullerton.
"And that you smoke cannabis?"
"I don't even smoke cigarettes, sir. Look, I gave a urine sample as part of the medical, didn't I? Presumably that was tested for drugs use."
"Indeed it was."
"And?"
"And the sample you gave was as pure as the driven snow."
"So there you are. That proves something, doesn't it?"
Latham smiled thinly.
"All it proves is how smart you are, Fullerton. Or how smart you'd like to think you are."
Fulleiton leaned forward again, trying to seize back the initiative.
"My background was checked, sir. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket."
"Are you denying that you take drugs on a regular basis?"
"Yes."
"And that you were caught dealing cannabis while at university?"
Fullerton's eyes widened and his mouth went dry.
"Caught with three ounces of cannabis resin in the toilets at an end-of-term concert?" Latham continued, his eyes boring into Fullerton's.
Fullerton fought to stop his hands from shaking.
"If that had been the case, sir, I'd have been sent down."
"Unless your tutor also happened to be a customer. Unless you threatened to expose him if he didn't pull strings to get the matter swept under the metaphorical carpet. Might also explain how you managed to graduate with a first."
"I got my degree on merit," said Fullerton, quickly. Too quickly, he realised.
"There's no proof of any of this," he said.
"It's all hearsay."
"Hearsay's all we need," said Latham.
"This isn't a court, there's no jury to convince."
"Is that what this is all about? A conviction for possession that wouldn't even merit a caution?"
"Do you think I'd be here if that was all that was involved, Fullerton? Don't you think I'd have better things to do than interview someone who thinks it's clever to get high now and again?"
Fullerton swallowed. His nose was itching and he badly wanted to scratch it, but he knew that if he took his hands off his knees they'd start trembling.
"I'm not interested in slapping the wrist of a recreational drug-user, Fullerton, but I am very interested in knowing if you're serious about wanting to be a police officer. A real police officer."
"Yes, sir. I am."
Latham looked at Fullerton, his mouth a tight line. He nodded slowly.
"Very well. From this moment on I want absolute truth from you. Do you understand?"
Fullerton licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry.
"Agreed, sir."
"Thank you," said Latham.
"Exactly what drugs do you use?"
"Cocaine, sir. Occasionally. Cannabis. Ecstasy on occasions."
"Heroin?"
"In the past, sir. Only inhaling. Never injecting."
"LSD?"
"Not since university, sir. I didn't like the loss of control."
"Would you consider yourself an addict?"
Fullerton shook his head emphatically.
"I don't have an addictive personality, sir. I use because I enjoy it, not because I need it."
"That's what all addicts say."
"I've gone without for weeks at a time, sir. It's not a problem."
"And you switched urine samples?"
"I gave a friend fifty quid for a bottle of his piss."
"And your tutor at Oxford? You pressurised him?"
Fullerton nodded.
"But only for the cannabis thing, I swear. I got the first on merit."
"Do you still deal?"
Fullerton grimaced.
"That depends, sir."
"On what?"
"On your definition of dealing."
"Selling for profit."
Fullerton grimaced again.
"I sell to friends, and it'd be stupid to make a loss on the deal, wouldn't it? I mean, you wouldn't expect me to sell at a loss."
"That would make you a dealer," said Latham.
Fullerton could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn't want to wipe it away, didn't want Latham to see his discomfort.
"What's this about, sir?" he asked.
"I assume there's no way I'm going to be allowed to join the force. Not in view of ... this."
For the first time, Latham smiled with something approaching warmth.
"Actually, Fullerton, you'd be surprised."
"Don't think you think it's going to be tough for you in the Met, being a nigger?" said Assistant Commissioner Latham.
At first Cliff Warren thought he'd misheard, and he sat with a blank look on his face.
Latham folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head back slightly and looked down his nose at Warren.
"What's wrong, Warren? Cat got your tongue?"
Still Warren thought he'd misunderstood the senior police officer.
"I'm not sure I understand the question, sir."
"The question, Warren, is don't you think that being black is going to hold you back? The Met doesn't like spooks. Spades. Sooties. Whatever the latest generic is. Haven't you heard? We're institutionally racist. We don't like niggers."
Warren frowned. He looked away from Latham's piercing gaze and stared out of the window at the tower block opposite. It was like a bad dream and he half expected to wake up at any moment and find himself looking at his brand new uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. This didn't make any sense. The drive to the Isle of Dogs. The lift with a security code. The empty office, empty except for a desk and two chairs and a senior police officer whom Warren recognised from his many television appearances, who was using racist language which could lose him his job if it was ever made public.
"I'm not sure of your point, sir," said Warren.
"My point is that it's not going to be much fun for you, is it? Pictures of monkeys pinned up on your locker. Bananas on the backseat of your patrol car. Memos asking you to call Mr. K.K. Clan."
"I thought the Met wanted to widen its minority base," said Warren.
Latham raised an eyebrow.
"Did you now?" he said.
"And you were eager to take up the challenge, were you?"
"I wanted the job, yes."
Latham steepled his fingers under his chin like a child saying his prayers and studied Warren with unblinking eyes.
"You're not angered by what I've just said?" he said eventually.
"I've heard worse, sir."
"And you're always so relaxed about it?"
"What makes you think I'm relaxed, sir?"
Latham nodded slowly, accepting Warren's point.
"That was a test, was it, sir?"
"In a way, Warren."
Warren smiled without warmth.
"Because it wasn't really a fair test, not if you think about it. You're in uniform, I'm hoping to become an officer in the force that you command, I'm hardly likely to lose control, am I?"
"I suppose not."
"See, if you weren't an Assistant Commissioner, and you'd said what you'd said outside, in a pub or on the street, my reaction might have been a little less .. . reticent." Warren leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Latham's face.
"In fact," he said in a low whisper, "I'd be kicking your lily-white arse to within an inch of your lily-white life. Sir." Warren smiled showing perfect slab-like white teeth.
"No offence intended."
Latham smiled back. This time there was an amused glint in his eyes and Warren knew that he'd passed the test. Maybe not with flying colours, but he'd passed.
"None taken," said the Assistant Commissioner.
"Tell me about your criminal record."
"Minor of fences said Warren without hesitation.
"Taking and driving away when I was fourteen. Driving without due care and attention. Driving without insurance. Without a licence. Criminal damage." Warren's criminal past had been discussed at length prior to his being accepted as a probationary constable.
"And there's nothing else that we should know about you, nothing that might have influenced our decision to allow you to join the force?"
"The interviews and tests were wide-ranging, sir," said Warren.
"You didn't reveal your homosexuality," said Latham.
"I wasn't asked," said Warren without hesitation.
"You didn't think it relevant?"
"Clearly the interviewers didn't."
"Your home situation would have been enquired about. Your domestic arrangements."
"I live alone."
"So you have random sexual partners?"
Warren's lips tightened. It appeared that Latham was determined to keep testing him, but Warren couldn't fathom what was going on. The time for such questions had long passed: all the Met had to do was to say that his services weren't required. There was no need for such taunting, especially from a senior officer like Latham.
"I'm not sure that my sexual history is relevant, sir," said Warren.
"With respect."
"It might be if it left you open to blackmail," said Latham.
"Homosexuality isn't illegal, sir."
"I'm aware of that, Warren, but any deviation from the norm makes an officer vulnerable."
"Again, sir, I don't think that homosexuality is regarded as a deviation any more. These days it's seen as a lifestyle choice."
Latham nodded slowly.
"One that you're not ashamed of?"
"I'm not ashamed of being black and I'm not ashamed of being gay, sir. So far as revealing my sexuality, I wasn't asked and I didn't tell. I certainly didn't lie."
"And your criminal record? How do you feel about that?"
"Do you mean am I ashamed of what I did?"
Latham didn't react to the question, clearly regarding it as rhetorical, and continued looking at Warren.
Warren shrugged.
"Of course I'm ashamed. I was stupid. I was undisciplined, I was running wild, I was just an angry teenager out looking for kicks who didn't know how close he was coming to ruining his whole life. I was lucky not to be sent down, and if it wasn't for the fact that I was assigned one of the few social workers who actually appeared to care about her work, I'd probably be behind bars right now and not sitting here in your office." Warren looked around the bare office.
"This office," he corrected himself.
"Wherever we are, I assume this isn't where you normally conduct your business. What's this about, sir? My criminal record's an open book, and I don't see that my being gay is a bar to me joining the Met."
Latham tapped his manicured nails silently on the desktop. The windows were double-glazed and sealed so no sound penetrated from the outside. It was so quiet that Warren could hear his own breathing, slow and regular.
"What sort of criminal do you think you would have made, Warren?" Latham said eventually.
"Back then? A very bad one. If I'd been any good at it, I wouldn't have been caught so often."
"And now?"
Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Now?" he repeated.
"Suppose you hadn't been turned around by the altruistic social worker assigned to you. Suppose you'd continued along the road you'd started on. Petty crime. Stealing. Where do you think it would have led to?"
"Difficult to say, sir."
"Try."
Warren shrugged.
"Drugs, I guess. Dealing. That's what most crime comes down to these days. Everything from car break-ins to guns to prostitution, it's all drugs."
"And what sort of drug dealer do you think you'd make?"
Warren frowned. It wasn't a question he'd ever considered.
"Probably quite a good one."
"Because?"
"Because I'm not stupid any more. Because now I'm better educated than the average villain. I've a knowledge of criminal law and police procedure that most villains don't have. And to be quite honest, I consider I'm a hell of a lot smarter than most of the police officers I've come across."
"I don't suppose you were that blunt at your interviews," said Latham.
"I think we've moved beyond my being interviewed, sir. Whatever it is you wa
nt from me, it's not dependent on my being politically correct. I'm not going to Hendon, am I?"
"Not today, no," said Latham, 'but this isn't about stopping you becoming a police officer, Warren, I can promise you that. You scored highly on all counts during the selection procedure, you're exactly the sort of material we want." Latham pulled on his right ear, then scratched the lobe.
"The question is, exactly how would you be able to serve us best?"
Warren's forehead creased into a frown, but he didn't say anything.
"You see, Warren, putting you in a uniform and having you walk a beat might make for good public relations, but realistically it's going to make precious little difference to the crime figures." Latham took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.
"What we'd like, Warren, is for you to consider becoming an undercover agent for us. Deep undercover. So deep, in fact, that hardly anyone will know that you work for the Met."
Warren's eyes narrowed.
"You're asking me to pretend to be a criminal?"
Latham shook his head.
"No, I'm asking you to become a criminal. To cross the line."
"To be a grass?"
"No, you'll still be a police officer. A grass is a criminal who provides information on other criminals. You'll be a fully functioning police officer who will be keeping us informed of the activities of the criminals you come across."
"But I won't wear a uniform, I won't go to Hendon? No probationary period?"
"You'll never pound a beat. And the only time you'll go anywhere near a police station is if you get arrested. The number of people who'll know that you are a serving police officer will be counted on the fingers of one hand."
"For how long?"
"For as long as you can take it. Hopefully years. Ideally, you'll spend your whole career undercover."
Warren ran his hand over his black hair, closely cropped only two days earlier in anticipation of his new career.
Tango One Page 3