able to answer all charges and prove that my actions were justified.’ I sounded as convincing as a government minister in the Iraqi supergun enquiry.
‘This had better be good, Priest. You know how delicate we have to be with these things. Bloody Sylvan Fields is a tinderbox — actions like yours could ignite the place. How long do you need?’
Emotional bullshit. Sylvan Fields was ninety per cent white, and the only revolutions the white residents understood were made by car engines. ‘Could we make it two o’clock, please?’ I suggested.
‘Two o’clock I’m seeing the complainant. Supposed to be placating him. I’ve already persuaded him to keep it unofficial, leave it with me.’
‘I’ve no objection to you seeing us together, sir. Kill two birds with one stone.’
‘Two it is, then. I’ll tell him, so he can please himself whether he comes then or later. But I’m warning you, Priest, this had better be good.’
‘Thank you, sir. It will be.’
Traffic were next on my list. ‘DI Priest here. Could you please send your fastest car over to the Wetherton lab and pick up a report for me at lunchtime today. It’s very important. It should be ready about noon and I need it here at, er, thirteen hundred hours, prompt.’ They use the big clock in Traffic.
‘Right, sir. We’ll do that for you.’
‘Thank you. As I said, it’s very important, so tell the driver that if he crashes, on no account must he burst into flames.’
I was politely but firmly informed that all Traffic drivers were highly trained and did not crash. Finding a sense of humour in Traffic is as likely as discovering life on Mars, but I like to launch a probe in their direction, now and again.
All that was left was the waiting. I turned my pad over to a clean page and tried working out my pension, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was quieter in Gilbert’s office, so I trudged up the stairs and sat in his chair with my feet on the desk, pretending to be Mr Partridge. ‘Well done, Priest,’ I said to myself, gruffly. ‘Damn good show. Why don’t you start taking a bit more time off? Relax a little?’
There was some mail in the tray: Gilbert was invited to attend a bash at the Town Hall, dress formal; our year-after-next’s provisional budget forecasts were overdue; and we hadn’t replied to a survey on the effects of closed circuit TV on rowdyism in the town centre. A nice letter from the Police Authority congratulated us for having the joint best clear-up rate in the region. Perhaps that’s because we don’t spend all our time going to piss-ups and answering bloody useless questionnaires, I thought. My last Fin 23 form was still there, unsigned, which explained why I hadn’t received any expenses for six weeks, so I did a passable copy of Gilbert’s scrawl and slid it into the out-tray.
The Traffic car was thirty-five minutes late. I was pacing up and down the foyer like a pregnant tiger when the driver strode in carrying a manila envelope.
‘Is that for DI Priest?’ I asked, reaching for it.
‘Er, yes, sir.’
‘That’s me. Now could you get me to the City HQ before two, please.’
These Traffic boys can drive, I’ll say that for them. He sliced a good ten minutes off my best our-nick-to- their-nick time and deposited me near the entrance with ninety seconds to spare.
‘Don’t wait, I may be some time,’ I told the driver as I slammed the door, before he could protest that he had no intention of waiting. It occurred to me that I might not have the clout to hitch rides in police cars when I came out.
The desk was unmanned, as is usual. I leant on the bell push.
‘DI Priest,’ I told the irate-looking WPC who came to see what the fuss was about. ‘Is there a package for me?’
‘A package? What sort of package?’
‘Any sort would do. What sorts do you have?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve just come on.’
‘Could you look? Please? It is rather urgent.’
She rummaged under the counter and straightened up holding a plastic carrier with something about reggae written on the side.
‘That’ll do,’ I said, snatching it from her. ‘If anybody wants me I’ll be in Mr Partridge’s office.’ I sprinted up three floors and only slowed down when the thickness of the carpet told me I was there.
‘Come in!’ someone growled when I knocked. The clock above his desk told me I was exactly on time, to the second. I wondered about using Jean Brodie’s line, ‘I was so afraid I might be late, or early,’ but I settled for, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dominic Watts was seated at this side of the ACC’s desk, the placatory cup of coffee perched on his knee, as if he was afraid to sully the polished magnificence of the desk. He was a small man, neatly dressed in a shiny suit. Shiny all over, not just at the backside and elbows, like mine. His briefcase was on the floor beside him, with a leather trilby hat balanced on it. His expression indicated that it was unlikely we’d end up swapping funny stories and fishing in our wallets for family snapshots.
‘Sit down, Priest,’ the ACC said. I pulled the chair back from the desk to make room for my legs and sat down, placing the envelope and the carefully folded carrier bag on the desk.
‘I don’t believe you two have met,’ he went on. ‘DI Priest, this is Mr Watts. Mr Watts, this is DI Priest.’
Watts barely nodded at me. I said, ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Priest,’ Partridge continued, ‘Mr Watts approached me yesterday, as I am standing in for the chief constable, with some serious allegations about a…’
‘They are not allegations,’ Watts interrupted. ‘They are definite charges, with many witnesses who will confirm…’ He had a clipped, precise way of speaking, every word carefully enunciated, the result of having a better primary education than you get here.
Partridge held up a hand. ‘Mr Watts, please. At this moment in time I am just trying to establish the ground rules. I’ll give you every opportunity to air your grievances in a while, if you’ll bear with me.’
So, we were having ground rules, were we? I’d tell him a few rules of my own, if he’d bear with me, at this or any other moment in time.
‘As I was saying. Serious allegations about a raid Heckley CID made on the home of Mr Watts’s son, Michael Angelo, who happens to live next door to Mr Watts.’
In a house with bars on the doors and six inches of reinforced concrete over the manhole covers, I thought.
Partridge went on. ‘Now, Mr Watts has kindly agreed that this meeting, and any subsequent action, will be off the record. I assume you have no objection to that, eh, Priest?’
Subsequent action meant disciplinary action. I did object, actually, but it was a finer point of the rules of the game, and above all I wanted to get on with it. ‘No, sir,’ I said.
‘Right. Good. So what I propose is that you, Priest, explain what you were playing at yesterday morning, and then Mr Watts will have an opportunity to state his case. That way, hopefully, we’ll be able to iron out this problem to everyone’s satisfaction. Is that understood?’
Fat chance, I thought, as I nodded.
‘Yes, Assistant Chief Constable,’ Watts replied. ‘It is perfectly understood.’ His precise constructions reminded me of Enoch Powell, and I almost smiled.
‘Very well.’ Partridge turned to me. ‘So what was the purpose of this raid, Priest?’
‘Thank you. First of all, sir, can I say that we were not playing. We were acting on information that Michael Angelo Watts’ home is used as a safe house for the distribution of class A and class B narcotics. In other words, he is a…’
‘What is your evidence for this?’ Watts demanded, rising from his chair. ‘These are scurrilous allegations, completely without foundation. I demand to know where…?’ A fleck of saliva landed on the polished mahogany and
