“We’ve found that keeping these wayward youngsters out of the justice system for as long as possible seems to stop them re-offending, and the feeling is that it might work in this case. Roger’s basically not a bad lad, but he’s had problems at home.”
I rolled my eyes. What teenager didn’t?
O’Bryan missed the gesture, too busy snapping open the briefcase on his knees and rifling through the contents. “It’s all here,” he said, tapping the manila folder he brought out. “He’s only fourteen. The youngest of three kids, two boys and a girl. Violent father who died in a drunken road accident. Older brother got involved with a pretty rough crowd before he left home. Sister’s one step up from prostitution, if the rumours are to be believed. She’s got a bit of form for shoplifting, and she’s just got herself knocked up, too.”
“Where’s he from?”
O’Bryan’s hesitation was only fractional, but there, all the same. “Copthorne,” he said.
I nodded. It figured. Living in Lancaster for a few years, I thought I knew all about Copthorne. Living on Kirby Street for a few weeks, I’d found out a whole lot more. None of it good.
The Copthorne estate had the undesirable local reputation of being an open remand centre. If O’Bryan wanted to take his Mercedes through that particular battle zone, he’d have to keep the wheels spinning to stop them undoing his wheelnuts as he went past.
Copthorne and Lavender Gardens faced each other with sinister normality across a derelict piece of wasteland that had once been three more streets of houses. When they’d been built in the late fifties, there’d been a waiting list to move in. By the time the council engineers sent in the bulldozers, the rush to leave had become something of a stampede.
It was an area long scheduled for redevelopment, but so far the only thing that had developed there among the crumbling brickwork were the weeds. They hadn’t even finished knocking the houses down properly, and half of them were still clinging on, boarded up and vandalised.
“So,” O’Bryan said hopefully now, pushing his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “Do you think you might be able to put a good word in for the lad, help him get off with just another caution.”
I glanced at him sharply. “Another one?” I said. “Why, how many has he had already?”
O’Bryan looked momentarily frustrated, though whether at himself or me, it was hard to tell. He checked the file again, stalling for time. “One or two,” he admitted. “Breach of the peace, vandalism, that sort of thing. Minor stuff, you know how it is.”
No, I didn’t. “And how long did each of those keep him out of trouble for?”
“Oh, well,” he cleared his throat and gave a sort of nervous laugh, “not long enough, I suppose. I see your point, but—”
“No, Mr O’Bryan,” I cut across him, “to be quite honest with you, if the first caution didn’t stop him, he’s not going to be stopped, is he? Maybe he needs something like this to bring him up short.”
Besides, I’d been on the receiving end of an official caution myself. A stern lecture of sorts delivered by a senior police officer, telling me in no uncertain terms why I couldn’t go around clouting WPCs just because I didn’t agree with them. True, I hadn’t hit a police officer since, but then, the need for doing so hadn’t really arisen.
When O’Bryan didn’t answer, I added, “Don’t you think it’s time Roger paid the price for this one?”
“He’s only young,” he tried again. “I hardly think he was the brains behind this particular escapade.”
Nasir’s words came back to me again, brought me up short. “So you think there’s something more to this as well, do you?” I asked slowly.
O’Bryan looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
I told him briefly what Nasir had said, that he seemed certain there were others behind the recent spate of robberies than the kids who’d apparently been responsible. “Nasir was fairly positive about it,” I confirmed, “and he seemed determined to make sure something was done.”
“Ah, well,” O’Bryan said, “Nasir and I have crossed paths before. His father died when he was about fourteen, and he went off at the deep end. Got himself into a lot of trouble, but I managed to keep him out of prison, and he came round in the end.” He half-smiled. “Had quite a temper on him, as I recall. A few years ago last night’s little adventure would have been much more up Nasir’s street.”
“I must admit, Roger didn’t seem quite the ruthless type,” I said, “otherwise he wouldn’t have helped me drag the old man clear of the fire. He probably saved his life.”
“He did that?” O’Bryan sounded surprised. He shook his head and tut-tutted a few times. “He didn’t tell me.”
“Your biggest problem,” I said, wanting to help in spite of myself, “is that the people round here need a scapegoat for Fariman’s injuries, and right now, Roger is it. I don’t think they’ll be happy to see him get off in any way that’s thought of as lightly.”
“But surely, if he helped rescue this chap, they won’t object?”
“If Roger and his mates hadn’t tried to rob Fariman, he wouldn’t have needed rescuing in the first place,” I said. “Look I’m sorry, Mr O’Bryan, but feelings are running a bit high at the moment, and I don’t know what you think I can do about it.”
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat as though his collar was suddenly too tight for him, “I was hoping that you might be able to persuade the people involved to go easier on him—”
“You’re joking,” I cut in. “Right now I’m not flavour of the month for stopping the vigilantes beating him up, never mind trying to get him off altogether.”
“Well, maybe if it comes to court you could speak up for him. Tell them how he helped save the old man.”
I’d be well out of Kirby Street by the time those particular bureaucratic wheels ground into slo-mo action, but I still didn’t relish the prospect of having to look Shahida in the face across a courtroom as I spoke up for one of the boys who’d tried to murder her husband.
I shook my head. “I don’t think I can help you,” I said, standing up. This interview was over.
O’Bryan rose, also. “Well, if your mind’s made up, it’s made up.” There was a faint snap to his words, which he tried to soften by smiling at me. “I must say I think you’re taking a very brave stand.”
“Brave?”
He cast me a calculating look, the lenses of his glasses blanking out his eyes. “Well, if you’re not for the defence, you’ll be one of the main witnesses for the prosecution, and Roger knows where to find you. So, no doubt, do his mates,” he said carefully. “And the older brother’s known to be a bit of a hard-case, too.” He watched me while he imparted this information, but I didn’t show him what he wanted to see.
“And then there’s the court case itself,” he went on. He pursed his lips, considering. “Never a nice experience, having to stand up in court, is it, Charlie?”
I felt the colour draining away from my face like someone had just pulled the plug out of a bath. It was the first time he’d used my first name, and the sly familiarity of it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck.
The last time I’d been in court it was to testify against a group of my erstwhile brothers-in-arms. I tried not to think about it much these days, but their names still ran through my head like a chant.
There was a rhythm and a flow to them that chilled my skin and cramped my muscles. When the barrister had read them out in a different order, I had almost failed to recognise them as the same group.
Almost. The memory fades, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget them entirely. I was claiming rape. They were claiming it was all some happy drunken orgy that had got out of hand.
I’d already been through the agonies of a military court martial, and been found guilty of gross misconduct. Foolishly, as it turned out, I’d sought justice in the civil arena.
I might have got it, too. Then the whispers started. Whispers about the affair I’d stupidly indulged in with one of my training instructors. It was against the rules, and soon got blown up out of all proportion.
My main witness defected, and the inevitable happened.
I lost.
It cost me my career in the army, one I’d spent four years carefully constructing. It also cost me my self- respect, and the repercussions blew a hole in my relationship with my parents so big you could have driven a Boeing 777 through it, sideways on.
Still, I’d walked across that burning bridge. It had taken me a while, but eventually I’d picked up most of the pieces. I didn’t know if I could do it all again.
