Randy looked at him contemptuously and licked his lips.
‘Yes, I know what you want. I was only kidding. Hello, what’s this? A postcard.’
The postcard had a picture of Chatsworth House on it. He always liked to try to figure out who a postcard was from before he turned it over to look at the message, but he couldn’t think who would
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bother to send him a card from Chatsworth, when it was only a few miles away.
When he finally looked and saw who the card was from, his first uncharitable thought was that she must have stolen it from the souvenir shop. But that didn’t make sense, really. She would have had to pay to get into Chatsworth House in the first place.
The message said: ‘Sorry about the other day. You were great, so thanks. I know you’ll make the right decision.’ It was signed: ‘Love, A’.
‘It’s from Angie,’ said Cooper.
Randy made a noise like a bird chirruping, then began to cough, as though trying to clear a hair ball from his throat.
‘Give over,’ said Cooper. ‘You’re not dying of starvation just yet.’
The cat got up and stalked off towards the kitchen with its tail twitching.
‘Angie,’ said Cooper, reading the postcard again. ‘What does she mean by “I know you’ll make the right decision?” What right decision?’
This time, the cat didn’t answer. It was in the kitchen an.d pretending it couldn’t hear him. Cooper turned the postcard back over and frowned at the picture of Chatsworth House, as if it could have some hidden significance he was supposed to figure out. Chatsworth? Was there a connection? Was she trying to tell him something?
‘It’s too subtle for me/ he said.
He dropped the mail on the table and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Randy,’ he said, ‘why the hell have I started talking to myself?’
Copies of the Social Services report on the Oxleys had arrived on Cooper’s desk at West Street. The visits to Waterloo Terrace were summarized, along with meetings at the Social Services offices. It took several sheets. Cooper knew he was unlikely to have time to read the older stuff. The visits had started in 1986, and the most recent was four weeks ago, at the beginning of April.
Taken together with visits by their landlords, Peak Water, by officials from other council departments such as environmental health and education, and from the police, it would make a pretty intimidating list. No wonder his own appearances day after day
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had failed to impress the Oxleys. He must have seemed the latest of a long line of official busybodies, anxious to interfere in their lives, poking their noses in, demanding information about their private affairs. And all, obviously, with the purpose of finding an excuse to get them out of their homes. The fact that any of the Oxleys had spoken to him at all ought to be taken as a compliment. Even ‘bugger off was more than some of the council representatives had achieved.
Cooper took a call while he was reading the reports on the Oxleys boys again. It was Fran Oxley.
‘Do you still want to talk?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘I thought you might have given up by now.’
‘I won’t be giving up.’
‘Can you come to see me tonight? It’ll have to be latish, about nine? I’ll be home from work then.’
‘Yes, I’ll be there. What do you want to talk about?’
Fran hesitated a moment, but seemed to make up her mind. ‘If you come tonight,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you about Neil.’
Cooper was smiling when he put the phone down. The fact of somebody actually speaking to him gave him a surge of satisfaction. For a moment, it crossed his mind that it might be a con, a practical joke by the Oxleys. But Fran had sounded sincere, if a little hesitant.
Humming quietly to himself, he went back to the reports. It was then that he noticed the Oxleys had an AntiSocial Behaviour Order in force against them.
‘For goodness’ sake. No wonder Lucas Oxley made such a point of saying he wouldn’t tolerate his lads getting in trouble.’
Cooper looked up guiltily, hoping no one in the office had heard him. He didn’t even have the cat for an excuse.
An ASBO made a difference. Persistent juvenile offenders were a thorny problem for the police. Experienced defendants knew to plead ‘not guilty’ to charges every single time. They had learned that it meant their case would have to go to a crown court trial and a jury verdict. Well, you have to try your luck, they would say. Then they would make up a story to explain their actions any story at all, it didn’t really matter. Often, they put up no defence at all, but left it to their defence lawyer to pick holes in the prosecution case and expose any procedural flaws that could be found.
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Some defenders had become expert at getting an acquittal on a technicality, picking at the threads of the procedural detail, so that even the most damning evidence of guilt might never be considered by the court. Police officers had learned that the most important thing in their lives was to follow correct procedure, if they were ever going to get a conviction. The fully documented chain of evidence, the properly executed search warrant, the interview conducted to the letter of the rule book - those were the only real strengths they could call on, under the scrutiny of a court. Justice, truth, and the suffering of victims were insignificant side issues.
And even time could be against them. The defence might find ways of delaying a case so long that witnesses forgot what they had seen, or changed their minds, or decided it might be more sensible, after all, not to appear in court.
But an AntiSocial Behaviour Order could be taken out in civil proceedings, which meant the same burden of proof wasn’t needed. Just the number of complaints from neighbours could be enough for the council to obtain an ASBO, which obliged the family involved to refrain from antisocial behaviour for a specific period - in this case, five years. But the sting in the tail was that, although an ASBO was a civil action, breaking one was a criminal offence
