Shape of Snakes

'Whatever you like,' he said curtly, 'just as long as it gets you off my back.'

'There'd be no point. I wouldn't accept it.'

'What then?'

'Justice,' I said. 'That's all I've ever been interested in.'

'You won't get it ... not this long afterward.'

'For Annie or for myself?' I asked curiously.

He placed the flat of his hand on the opened brown envelope, which was sitting to one side of the desk. 'Neither,' he said confidently.

I wondered if he was aware of what he was saying because his words suggested he knew there was justice to be had. For Annie and me. 'That envelope contains twenty-one years of patient research, showing Annie was murdered,' I said lightly.

'And it's a bunch of crap.' He leaned forward aggressively. 'For every pathologist you produce, saying the bruises were inflicted hours before Annie's death, the Crown Prosecution Service will produce five who agree with the original postmortem finding. It's a budgeting exercise-always has been. Prosecutions are expensive and taxpayers get stroppy about funding failures. You're going to need a damn sight more than that to get the case reopened.'

He was uncomfortably close and I sat back to get away from him, repelled by the energy that flowed out of him in waves. It was a far cry from twenty years ago when the same energy-authoritative, capable, comforting-had given me the confidence to talk more freely than I might otherwise have done. It's one of the great truisms that we only learn from our mistakes and, like Annie, I had since developed an abiding distrust of men in uniform.

'The climate's changed since the Stephen Lawrence inquiry,' I said mildly. 'I think you'll find the murder of a black woman will be at the top of the CPS's agenda, however long ago it happened ... particularly when it's supported by evidence that the sergeant in charge of the case was a racist.'

He pummeled and squeezed one fist inside the other, exploding the joints like tiny firecrackers. 'A letter from a WPC claiming sexual and racial harassment, which wasn't upheld at the time?' he sneered. 'That won't stand. And neither will Andy Quentin's log. The guy's dead, for Christ's sake, and he had an ax to grind because he blamed me for his career going nowhere.'

'With reason,' I said. 'You never had a good word for him.'

'He was a creep.'

'Yes, well, he didn't have much time for you either.' I opened the envelope and removed Andy's log of Drury's stop-and-search arrests of Afro-Caribbeans and Asians between 1987 and 1989, giving details of the derogatory language Drury had habitually used. 'What difference does it make if he did have an ax to grind?' I asked curiously. 'It's a straightforward account, which you're perfectly entitled to challenge if it contains errors.'

'He hasn't logged the names of the whites I stopped and searched.'

'He's given comparative figures. Your ratio of black to white was way higher than anyone else's in Richmond at the time.' I shrugged. 'But it's all on record so it's easily proved. If Andy's figures are wrong then you'll be vindicated. If they aren't, his conclusion that you used your stop-and-search powers as a form of racist sport will carry weight.'

'Not true,' he snapped. 'I was doing my job like everyone else. You can twist figures to fit any conclusion you like. I can just as easily demonstrate that his motive in producing that list was vindictive. There was a known history between us.'

'What about the seventeen-year-old Asian boy whose cheek you fractured?'

His jaw worked angrily. 'It was an accident.'

'The police paid undisclosed damages.'

'Standard procedure.'

'So standard,' I murmured sarcastically, 'that you were put on sick leave for the duration of the internal inquiry, then took early retirement immediately afterward.' I unzipped the front pocket of my rucksack and removed a folded piece of paper. 'I left this out of the envelope. It was the last thing Andy sent me. It's the confidential assessment made of you by your superior officer. Among other things, he describes you as 'a violent individual with extreme racist views who has no place in the Metropolitan Police Force.' '

He snatched the paper from my grasp and shredded it to pieces, the muscles of his face working furiously. He was the opposite temperament to Sam. A man who brooded over long-held grudges. A man who saw loss of face as weakness.

I stirred the pieces with my toe, thinking I'd be safer poking a viper's nest. 'Is that how you always deal with evidence you don't like? Tear it up?'

'It's inadmissible. The slate was wiped clean as part of my retirement package. You'd be prosecuted just for having it in your possession. Quentin, too, if he were still alive.'

'Well, maybe I think a prosecution's worth it,' I murmured, 'just to get it into the public domain. I can fire off a thousand copies tomorrow and throw so much mud at you that there'll be no one left who won't question your motive for wanting Annie's death ruled accidental.'

'You'll be seen for what you are,' he warned, 'a bitter woman with a personal vendetta against the police.'

'One policeman, possibly,' I agreed, 'but not the police in general. I was given too much help by Andy for anyone to think I tar you all with the same brush. In any case, who's going to tell them it's a personal vendetta? You?' I smiled at his expression. 'How do you plan to explain why I'd want to pursue one?'

He screwed his forefinger into his temple. 'It's all in your statements,' he said. 'You were a head case ... persecution complex ... mother complex ... anorexia ... agoraphobia ... sexual fantasy ... What was I supposed to do? Sit beside your bed and hold your hand while you bawled your eyes out?'