You stand up. You take his hand. You say: ‘About the other day, I…’
He stares at you. He says: ‘Forget it. That’s funerals for you.’
You nod.
‘That’s why you’re here though?’ he says. ‘About James Ashworth?’
‘Yes,’ you say. ‘For his mother.’
‘How is she?’
‘How do you think she is?’ you say.
He stares at you. He says: ‘So what is it I can do for you, Mr Piggott?’
‘She’s instructed me to ask you for Jimmy’s belongings; his clothes, personal effects, his motorbike.’
‘They’ve not been returned?’
You shake your head: ‘That’s why I’m asking for them.’
He stares. He says: ‘If you come up to my office, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t move. He just stares. He doesn’t blink. Just stares.
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The Chief Superintendent turns and leads the way up the stairs and along the corridors, the typewriters clattering away and the telephones ringing, past the incident rooms and the murder rooms, the walls and walls of maps and photographs, past one open door -
One open door and one wall, one map and one photograph:
In chalk beside the map, beside the photograph:
You pause before the door, before the map, before the photograph.
Jobson stops. He turns round. He comes back down the corridor. He looks in the door. He walks across the room. He picks up a piece of chalk. He changes the day:
He drops the chalk. He walks back across the room. He passes you in the doorway. He sets off back down the corridor.
You follow him. You say: ‘I thought you were over in Wakefield these days?’
‘I was,’ he says. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been back and forth between there and here.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
He opens the door to his office. ‘Leeds City born and bred I am.’
You step inside -
It’s a bare office:
No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson gestures at a seat.
You sit down on the opposite side of his desk, Jobson with his back to the window.
He says: ‘I can’t promise you the motorcycle today. It’ll still be with forensics up at Wetherby but -’
‘Forensics?’
He nods. ‘I’m afraid that the late Mr Ashworth is still very much a part of our investigation into the whereabouts of Hazel Atkins.’
‘I see,’ you sigh. ‘Actually, I did want to -’
Jobson has his palm raised. ‘But I’m sure we can give you some of his clothes.’
‘That would be very much appreciated.’
He passes three sheets of paper across the desk. ‘Just sign these and I’ll see what I can do.’
You take them. You ask: ‘I was wondering if it would be possible to have a copy of the inventory, just to make sure everything is accounted for?’
‘Inventory?’
‘Just what he had with him when he was originally detained.’
‘You want a copy?’
‘For his mother.’
He stares at you. He says: ‘There’s going to be an inquiry, you do know that?’
‘An internal police inquiry,’ you nod.
Jobson stares at you. He says again: ‘Sign the papers and I’ll see what I can do.’
You reach inside your jacket for your pen -
It isn’t there.
You look up at Jobson. He’s holding one out across his desk.
‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘I must have -’
‘Forget it,’ he smiles.
You sign the papers. You hand them back across the desk with his pen.
Jobson takes them. He separates them. He gives you back a copy as one of the three telephones on his desk buzzes and a light flashes -
Jobson glances at the flashing light then back at you: ‘Well, Mr Piggott, if there was nothing else I -’
‘To be honest with you, I do seem to have got myself up to my neck in -’
The Detective Chief Superintendent is nodding: ‘Out of your depth, are you?’
‘Bitten off more than I can chew,’ you smile. ‘Which, as you can see, is a lot.’
‘Go on,’ says Jobson.
‘To be straight with you,’ you say. ‘I’m also representing Michael Myshkin.’
Jobson stares at you. Jobson doesn’t blink.
You say: ‘You know who I mean?’
‘Yes, Mr Piggott. I know who you mean.’
‘Well, I’m in the process of preparing a preliminary appeal on his behalf and I -’
Jobson has his hand raised: ‘Didn’t Michael Myshkin confess and plead guilty on the grounds of diminished responsibility?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘So on what possible grounds is he thinking of appealing?’
‘Early days yet but, in cases such as these, where a conviction is based upon a confession, it is possible for the appellant to argue that his pleas were ill-considered and out of accord with the evidence; that in the absence of the alleged confession, there was a lack of evidence to convict; that the appellant’s state of mind at the time of the confession calls into question the validity of the confession; that the Trial Judge erred in accepting guilty pleas based solely upon confessions; that the very confession itself might have been gained by unlawful means -’
‘Mr Piggott,’ interrupts Jobson. ‘That is a very serious allegation to make.’
‘Examples,’ you say. ‘Just examples of avenues open to exploration.’
Jobson stares at you. He says: ‘There were witnesses -’
You nod.
‘Forensic evidence.’
You nod again. ‘As I say, I am feeling somewhat overfaced.’
‘That surprises me,’ smiles Jobson.
‘Eyes bigger than my belly, would you believe?’
Jobson shakes his head: ‘I’d say you seem to have the measure of things.’
‘No, no, no,’ you say. ‘Not at all. You see, I keep running into the same names, the same faces, again and again.’
Jobson stares at you.
‘Both with Michael Myshkin and now with Jimmy Ashworth -’
‘They did live on the same street,’ says Jobson.
‘I know, I know, I know,’ you reply. ‘But what with you pulling Jimmy Ashworth in over this Hazel Atkins business and her having gone missing from the same school as Clare Kemplay did nigh on ten years ago, the murder of whom Michael Myshkin is now serving life imprisonment for -’
