Dobson snatched his hands away and folded them firmly under his armpits. “You can stuff that pen and fucking paper where the sun don’t shine,” he shouted.
“Are you refusing to cooperate?” Franklin asked.
Dobson turned to his solicitor. “This is a fit-up,” he snarled. “They’ve got someone to forge my writing so they can stripe me up for something I didn’t do.”
“We don’t fit people up,” Franklin said, making no effort to hide his irritation. “So, why don’t you just tell the truth and stop whinging like a pathetic coward? This is your handwriting, and this entry was made when you sold Deontay Garston two converted Brocock revolvers and gave him fifty rounds of .22 ammo as a sweetener. Isn’t that right?”
“Lies, all lies,” Dobson shouted. “You’re only doing this to me because I’m white and I want Britain to remain white.”
“Then why did you sell a gun to a black man who used it to murder another white man?” Franklin demanded.
“I didn’t know he was gonna shoot a white man,” Dobson screamed in exasperation When he realised the significance of what he’d just said, he looked around, flustered. “I – I mean…What I mean is I didn’t know he was going to shoot a white man because I didn’t sell him no guns.”
Franklin laughed, mockingly. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it fucking well is, you dumb Jigaboo.”
Franklin stiffened at the insult, involuntarily clenching his fists.
Surprisingly, it was DC Colin Stone, his number two in the interview, who stood up, his jaw quivering with anger at Dobson’s use of the racial slur. “What did you just call my colleague?” he demanded in a voice that was thick with menace. It was the first time he had spoken during the entire interview process, other than to introduce himself at the beginning of each tape.
“You think I’m scared of you?” Dobson said defiantly; his eyes suggested he was.
You really should be, Franklin thought as he indicated for the square-jawed detective to return to his seat. Stone had been a paratrooper before joining the job, and he was a very hard man, unlike Dobson, who merely thought that he was hard.
“Do you even know what that word means?” Franklin asked Dobson in disgust. “It’s a Bantu word meaning meek or servile, like a slave. I might be a public servant, but I’m no one’s slave,” he said fiercely.
“Whatever,” Dobson said sullenly, but he couldn’t meet Franklin’s eye.
Still inwardly simmering, Franklin leaned back and pulled the TV and video combination that was standing on a trolley behind him closer to the interview table. It had already been plugged into a power socket ready for use. Taking his time, and trying to bring his breathing back under control, he removed a VHS tape from the bag by his feet and inserted it into the player.
“My colleagues found your secret CCTV system,” he informed Dobson conversationally. “That’s good news for us, but not so good for you. Footage from last Thursday evening has been copied onto this tape, which is exhibit RP/1. I’m going to play that for you now. There’s no audio, but it clearly shows you and your three Aryan friends entertaining Deontay Garston and Errol Heston. Heston’s the one with the bald head. It clearly shows you – you, not your skinhead friends – removing two guns from the safe, demonstrating how they work and then letting the client's test fire them. It also shows them paying you for the merchandise and leaving with the guns. You all have big smiles on your faces, parting company like you’re the best of friends. Strange, considering you claim not to know them. Let’s watch the clip in silence, and then I’m going to invite you to comment. I must say, I’m really looking forward to what you have to say about this footage,” he said with a mocking grin.
It had now dawned on Dobson that he was in deep trouble, and he was shaking with rage at the way the black detective had played him. “You fucking cunt,” he hissed, and without warning, he stood up and launched himself over the table at Franklin.
Unfortunately for him, Stone had been prepared for this. In one fluid movement, he leapt out of his chair, grabbed hold of Dobson’s head as it hurtled forward and slammed it into the wooden table so hard that it sounded as though a firearm had just been discharged. Without breaking stride, he rammed Dobson’s right arm so far up his back that it almost came out of the socket.
Dobson’s actions had sent his solicitor sprawling backwards onto the floor and, as she scrambled unsteadily to her feet, glasses askew, she could only watch on in shock as Stone restrained the prisoner and Franklin pressed the alarm button. Within moments, several uniformed officers came running in to assist.
Handcuffed, his face bleeding profusely, Dobson was unceremoniously dragged back into the custody area.
The sergeant behind the desk lazily raised an enquiring eyebrow as they approached him, but he didn’t seem particularly fazed by the sight of the skinhead, bleeding and battered, being frogmarched up to the counter.
“Anything I need to know about,” he asked casually, as though this was an everyday sight.
“Prisoner didn’t like the way the interview was going,” Franklin said. “Decided to take a pop at me. DC Stone was forced to restrain him.”
The custody officer shook his head in despair. “When will these people ever learn?” he said to no one in particular. “Alright, put him back in his cell. Looks like he’s got a nasty bump on his head so we’d better call the FME.” He turned to Martha Fischer. “You’re his solicitor, aren’t you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Were you present?”
“I was.”
The custody Sergeant let out a long
