To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

you can go home.’

      ‘I don’t want my parents. I want a brief.’

      ‘I’ll call a duty solicitor.’

      ‘No. Get me Mr Fromby.’

      ‘Mr Justin Fromby?’

      ‘You know him.’

      ‘I’ve heard of him. Doesn’t he work at the law centre?’ said Roberta, anxious not to let on.

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Roberta left the cell door open and walked along the corridor.

      ‘He wants a solicitor,’ she told the station sergeant. ‘He’s asking for Justin Fromby.’

      ‘That’s all we fucking need, that Trotsky wanker,’ said the sergeant. ‘You won’t find him at this time of night.’

      ‘Oh, I think I might be able to find a number for him.’

      ‘How are you going to manage that?’

      ‘I’m supposed to be a police officer, aren’t I? The phone book might be a start.’

      Roberta slipped into a side office and dialled Justin’s number from memory.

      He answered after a couple of rings.

      ‘Justin, it’s Roberta.’

      ‘Hi. You coming over?’

      ‘No. I’m at work. Can you come here?’

      ‘I’d rather not. I’ve just got back from the RAC rally.’

      ‘RAC rally? You don’t even drive.’

      ‘Not the RAC, the RAC – the Rock Against Capitalism rally at the Roundhouse. The Jam were top of the bill. Your American friend, Georgia Claye, was there. You should have seen the state of her. Out of her skull on something. She tripped over pogoing to “Eton Rifles” and smashed her head on the side of the stage. I helped carry her out.’

      ‘Never mind her, Justin. She’ll end up living in a cardboard box the way she’s going. You know her husband’s left her already?’

      ‘The Italian guy, medical student?’

      ‘Yeah, anyway, I haven’t rung you to discuss Georgia Claye’s problems. This is important. We’ve got a boy in custody and he’s asking for you.’

      ‘For me? What’s his name?’

      ‘He won’t tell us.’

      ‘What does he look like?’

      ‘Black, slim, 5ft 9ins, afro, age about fifteen, I should think.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      ‘Do you know him?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘Well he knows you.’

      ‘What’s he in for?’

      ‘Malicious wounding.’

      ‘OK. I’m on my way.’

      Justin Fromby called a cab and arrived at Tyburn Row three-quarters of an hour later.

      The desk sergeant needed no introduction. ‘Evening, Trotksy,’ he said dismissively. Justin didn’t rise to the bait.

      Roberta appeared from the corridor.

      ‘This is Mr Fromby,’ the sergeant told her.

      ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Fromby,’ she said, without the slightest hint of recognition. ‘I’m WPC Peel, from the juvenile section. If you would be kind enough to follow me, I’ll take you to your client.’

      Roberta showed Justin into the cell.

      ‘Hello, Trevor,’ said Justin, immediately.

      ‘Hello, Mr Fromby.’

      ‘You two obviously know each other.’

      ‘Yes, WPC Peel, we do. This is Trevor Gibbs. He lives on the Parkgate Estate. I know his father.’

      ‘Don’t tell my dad, please Mr Fromby.’

      ‘OK, but they’ll need your name and address. I’ll handle it.’ He turned to Roberta. ‘The law allows my client to be interviewed in the presence of a parent or responsible adult. I shall sit in for his father.’

      They walked out of the cell and back to the custody area.

      ‘The boy’s name is Trevor Gibbs,’ she told the sergeant. ‘He is ready to be interviewed. Can you call PC Marsden?’

      ‘I’ll fetch him from the canteen. I fancy a cup of tea. The walk will do me good,’ the sergeant said.

      Once the sergeant had left the custody area, Roberta ushered Justin into an ante-room.

      ‘Well? Who are we dealing with?’

      ‘His dad is Everton Gibbs. He’s the community leader on the Parkgate. A good man, standing for the council. What about the boy? What have you got on him?’

      ‘He’s alleged to have cut another boy, a white youth, in a fight outside the chip shop. Marsden found a blade and he’s bagged it for prints.’

      ‘That’s unfortunate.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Three weeks ago, in this station, I represented him. He was cautioned for possession of a knife. On the day-shift. I forget the name of the arresting officer off the top of my head. Young chap, maybe twenty-three or -four. Trevor’s father doesn’t know. If any of this came out it could seriously undermine his position. He might even lose the election. We need men like him on the council. We’ve got to prevent Trevor being charged.’

      ‘How the hell are you going to do that? Marsden brought him in, he’ll be the interviewing officer. I’ll only be sitting there.’

      ‘I can handle Marsden. But you’ll have to lose the knife and his form.’

      ‘I can’t do that, for God’s sake. What if someone found out?’

      ‘They had better not. Look, it’s late, there’s hardly anyone around, no one will know.’

      ‘Marsden will.’

      ‘He’s a lazy bastard. I’ve come across him before. A bit too handy with his fists. I’ll deal with him.’

      When Marsden appeared five minutes later, Roberta retrieved Trevor Gibbs from his cell and led him into the interview room.

      Justin spoke first. ‘I would like to place on record that this is an unlawful arrest. My client has been subjected to a racially motivated assault. He is the victim here. Furthermore he alleges that you, PC Marsden, beat him up. I am preparing a formal complaint.’

      ‘Oh, do fuck off, Fromby. I’ve heard it all before. All the spades pull that stroke.’

      ‘I won’t listen to racist language,’ Roberta interrupted.

      ‘You’ll shut up and do as you’re told, petal. Or have you been promoted while I’ve been in the canteen?’ Marsden barked back.

      ‘This young man’s father is a respected figure in the community, a personal friend of your commanding officer. You, on the other hand, have a reputation for, shall we say, heavy-handedness. Given the choice between a frightened, fifteen-year-old boy from an oppressed minority and a fat thug like you, I think I know who people will believe.’

      ‘This interview is suspended right now,’ Marsden said. ‘Take him back to his cell,’ he told Roberta. ‘We’ll resume later.’ Marsden returned to the canteen to consider his options. Justin went outside for a long smoke.

      As Roberta led Trevor Gibbs through the custody area,