Taking Liberties (Liberty Chapman) Page 13

‘Think of this as a new experience.’ Raj opened his arms. ‘Life-enhancing.’

  Liberty had been in enough police stations to know that the experience rarely enhanced anyone’s life. ‘So, can you get me out of here?’ she asked. ‘Or do I have to do my time up at the Mansion?’

  Raj hauled himself out of his chair. ‘Let me talk to a few people.’ He looked down at the dark patch on his thigh. ‘Tell me the truth. Do I look like I’ve wet myself?’

  ‘No,’ Liberty lied.

  Sol balled a fist and pressed it to his mouth, tapped his lips three times. ‘Tell me this is a joke.’

  Hassani leaned against the bonnet of his car, arms crossed. ‘If it is, then I don’t know the punch line.’

  When she’d called Sol to tell him she’d arrested the lawyer in Daisy’s flat, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he’d driven straight over, told her to meet him in the station car park. ‘This is going to get you into a whole world of trouble,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ Hassani was incredulous. ‘I’m not the one giving false alibis. I’m not the one trying to pressurize a witness.’

  ‘You don’t have any evidence that Chapman’s done either of those things.’

  ‘I know what I know,’ said Hassani.

  ‘Then you know that this is not how the game is played.’ Hassani thumped the roof of his car. Sol ignored it. ‘You know that you cannot arrest a solicitor, drag her back to the nick in handcuffs and expect there to be no come-back. That woman is not some two-bit paper-shifter.’

  Hassani glared at him, anger white-hot in her eyes. He knew how she felt and had been there a thousand times. All she wanted to do was stop bad people doing bad things. When you couldn’t do that it burned and you did stupid things. On the scale of one to ten of stupid things, Sol had spent a lot of time clocking up elevens. ‘You say the door was kicked off?’ Sol asked.

  Hassani nodded.

  ‘And Chapman was in the flat?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right. We say you thought Daisy was in danger, it all happened too fast. You made a mistake.’ Hassani opened a mouth to speak but Sol cut her off. ‘And you let me do all the talking. Okay?’

  Hassani looked at the ground, scuffed the tarmac with her shoe.

  ‘Okay?’ Sol repeated.

  ‘Fine.’

  Chapter 10

  October 1985

  Mrs Simons is a right laugh. Not all the time. She keeps everybody in line when she needs to, especially Carl Fitzpatrick, who can get a bit bonkers. Some of the lads say it’s because his brother, Keith, was killed in a car accident. Well, Keith wasn’t in a car, actually. He was in a shopping trolley, riding it down the A1 off his head on glue. But a car hit him.

  ‘I’ve marked last week’s homework,’ she says. ‘Read ’em and weep.’

  Everybody groans as she hands back our books. The girl I sit next to, Anne-Marie Harrington, gets a C minus. She frowns, but it’s not that bad, considering she’s virtually backward.

  I open my own book and take a peek. An A stares back at me, with one of them little smiley faces that Mrs Simons sometimes draws on our work. I shut my book before Anne-Marie can see. I like getting good marks but it’s best if no one else here knows. They don’t like swots and show-offs.

  ‘Elizabeth Greenwood,’ Mrs Simons calls.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Can you stay behind after class, please?’

  Anne-Marie pulls a face at my book. ‘Bad, were it?’

  I just nod.

  When the bell goes, everyone files out and I stay in my seat, packing my bag slowly. I don’t know what I’m meant to have done. She liked my homework and I’ve not been messing around at all. I mean, I did jab Carl’s hand with a compass yesterday, but he’d never grass.

  Mrs Simons comes over to me and sits on the end of another desk. She’s wearing brown corduroy trousers tucked into suede ankle boots. I can just make out the top of her socks. ‘Do you know what I want to talk to you about, Elizabeth?’ Mrs Simons asks.

  ‘Is it because of that compass?’

  Mrs Simons frowns.

  ‘Cos it wasn’t very hard,’ I say. ‘Didn’t even break the skin. Or not much anyway.’

  Mrs Simons reaches over and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘I don’t know anything about a compass and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know, do I?’ I shake my head. ‘No, it’s about your work.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  She frowns even harder. ‘Why are you sorry?’

  I’ve no idea. I just know that when you’re in trouble for anything, it’s best to get in first with a sorry.

  ‘Actually, Elizabeth, it’s excellent,’ says Mrs Simons. ‘It’s always excellent.’

  I feel myself going all hot and pink.

  ‘I think you’re a very promising pupil,’ says Mrs Simons, ‘and I was wondering if you’d like to go on a special course at half-term.’ She slides off the desk and walks back to her own, reaches into a drawer and pulls out a leaflet. ‘This is some information about it.’ She places it in front of her. ‘Take it and show it to your parents. See what they think.’

  As I’m leaving, I take the leaflet and stuff it into my blazer pocket. A month ago I would have just put it in the bin so as not to set off Dad. But things seem a lot calmer now. He seems a lot calmer. I think Mam nearly dying might have scared him – or he was scared that he nearly got done for it. If I get him in the right mood, he might let me go.

  By the time I get home, I’ve decided I’ll hide the leaflet in my room for now. Then I’ll see how the land lies. Wait until he’s had a win on the horses. He’s having a lucky run at the minute. I let myself in and go to the kitchen to find Mam, her back turned, doing the washing-up.

  ‘Guess what?’ I ask her. ‘Guess what Mrs Simons has said I should do in half-term?’

  When Mam turns, my smile falls. Mam’s lip is thick, a ragged slice right through it. Here we go again.

  Raj Singh was a surprise. Sol had been expecting Chapman to summon someone from her own firm back in London, or at least one of the bigger firms in Leeds. The ones who regularly sued the police and won six-figure settlements for their scrote clients. Instead, she’d called a tin-pot one-man band from down the road. And here he was, all tatty cuffs and wet patch on his trousers. Sol led him to a table in the canteen and held out a chair. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Singh looked around at the tables full of uniform, shovelling down their sausage and beans, and took a seat.

  ‘Tea?’ asked Sol.

  ‘Just had a cup upstairs,’he replied. ‘And, frankly, I wouldn’t give it to my plants.’

  Sol gave a tight nod and sat down. Somewhere on the other side of the canteen a group of coppers burst into raucous laughter. ‘A cold drink, Mr Singh?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Detective Inspector Connolly.’ Singh leaned forward. ‘I should be in court this morning so I’d rather we didn’t piss about.’

  More surprises. ‘I’m sure we both want to sort this out as quickly as possible,’ Sol replied.

  A PC passed by their table carrying a tray laden with bacon sandwiches. The cheers that greeted her made Sol think it must be the end of a shift. He used to enjoy that. The sense of camaraderie when the team finished a night’s work and decompressed in the canteen.

  ‘Ball’s in your court,’ said Singh.

  The two men stared at one another. It would have been a whole lot easier to deal with tirades about police harassment and threats to bring litigation, but Raj Singh just sat in silence, forcing Sol to make a move. ‘What does your client want?’ he asked.

  Singh smiled. His lips were fleshy, outlined by skin a shade darker. ‘She’d like to go back to her hotel,’ he said.

  ‘What else?’ Sol asked.

  Singh shrugged. ‘We haven’t talked about that.’

  Bullshit.

  He didn’t want to, but Sol had to ask the question. ‘Is she going to make a complaint about Hassani?’

 
‘Like I said, we haven’t talked about it.’

  ‘Hassani’s a good copper.’

  Singh was still smiling. ‘We both know she was way out of line to arrest my client.’

  ‘And we both know your client was way out of line going to Daisy Clarke’s home.’

  Stalemate. The two men continued staring at one another.

  Liberty rubbed her wrists. There was a recording machine on the table in the interview room and a camera on the wall, angled in her direction. She felt her pulse begin to race at the thought of Hassani turning on both machines to question her.

  She tried to calm herself. Raj would sort this out. There would be no interview.

  When he bounced back into the room she gave an involuntary shiver.

  ‘The good news is the powers-that-be are shitting themselves that you’ll make a complaint against Hassani,’ he said.

  ‘I bloody well am going to make a complaint,’ Liberty replied.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Liberty held out her arms to display the deep red welts in her skin. ‘Very sure.’

  ‘Understandable in the circumstances.’ He seesawed his hand. ‘But if you do that, they’ll feel backed into a corner.’

  Liberty gave a small growl of satisfaction. Right now the thought of backing Hassani into a corner was appealing.

  ‘People with no options tend to come out fighting,’ said Raj. ‘They’ll probably defend Hassani by throwing the book at you.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Raj cocked his head to one side and Liberty reddened. ‘They can make a lot of trouble for you,’ he said. ‘Drag out this charge for one thing.’

  That would mean she’d have to tell Ronald. She’d be suspended from work at the very least. And she could kiss goodbye to the merger.

  ‘Even if they can’t make this charge stick in the long run, they’d pick at you like a dirty scab,’ said Raj.

  Liberty sighed, suddenly desperate for a shower. She couldn’t have the police poking around, as much for Jay as for herself. ‘If I agree not to make a complaint?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll walk out of here and we’ll all shake hands like gentlemen.’

  ‘It’s blackmail,’ she said.

  ‘It’s life.’

  Sol could tell by the look on Hassani’s face that this was going to be the sort of conversation he would rather have over a drink. He checked his watch. The pubs had just opened. They’d taken a corner table in the Three Feathers. Given its proximity to the nick, there were very few times of the day when you wouldn’t find any police in there. Consequently, the locals steered clear. ‘If we let her go they won’t kick up a fuss about you,’ he told her.

  ‘I’m not dropping this,’ Hassani hissed.

  Sol put a half of lager in front of her. ‘I know it’s early,’he drank from his own half, more head than body, ‘and I know we’re on duty, but get it down you.’

  She pushed her glass across the table to Sol, leaving a long, wet smear between them.

  He pushed it back. ‘You need to calm down.’

  ‘I’m a Muslim,’ she answered.

  ‘Right.’ He leaned over and picked up her drink, placed it next to his. ‘If Chapman doesn’t get to leave the station in the next hour, I guarantee Singh will make a formal complaint against you.’

  ‘So what?’

  Sol took another drink. Licked the froth from his upper lip. ‘You’ll be suspended pending outcome, and when someone at the CPS gets hold of the case against Chapman, they’ll drop it like a piece of shit on fire anyway.’

  Hassani picked up a beer mat and began shredding it.

  ‘Let her go now and we all live to fight another day,’ said Sol.

  Hassani looked down at the pile of cardboard confetti she’d made. ‘What about talking to Rebecca Greenwood?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Sometimes this job is really, really crap.’

  ‘You’ll hear no arguments coming from me,’ Sol replied.

  Liberty collected her belongings from the custody sergeant. Her handbag, purse, keys. The belt they’d taken from her trousers, presumably to stop her hanging herself. Hassani stood back, rage radiating from her in waves, frantically chewing the inside of her cheek. Connolly stood by her side, face devoid of expression. Raj watched intently as Liberty took a Bic biro from the sergeant, the end chewed white, and signed where directed.

  ‘Right, then,’ said Raj. ‘We’ll be off.’

  When they got out of the station, Liberty took a deep gulp of midday sunshine. Delicious. ‘Thanks for that, Raj,’ she said.

  He winked. ‘Never a dull day with you around, eh?’

  Liberty thought about her life back home in London. How she got up each morning and drove to the office. How twelve-hour working days were not uncommon. Her days were full, yes, but not especially exciting. Even weekends had a pattern: a visit to the gym, the occasional catch-up with friends for drinks and dinner. Everything ordered and scheduled and diarized.

  ‘Walk with me to court?’ he asked. ‘I instructed a good bloke I know to cover my caseload, but I might just see if he needs a hand.’

  Realization dawned on Liberty. Raj’s work life was also diarized in advance, but her arrest had thrown him a curve ball. ‘I’m so sorry I put you to all this trouble, Raj,’ she said.

  He waved her away. ‘Trouble, my backside. What’s the point of the journey if we can’t make little excursions?’

  The magistrates’ court was quiet when they arrived as most cases had already been dealt with. Raj toddled off to find his representative, leaving Liberty on one of the benches.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve listed another case without telling me?’

  Liberty looked up to see a grinning Bucky standing a few feet from her. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Just here for the atmosphere?’

  Liberty laughed, and Bucky sat next to her, resting a pile of files on her lap. She stretched out her feet in front of her, displaying wedge sandals and immaculately painted red toenails. ‘Busy?’ Liberty asked.

  ‘Non-stop since first thing,’ replied Bucky. ‘Court three. Traffic.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I was owed a day off in lieu today but Don, who usually covers me, had to rush to hospital. His wife’s having triplets.’

  ‘Triplets!’

  ‘The poor bastard’s fifty-two,’ said Bucky. ‘God knows how he’ll cope. Should have kept it in his trousers and stayed with his first wife.’ She let out a belly laugh that sent some of her files flying to the ground. Liberty bent to help pick them up. She handed back the first, then scooped up some photographs that had skidded away from another. They were black-and-white, of people driving cars.

  Bucky sighed and wagged a finger at them. ‘That’s how I’ve spent my morning. Speeding cases. Is it any wonder I turn to Pinot Grigio and online shopping?’

  Liberty looked again at the photographs.

  Bucky was still speaking but her words were smears on glass. The world stopped turning. The photographs were grainy and the faces of the drivers not always clear, but the registration plates were perfectly decipherable. As were the time and date stamps recorded in the corner. She tried to pass them to Bucky, but they fell from her hand, scattering even further across the floor. Her fingers were suddenly slick with sweat and she couldn’t get a grasp on them.

  Bucky put down her files and crouched next to Liberty. ‘Bloody things.’

  Liberty tried to give what she hoped looked like a smile but the muscles in her face seemed paralysed. The speed camera. She had forgotten the speed camera.

  Chapter 11

  October 1985

  Everything’s black. I try to open my eyes, but they’re already open. I think. I must be lying down, because my feet don’t feel like they’re touching anything, but there’s something hard under my cheek. There’s a smell of fag ash and something sour.

  Why am I like this?

  I remember coming home from school, stuffing the let
ter about the half-term trip in my pocket. I remember opening the door, seeing Mam’s face. Then nothing. Why can’t I remember anything else?

  It feels like there’s something spiky inside my head. Like a cactus. Like it’s growing and pricking me from the inside. I don’t like this.

  I try to shout for Mam, but the words come out like a scratchy cough. My throat feels dry and sore. I want to cry but I can tell there won’t be enough water inside me to make any tears.

  I push myself up, taking my weight on my forearms then onto my hands. I can see where I am now. I’m in the front room. No one’s drawn the curtains, even though it’s dark outside and no one’s put the lamp on.

  When did it get to be night time? Why can’t I remember?

  I’m kneeling up now, my head fizzing and buzzing and hurting. Between my legs feels damp. I know what that smell is. I’ve wet myself. I should probably be embarrassed but I’m too scared. Like the time I fell from the top of the climbing frame in the rec, smacking my head on one the bars on the way down. When the ambulance men put me on a stretcher I did a huge fart. But I didn’t care because I was too worried about the blood and Mam screaming blue murder.

  I use the settee to pull myself to my feet and lurch towards the door, like Dad after a bender. I need to get to the kitchen and drink some water. Maybe then I can work out what the chuffing hell’s going off.

  The walls of the hallway feel all spongy, which I know they’re not. They’re not even wallpapered. Mam’s always threatening to do it, but the peeling yellow paint has stayed the same for as long as I can remember. Once in the kitchen I rush to the sink and drink straight from the tap. Then I throw up. Long strands of stuff coming up, covering the mucky pots. Mixing with this morning’s Ricicles. I rinse my mouth, spitting out the water.

  I leave the kitchen, go back down the hall and stop at the bottom of the stairs. The Operation game is open on the third step. Where are the kids? ‘Jay?’ My voice is still hoarse but better than before. ‘Crystal?’

  I listen but there’s nothing. Where are the kids? Oh, my God, where are the kids?

  I need to call the police. Something’s not right.