Romeo's Tune (1990) (16 page)

26

S
o we did, we did enjoy ourselves for a short time, a good time, one of the best times I can remember. We went dancing, we saw lots of films and ate out a lot. Although we didn’t know it, it was a sort of calm before the storm. We even started hinting at marriage and meeting the folks, things like that. We got comfortable together, just living in whichever flat we fancied at the time.

I remember one Saturday night, we’d eaten take-away Chinese and I walked down to the off-licence for some beer and wine. When I got back to my flat she was sitting on the bed with her legs everywhere, relaxing and writing on a tablet of pale grey paper with a massive, old fountain pen she’d bought in Camden Market one Sunday lunchtime. I looked at her as I went in and I realised that we were a couple. We were committed to something, even if I wasn’t sure exactly what. Being easy with each other was probably the beginning of the end for us. It might take a month or twenty years but eventually it would end and it saddened me. As you can tell optimism isn’t my strong suit and I’m rarely disappointed.

‘Who are you writing to?’ I asked as I took the drinks through to cool them in the fridge.

‘My father and brother.’

‘Say hello for me.’

‘You don’t know them.’

‘So maybe one day I will.’

‘I hope so. I feel easier about them since I’ve been over here, since I met you.’

‘I’m flattered,’ I said.

‘So you should be.’

‘So soften them up for the first meeting.’

‘I think I already have – this is not the first time I’ve written.’

‘I didn’t think it was.’

‘Would you really like to meet them?’ she asked almost shyly.

‘I suppose I’ll have to one day.’

‘Why “have to”?’

‘What we’re into here isn’t exactly a one-night stand, is it?’

‘I guess not.’

‘And unless you’re going to be here forever, in England I mean, at some time I’m going to come visiting, aren’t I?’

‘Maybe we could take a trip back home together.’

‘That would be good.’

‘I’ll show you the sights,’ she said.

‘Of New Jersey?’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘I heard it was kind of dull.’

‘Nowhere’s dull with me, boy.’

‘Don’t call me boy,’ I said with mock ferocity. That cracked her up everytime. We were getting our own set of in-jokes that no one else could understand. It always happens.

She went back to her letter and I tried to find something decent on TV. I cracked a can of Bud and a packet of dry roasted peanuts and settled for ‘Miami Vice’.

‘Wanna go out?’ she asked when she’d sealed the letter and found a stamp in her handbag.

‘If you like,’ I replied. ‘Fancy anything special?’

‘No, but there must be some action about.’

‘There’s plenty of action right here.’

‘What – on the boob tube? Give me a break.’

‘I could switch the TV off.’

‘And miss the end?’

‘I’ll tape the end.’

‘I thought you hated this popcorn.’

‘Well, I like to keep up with developments in criminal detection,’ 1 said.

‘And pink trousers?’ she asked slyly, referring to Don Johnson’s recherché choice of strides.

‘Don’t knock pink trousers,’ I said. ‘They help catch crooks, down Miami way.’

‘Sure. The last time I was in Miami, the only guy I met wearing pink trousers was a doorman at a gay club and the only cop I met was on the pad.’

‘Reality, Jo,’ I said. ‘Too much reality.’

By this time she was on the sofa next to me, pinching my peanuts and taking little sips from my beer can. She pulled her skirt up over her knees and flashed about six inches of bare thigh at me. She had better legs than Don Johnson and that’s a fact. I could tell she was engrossed in the show.

‘Now who’s hooked?’ I asked.

‘It reminds me of home,’ she said.

‘Do you want to go out?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s watch the end of this.’ And we did, but barely, as the sight of her next to me got me thinking of a particular type of vice that wasn’t restricted to Miami.

I didn’t see her again for a couple of days. She was busy, I wasn’t. I was sitting in my office and she blew in like a fresh breeze.

27

S
he’d only come by to visit because her college classes had been cancelled owing to the lecturer being off sick with a head cold. That’s all it took, a little virus in Maida Vale. I wasn’t much in demand myself but I could handle it. I was used to the feeling. She was dressed in a loose white shirt and a black wraparound skirt. She looked something like a schoolteacher and something like the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was bored and sat on my desk showing off her inner thighs and talking dirty to me.

Finally she got tired of winding me up and said, ‘I think I’ll go shopping. Want to come along?’

I shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘What kind of shopping?’

‘Just shopping,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll spend some of the money my father keeps sending me. Food, clothes, maybe some sexy underwear.’ She rolled her eyes comically at the last.

‘Go for it,’ I said.

‘Listen, guy,’ she said back, ‘if I did, you wouldn’t know yourself.’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said.

She came over and kissed me briefly on the cheek. I reached out over and tried to pull her close to me, but she skipped out of reach.

‘Down, boy,’ she said with a smile.

‘What’s the point of having a great piece of arse around if I can’t grab a bit from time to time?’ I asked.

‘I knew there was something appealing about the British,’ she said, ‘and I’ve suddenly realised what it is. You’re real gentlemen.’

‘It’s so true,’ I agreed.

‘So I’ll catch you later,’ she said.

‘Dinner tonight,’ I suggested.

‘Great idea.’

‘Chinese?’

‘Are you trying to get round me?’ she asked.

‘Is that all it takes?’

‘Are you kidding?’ she said. ‘A portion of chilli prawns and I’m anyone’s.’

‘I’ll keep that piece of hot news to myself, if you don’t mind.’

‘Hot news. Is that a joke? Chilli sauce, hot news, geddit?’

‘American humour is crap,’ I remarked. She stuck out her tongue.

‘So, are you jealous?’ she asked.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m anyone’s for chilli.’

‘You’re fucking weird Jo, do you know that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, come on Nick, say that you are.’

‘What?’

‘You know, jealous.’

‘OK. I am.’

‘Good. Can I borrow one of your cars?’

‘Are you kidding? I’m not going to let you loose on London’s traffic, or London’s traffic loose on you. I don’t know which would be worse.’

‘Oh please. I hate buses, and the subway.’

‘Take a cab,’ I said.

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Why not?’

‘Those mini-cabbies give me the creeps, they always go the longest way round and charge me a fortune.’

‘I told you that the first day I met you,’ I said. ‘Get a black cab.’

‘Round here? Are you kidding me? I’ve got more chance of being struck by lightning than getting a real taxi round here.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You win, I’ll come shopping with you, and I’ll drive.’

‘Chauvinist fink,’ she said.

‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘You’re doing fine for a smacked bottom.’

‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘such promises.’

I gave her a big beamer. ‘And forget the food. We’ll stick to underwear and I’ll help you choose it.’

‘You’ll only get a hard-on in the store and frighten the sales ladies.’

‘Frighten them?’ I said. ‘If I got a hard-on they’d be buzzing round me like flies.’

‘You’re so modest, Nick,’ she said as she shrugged into her heavy black overcoat. ‘But don’t forget – I know you best, and if you want anyone buzzing around you’d better tie a hankie round it first.’

‘I’ve had no complaints so far,’ I said. ‘Are you registering a first?’

‘No, I guess you’ll do,’ she said. ‘Until something better comes along.’ And she kissed me hard and rubbed her pelvis into mine. ‘But can I drive back?’

‘We’ll see,’ I said, and tugged on my Crombie.

She was like a kid going Christmas shopping. She almost jumped up and down as I locked the office and dragged onto my arm as we walked up the hill to where my small fleet was parked.

‘Let’s take the VW,’ she said. ‘I’m used to them.’

‘It’s such a piece of shit,’ I moaned.

‘Oh please, Nick,’ she begged. ‘It’ll be easier to park and I can show you how good a driver I am.’

I gave in. ‘All right. The Golf it is.’

I found the key to the VW and unlocked the passenger door and opened it for Jo. She gathered her coat around her and got into the car. It was freezing in the street and I hurried round and unlocked the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel.

‘Are you sure you won’t let me drive?’ she asked.

‘Quite sure, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Maybe later.’

‘Spoilsport.’

‘Stop moaning for God’s sake,’ I said, ‘or I might whisper to one of the Maltese cabbies about your strange fetish for chilli prawns.’

She pulled a face and shut up.

I put the key in the ignition of the Golf and turned it.

Nothing, not even a click from the starter motor.

‘Oh shit,’ I said, ‘flat battery.’ I checked the lights but they were off, ditto the radio. I turned the key back and forth a couple of times but the ignition was still dead.

‘Looks like it’s the Jag or nothing,’ I said.

She pulled another face and I climbed out of the car. Jo stayed put.

‘Come on,’ I said, leaning into the VW.

‘Let me have a go,’ she said.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ I replied. ‘The motor’s a clunker, and that’s that.’

‘Just let me have a little go,’ she pleaded. ‘Cars like me.’

‘Oh, really,’ I said.

‘Yes. Get me some cigarettes, and if I can’t get it going, we’ll use the Jag.’

I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

She clambered over the gear stick and into the driver’s seat, tugging her coat tails behind her and I handed her the key ring and walked over to the newsagents to buy her a packet of cigarettes as ordered. As I reached the door Pete the car cleaner swept down from the station entrance on his skateboard and made a skid-stop right by me.

‘Did they fix it?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Those blokes,’ he replied.

‘What blokes?’

‘The blokes who were fixing your car.’

‘What car?’ I asked, mystified.

‘The Golf. They said it wouldn’t start,’ he said as if talking to an idiot.

I was slow. Five seconds must have elapsed before I realised what he’d said. I turned and saw Jo’s dark hair behind the windscreen, her face hidden as she peered down at the dashboard of the car. In my mind’s eye I saw the key in my hand as I’d turned it in the ignition, and I knew. I shouted one unintelligible shout, part her name, part a warning, part a denial that this could be happening. She looked up with a smile on her face, and an orange fireball lit up the interior of the car and her face vanished behind a pall of greasy black smoke. The bodywork of the car seemed to swell outwards, the bonnet flew thirty feet or so into the air and the passenger door blew off its hinges. All four wheels of the car left the ground and the Golf bounced two or three yards sideways as it hit the tarmac again. A fraction of a second later I heard the loudest explosion of my life and a huge hot hand picked me up and threw me hard against the wall that separated the newsagent’s from my office. In splintering counterpoint several plate glass windows imploded a heartbeat later.

Pete was hurled against a parked Rover and lay stunned. I was deafened by the blast but could feel where chunks of shrapnel had ripped at my exposed skin and clothing. I saw the Golf’s bonnet crash onto the top of another parked car. An elderly man and woman had been walking close by where the explosion had occurred and the woman was lying in the gutter with blood pouring from a wound in her head. I could see her thin legs kicking in agony and her pink slip dragged in the dirt. The man was walking around clutching at his ears in pain. I dragged myself up and ran towards the car. I don’t think I made a sound, but inside I was screaming my lover’s name. The driver’s side of the car was enveloped in flame and paint was bubbling on the roof like hot treacle. I sensed rather than saw shop doors opening as people came out to see what had happened.

The heat was intense when I reached the Golf. It seemed to dry the liquid in my eyes and I had to turn away. The side window had shivered into an opaque sheet, and the windscreen had shattered. I tried to see inside but the interior was still full of black smoke. I grabbed the driver’s door handle and felt the shock of a burn run up my wrist. I could feel the skin tearing from my hand as I pulled it away from the metal. I kicked at the driver’s window, and as it shattered a tongue of flame shot out almost into my face. I was forced back with my lungs searing from the over-heated air that billowed from inside the car.

Suddenly I felt strong arms pulling me away. I fought back, twisting and turning to try and extricate myself from the grip. I saw Pete mouthing but I couldn’t hear for the buzzing in my ears. In a frenzy I ignored him and tried to punch myself free. My right hand was a mass of pain and I could hardly make a fist. Pete pulled me back. I swung at him and pulled myself away from his hands. As I tried to get back to the burning pyre he knocked me away with his shoulder. I stumbled and fell against the car parked next to the Golf. The bodywork felt warm in the cold air. Pete dragged me around the car and as I slipped on the damp pavement the petrol tank of the VW exploded. I felt myself pushed back again by the force of the second explosion and grabbed at Pete for support. It was no good. We were both thrown onto the ground and there we lay as more debris crashed around us.

28

I
came to with a severe headache, a badly burned hand, a weird whistling sound in my ears and a sort of nervous cough from inhaling too much smoke.

Pete was bending over me but I pushed him away and dragged myself up unassisted and got as close as I could to the remains of the Golf. It was still burning and a heat haze hung over its roof.

‘Leave it,’ said Pete. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close.

‘Who were they, Pete?’ I demanded. ‘Who were they?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen them before. They were just two geezers with a box of tools.’

I sat on the wing of a Ford Escort and covered my face with my hands. I wanted to be dreaming but I knew this was real. A young constable who just happened to be passing in a panda car was the first authority figure to arrive. He was closely followed by four fire tenders, two ambulances, six squad cars, four police vans, several doctors, the Bomb Squad, as many CID as you could decently shake a stick at, a representative from every national newspaper, about fifty photographers, the Standard, IRN, Thames TV, the BBC, maybe two hundred sightseers and my old pal Danny Fox.

They didn’t arrive in that order and I’m damn sure they didn’t leave in it, but I’ll guarantee every single person who did come wanted to talk to me.

Eventually, and before Fox turned up, hauled from some afternoon drinker, I was left with three CID from the local station.

They knew me, and what they knew they didn’t like.

Incidentally, you might think by the way I listed what happened after the explosion that I was enjoying the whole thing in a ghoulish sort of way.

Think again.

I ached inside and out. I was only counting to keep myself together, to keep sane. Shock was setting in, and the doctor who bandaged my hand and put some sticky plaster on the biggest cuts on my face and neck confirmed it. He offered me a hit of painkiller, but the sight of the syringe gave me the shits, so I declined. I dry-swallowed some Paracetamol instead. And then I got lumbered with the three detectives and I remembered why I didn’t miss the job.

They didn’t take me to the station. And I’m glad they didn’t as I might have ended up with a broken arm or worse. Danny Fox wanted to see Pete and me on site as it were, and what Foxy wanted those days mattered. He was quite a high flyer, and some of it was down to me. Not that a scabby DS and two porcine DCs would know anything about that.

The bomb squad cleared the top of the street while they checked the cars parked around the Golf for more bombs and the Bill separated me and Pete. They stuck him in the back of a squad car and took me into my office. The big window had withstood the blast but the door had slammed back hard against the wall and the half-glass had shattered. We were all waiting for a mobile HQ to arrive but apparently it had developed engine trouble in Beulah Hill and its ETA kept being put back.

‘It’s fucking taters in here,’ said the first porky DS. He looked a bit tasty in his New Man leather and sno-wash denim.

‘No fucking door, is there Jim? It would make it a bit parky,’ said the second, all togged up in a blue nylon anorak with a greasy fringe of fake fur round the hood.

I was pushed onto the edge of one of the hard wooden chairs that I kept for paying customers whilst the DS took my swivel chair.

I thought I’d met him once, years before, at some pub or Masonic do, when we were both striving to get on. He’d made it at least part of the way, but didn’t look too happy about it. I wasn’t surprised. He was fast approaching heart attack territory and the stress was getting to him. There was a tide-mark of crusted dry skin at his hairline. It broke like surf along his forehead and dots of dandruff clung to individual strands. The jacket collar of his made-to-measure was showered with a fine coating of the stuff like soap powder on a laundry floor.

I sat still and tried to remember his name but it wouldn’t come to me, so I got logical and started counting my fingers, but couldn’t get past ten no matter how hard I tried. He banged the desk hard to get my attention.

‘We know you, Nicky boy,’ he said too loudly. I thought he was going to remind me where we’d met, but that wasn’t what he meant. ‘Don’t we?’ He encompassed the porkies in his glance and they nodded agreement and looked like they wanted a cup of tea. ‘We know you all right,’ he went on, and a little shower of dead skin floated off his head. ‘And we’re not impressed.’ Funnily enough I was beginning to gather that. I just wanted them to go away and leave me alone, so I said nothing.

‘Who was she?’ he asked, and I remembered his name and where we’d met. It was Mickey Stott and it had been at the leaving party for a long-serving Commander who’d got a job with Lloyds Bank as a security consultant.

‘The girl in the car. Who was she?’ he asked again.

I told him.

‘What was she to you?’

I told him.

‘It was meant for you wasn’t it?’

I told him I knew that.

‘Pity it didn’t blow you to fuck,’ said the porky who wasn’t Jim.

I wondered how and when I’d ever upset him.

‘Got a lot of enemies?’ asked the porky who was Jim.

I didn’t answer.

‘He’s got enemies all right,’ said Mickey Stott. ‘But then again he’s got lots of friends.’

‘It’s nice to have friends,’ mused Jim.

‘Friends are handy, all right,’ said Not-Jim.

‘I’ve always found that,’ said Mickey Stott. ‘So has this one, and the more powerful the better, eh Nicky?’ He looked closely at me. ‘You killed, how many was it? Four, five people last year and you got clean away with it. Self-defence they said. And in the end they all thought you were the hero.’

‘Someone didn’t,’ said Jim.

‘True,’ said Not-Jim.

‘We’ve had our eye on you for a long time,’ said Stott, ignoring the double act. ‘You get away with murder, and all we see is you driving around the manor like you own the fucking place in fucking flash motors that we couldn’t afford without serious backhanders, first with that black tart and then with that cunt with the BMW, wearing bleeding designer clothes and we wonder how the fuck you do it.’

He wouldn’t know designer clothes if they jumped up and bit his dick.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

I lifted one scorched eyebrow.

‘Well?’ he demanded again.

‘Just lucky I guess.’ And he’d never know the effort it took to be flippant.

‘You’re a cold bastard, aren’t you Nicky boy?’

‘Heartless, I’d say,’ said Jim.

‘No wonder it all ended up like this,’ said Not-Jim.

‘It’s not ended,’ I said.

‘What?’ said Jim. ‘What did you say?’

‘He said it wasn’t ended,’ said Stott.

‘He knows who done it,’ said Jim.

‘Do you, Nicky boy?’ asked Stott.

I was getting a bit tired of the whole routine by then.

‘Mister Sharman,’ I said.

‘What?’ asked Stott.

‘Call me Mister Sharman if you want to talk to me. Don’t give me that old bollocks with the Christian name. I used to do all this, remember. You give me the same respect you’d give to any other member of the public’

‘Respect,’ said Jim. ‘Well, fuck me.’

‘Member of the public,’ said Not-Jim. ‘Just fancy.’

‘Sure, Mister Sharman,’ spat Stott. ‘We remember, we remember what a prat you were. Don’t play the tough boy with us. Everyone knows you lost your bottle years ago. We all heard about you hanging back when it came to a punch-up. Respect? You shot a fucking copper, a fucking friend of mine, and any time you fancy finding out how much respect I’ve got for you we’ll go outside, off the record like, and I’ll show you.’

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I said.

‘Yeah, you need a fucking gun don’t you?’ asked Stott. ‘You can’t handle a fair fight.’

‘What – like old Johnny did?’ I asked. ‘He liked a fair fight didn’t he?’

‘John Reid was a good copper.’

‘In my sweet brown arsehole he was.’

‘He was a friend of mine.’

‘Does that mean you’re bent like him, then?’ I asked.

Jim kicked the chair out from under me and I hit the deck, hard. ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ he said.

Not-Jim went to the window.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘No one saw.’

‘Get him in the back room,’ said Stott. ‘Out of sight.’

‘Be careful, Mickey,’ I said. ‘Don’t chew more than you can bite off.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked mildly.

‘I promise you’ll be sorry when Fox finds out.’

‘We’re all shaking in our shoes,’ said Stott. Jim looked a little askance. ‘Maybe he’s right, Guv.’

‘He’s got something on that bastard Fox and I want to know what it is,’ said Stott. ‘You’ve got him in the bag, haven’t you Mister Sharman? Well, he’ll thank us for getting him out.’

‘You’re wrong, Mickey,’ I said.

Stott kicked me hard in my ribs. ‘Mister Stott to you,’ he said.

The three of them dragged me to my feet and shoved me into the back room. Stott hit me hard in the kidneys as Jim shut the door behind us. The force of the blow pushed me against the far wall and I leaned against the cold plaster and waited for the rest. It didn’t take long to come.

Stott spun me round by my shoulder. ‘You’re a fucking prick,’ he said and punched me hard, low down in my stomach and I thought for a moment I was going to be sick.

When coppers like that come through the door, human rights go out the window. The worst part was that they were so offhand, so casual about it. They didn’t even look at me. ‘Don’t mark him,’ was all Stott said.

‘Won’t make no difference,’ said Jim. ‘State of him.’ That was when I wished I’d taken the doc’s pain-killing injection. I didn’t even bother to fight back. It would only have made things worse.

‘I said he had no bottle,’ said Stott, as he aimed another blow. What they meant by bottle was beating up people who wouldn’t or couldn’t fight back, using the cells as private torture chambers and then hiding behind their warrants.

That sort of bottle I didn’t need.

‘Tell us all about it, Sharman,’ said Stott, starting to break into a sweat, ‘or it’ll be the worse for you.’

‘Don’t lose your cool, Mickey,’ I said. ‘Don’t go too far.’

He was raining blows at me with his hands and feet. Some were bouncing off harmlessly but enough were getting through to hurt. Not-Jim was getting in a few handy licks too. I retreated into the corner and lay curled up, trying to protect myself as best as I could.

‘Take it easy, Guv,’ said Jim. ‘For Christ’s sake, you’ll kill the fucker.’

I could feel myself beginning to go. The kicks and punches were taking their toll. Not-Jim had quit, but Stott was still well into beating the shit out of me.

Jim grabbed his DS and pulled him back. ‘Guv’nor,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not worth it.’

Not-Jim pulled me up and leant me against the wall.

‘You tell me, you bastard,’ shouted Stott.

‘Leave him Guv, he’s had enough,’ said Jim.

‘Tell me.’ Stott again.

‘You’re a reptile, Stott, how’s that?’ I said.

I think that’s when he would have done me some serious damage, some damage that might have left me ga-ga in a home for the mentally incurable if he’d been allowed to go through with it. I saw the lights go out behind his eyes as he drew his fist back for a roundhouse that would have put me to sleep for a long time if it had connected. I was lucky. The door to my office proper opened and a quiet voice said, ‘I hope I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.’

The three coppers froze and all their heads turned.

‘Welcome to Sleepy Hollow,’ I said through split lips.

With one look Fox took in the whole scene.

‘Stott,’ he said. ‘My office eight-thirty tomorrow morning and don’t be a second late. You two’ – he indicated the porkies – ‘be ready to account for your every movement today. Get your notebooks up to date and ready for my inspection. I want them pristine. Do you understand?’

I don’t think either of them knew what pristine meant, but they got his drift.

‘Yes sir,’ they said in unison.

‘Now all of you get out,’ said Fox.

Before he went Stott stuck his face close to mine. His breath was hot and sour, like Chinese soup.

‘I love people like you Sharman,’ he said. ‘People like you make me look good.’

‘Plastic surgery wouldn’t make you look good,’ I said.

He raised his hand and I’ll admit I flinched. I’d had a rough day.

‘Stott,’ said Fox. ‘I said get out of here.’

Stott left with the porkies, mumbling under his breath as he went.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Sharman, I must say,’ said Fox. ‘What the hell’s been going on down here? First of all I get a message that there’s been a major terrorist outrage.

Then I hear that an American national has been involved. Then I’m told that the American national has been murdered in your car, and it appears that she’s the latest in a long line of your girlfriends, and let me tell you Sharman, I won’t be able to keep your name out of the papers on this one. The media whores are out there sharpening their knives for you, son. Then I find that all the telephones in the area have been knocked out and the mobile HQ is U/S in Sydenham or some God-forsaken hole, and then to cap it all I walk in here and it looks like you’ve just gone three rounds with half of Streatham CID. And lost.’ Fox was as close to being excited as I’ve ever seen him.

‘DS Stott got a little emotional,’ I said.

‘You must have done something to upset him.’

‘If this is how he acts when he’s upset, I’d hate to have to break any really bad news to him.’

‘He’s just doing his job.’

‘Don’t give me that shit, Danny,’ I said. ‘That’s no excuse and you know it. Next you’ll tell me he’s a good copper, but misunderstood.’

‘He’s not bad.’

‘A bit over-fisty I’d say.’

‘What do you expect with what we’ve got to put up with these days?’

‘Do you want sympathy from me?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

I could feel the blood from my injured ear running down my neck.

‘Here, use this.’ Fox took an immaculate white handkerchief from his raincoat pocket and gave it to me. It felt like linen and had been meticulously ironed into a little square. I unfolded it and held it gently to my ear. When I looked at the material it was scarlet with fresh blood.