Peter Robinson - Past Reason Hated

‘All right, Mike?’

‘I’ll mend.’

‘Who’ve we got?’

‘Robert S. Chalmers, age eighteen. Unemployed. Previous form for assault, damage to property, theft – all as a juvenile. A real charmer.’ Susan winced in acknowledgement of his joke. Bad puns were a thing with PC Tolliver.

Susan sat down. Tolliver went to the chair by the small window in the corner and took out his notebook.

‘Hello, Robert,’ she said, forcing a smile.

‘Fuck off.’

The animosity that came from him was almost overwhelming. Susan tensed up inside, determined not to react. On the outside she remained calm and cool. He had acted in this hostile way partly because she was a woman, she was sure. A thug like Chalmers would take it as an insult that they sent a small woman rather than a burly man to interrogate him. He would also expect to be able to deal with her easily. To him, women were probably creatures to be used and discarded. There wouldn’t be any shortage of them in his life. He was good-looking in a surly, James Dean, early Elvis Presley way, his upper lip permanently curved in a sneer.

‘I hear you’ve been attempting to gain unlawful entry to the Darby and Joan Club,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem, can’t you wait till you’re sixty-five?’

‘Very funny.’

‘It’s not funny, Robert. It’s aggravated burglary. Do you know how much time you can get for that?’

Chalmers glared at her. ‘I’m not saying anything till my lawyer gets here.’

‘It might help you if you did. Co-operation. We’d mention that in court.’

‘I told you, I ain’t saying nothing. I know you bastards. You’d fit me up with a verbal.’ He moved in his chair and Susan saw him wince slightly with pain.

‘What’s wrong, Robert?’

‘Bastard over there beat me up.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, love, he only bruised a rib or two – he didn’t damage my tackle.’

Susan bit her tongue. ‘Be sensible, Robert, like your friend William.’

Susan saw a flicker of apprehension in the boy’s eyes, but they quickly regained their hard-bitten look and he laughed. ‘I’m not stupid, you know, love,’ he said. ‘Pull the other one.’

Susan stared at him, long and hard, and made her assessment. Was it worth pushing at him? She decided not. He’d been through this kind of thing too many times before to fall for the usual tricks or to scare easily. Maybe his accomplice would be softer.

She stood up. ‘Right, I’ll just go and have another word with your mate, then. He’ll be able to fill in all the details. That should give us enough.’

Though hardly anything perceptible changed in Chalmers’s expression, Susan somehow knew that what she had said worried him. Not that the other had talked; he wouldn’t fall for that. But that Billy Morley was less tough, more nervous, more likely to crack. Chalmers just shrugged and resumed his slouch, gritting his teeth for a second as he shifted. He put his hands in his pockets and pretended to whistle at the ceiling.

Susan went to the next room, stopping to lean against the wall on the way to take a few deep breaths. No matter how often she came across them, people like Chalmers frightened her. They frightened her more than the people who committed crimes out of passion or greed. She could hear her father’s voice going on about the younger generation. In his day, the story went, people were frightened of coppers, they respected the law. Now, though, they didn’t give a damn; they’d as soon thump a policeman and run. She had to admit there was a lot of truth in what he said. There had always been gangs, youngsters had always been full of mischief and sometimes gone too far, but they certainly used to run when the police arrived. Now they didn’t seem to care. Why had it happened? Was television to blame? Partly, perhaps. But it was more than that. Maybe they had become cynical about those in authority after reading about too many corrupt politicians, perverted judges and bent coppers. Everyone was on the fiddle; nothing really mattered any more. But it wasn’t Susan’s job to analyse society, just to get the truth out of the bastards. Taking a final deep breath, she walked into the next office to confront Billy Morley.

This lad, guarded by PC Wilson, who sported a small cut over his left eye, seemed a little more nervous than his friend. Skinny to the point of emaciation, he had a spotty, weasly face and dark, beady eyes that darted all over the place. He was sitting straight up in his chair rubbing his upper arm and licking his thin lips.

‘You the lawyer?’ he said hopefully. ‘This bastard here nearly broke my arm. Hit me with his stick.’

‘You were resisting arrest,’ PC Wilson said.

‘I wasn’t doing nothing of the kind. I was minding my own business.’

‘Aye,’ said Wilson. ‘You and your jemmy.’

‘It’s not mine. It’s-’

‘Well?’ asked Wilson.

He folded his arms. ‘I’m not saying anything.’

By this time Susan had sat down and arranged herself as comfortably as she could in the stiff, bolted-down chair. First she gave PC Wilson the signal to fade into the background and take notes, then she took a good look at Morley. He didn’t frighten her nearly as much as Chalmers. Basically, she thought, he was weak – especially alone. He was also the younger of the two. Chalmers, she suspected, was a true hard case, but Morley was just a follower and probably a coward at heart. Chalmers had known that, and the knowledge had flitted across his face for a moment. Being a woman would put Susan at an advantage with someone like Morley, who probably jumped each time his mother yelled.

‘I’m not your solicitor, William,’ Susan said. ‘I’m a detective constable. I’ve come to ask you a few questions. It’s a serious charge you’re facing. Do you understand that?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Aggravated burglary. Under section ten of the Theft Act, you could do life. Add to that resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and I’m pretty sure any judge would come down hard on you.’

‘Bollocks! That’s crap! You can’t get life.’ He shook his head. ‘Not just for… I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true, William. You’re not a juvenile now, you’re an adult. No more fun and games.’

‘But-’

‘But nothing. I’m telling you, William, it doesn’t look good. Do you know what aggravated burglary means?’

Morley shook his head.

Susan clasped her hands on the table in front of her. ‘It means committing a burglary while carrying an offensive weapon.’

‘What offensive weapon?’

‘The jemmy.’

Susan was interpreting the law with a certain amount of licence. ‘Aggravated burglary’ usually involved firearms or explosives.

She shook her head. ‘The best we could do for you is drop the charge to going equipped for stealing. That’s thirteen years. Then there’s malicious damage to property… Whichever way it cuts, William, you’re in a lot of trouble. You can only help yourself by talking to me.’

Morley pinched his long, sharp nose and sniffed. ‘I want my lawyer.’

‘What were you after?’ Susan asked. ‘Did someone tell you there was money there?’

‘We weren’t after no money. We – I’m not saying anything till my law-’

‘Your solicitor may be some time, William. Solicitors like a good night’s sleep. They don’t enjoy getting up at two thirty in the morning just to help a pathetic little creep like you. It’ll be better if you co-operate.’

Morley gaped at her, as if her insulting words, delivered in such a matter of fact, even tone, had pricked him like darts. ‘I told you,’ he stammered. ‘I want-’

Susan rested her hands on the table, palms down, and spoke softly. ‘William, be sensible for once in your life. Look at the facts. We already know the two of you broke into the Darby and Joan Club. You used a jemmy. It’ll have your fingerprints on it. You must have handled it at some time. It’s being tested right now. And there’ll be fibres we can match with the gloves you were wearing, too. We also have two very reliable witnesses. PC Wilson here and his colleague caught you red-handed. There’s no getting around that, solicitor or no solicitor. We’ve followed correct procedure so far. You’ve been warned and charged. Right now we’re reviewing your options, so to speak.’