J. Gregson: Die Happy

It was a situation understood on both sides of the small square table as Lambert and Hook stared into the narrow face in the interview room. Lambert did not disguise the weary indifference the situation induced in him. Low-key might be the only possibility of success: get the little scrote off his guard and then wring some unwitting admission from him. He glanced at the notes in front of him and sighed heavily. ‘Well, Alfie, we meet yet again.’

He heard the old lag’s whine, which was Turner’s normal interview tone. ‘Don’t know why I’m ’ere, Mr Lambert. Don’t know why a chief super should be wasting ’is time on the likes of me. It’s a miscarriage of justice, this is.’

‘Not yet it isn’t, Alfie. DS Hook and I haven’t even decided what charges you will face yet. There is still time for you to save yourself, if you choose to offer us a little help.’

Bert Hook glanced sharply sideways and simulated surprise, even shock, at this leniency in his chief. ‘That would have to be your decision, sir. I couldn’t accept responsibility for that. Not with Mr Turner facing the near-certainty of a custodial sentence.’

‘I ain’t going down for this. It’s only a minor offence, this.’ But there was alarm in the high-pitched voice, as he looked from one face to the other and found no relief in this experienced duo, who had practised their tactics so often that they could play instinctively off each other.

Lambert affected to look at his notes again, though he knew there was nothing there with which to pressurize this small-time scum. He shook his head sadly. ‘Dealing in class A drugs, Alfie. Offering a choice of heroin and crack and methamphetamine. Doesn’t look good to me.’

‘I only sold the horse. And a little crack, just for recreational use.’

‘Even offered Rohypnol, our man says — at what he considered a grossly inflated price.’

The date-rape drug, the pills most in demand in the squalid twenty-first century society where men like Turner made their livings. ‘It ain’t bloody fair, coppers coming in filthy shirts and jeans to look for the likes of me.’

‘Whereas what you do is entirely fair, I suppose, Alfie.’ Lambert’s tone was suddenly harsher and less laid back. ‘Seen what happens to the people you sell these substances to, have you, Alfie? Seen what they do to get the money to pay the likes of you, once you have them hooked?’

Turner shrank back on his seat as if physically threatened. ‘It’s their own choice, Mr Lambert. No one makes ’em come to me.’

‘I can take you to the morgue in Gloucester, if you like, to show you how your customers finish life.’

‘It’s a free country. It’s their own choice.’ But Turner would not look at his adversaries as he muttered the cliches.

‘Sergeant Hook’s right, you know. Third time in court for dealing. You’ll go down this time. And probably a good thing too. One less rat in the sewer.’ He didn’t trouble to disguise his distaste for the man and what he represented.

‘It’s a minor offence. I want a brief.’

‘Oh, I’d go further than that. I’d say you need a brief, Alfie. And you shall have one, as soon as we decide upon formal charges. At present you’re just a member of the public helping us with our enquiries.’ He allowed himself a sour smile at that thought, and Hook beside him responded with a broader one of his own.

Bert sensed that this was the moment to take over. ‘You heard Chief Superintendent Lambert say that your only chance of avoiding a hefty spell in clink was to cooperate fully with us. I can’t say that I agree with such leniency, but he is my senior officer. So I have to suggest to you that your only chance this morning is to offer us useful information. We might then be able to enter a plea for leniency on your behalf.’

‘But I don’t know nuffing.’

‘Pity, that. Looks like you’re going down then, Mr Turner. Still, consider it from our point of view; one less rat rooting about in the sewer, as Mr Lambert says.’

‘What is it yer want?’

Lambert leaned forward. ‘Names, Alfie. Names from higher up the organization. Names that would show you’re helping us with our enquiries. I’m sure that your brief when he arrives would agree that a little information would be the only means by which you might help yourself.’

Except that his lawyer would probably be retained by the drug organization itself, which would certainly forbid any such revelations. Turner said hopelessly, ‘I don’t know nuffing. I’m small time, Mr Lambert. They don’t tell me nuffing.’

It was almost certainly true. They eventually wrung two names from him, names of suppliers on the next rung of the hierarchy. Lambert was pretty sure that the specialist Drugs Squad was aware of both of them, but equally sure now that Turner had nothing more to offer. They took the name of his brief and returned him to his cell, with the assurance that charges would be proffered within the hour.

Lambert reviewed a trying morning, looked at the paperwork which had mounted inexorably on his desk during his absence, and said glumly to Bert Hook, ‘Makes you look forward to retirement and cultivating your roses, a day like this does.’ At that moment, he almost believed himself.

He went home for lunch, which he wasn’t often able to do, and walked round the very garden he had mentioned, noting the crocus and the budding daffodils and rejoicing that another spring was at hand. He switched on the television, watched amateurs and their expert guides trying to make purchases at an antiques fair for two minutes, picked up the sports section of The Times , read of the latest demands of a multi-millionaire soccer player, uttered words even the most liberal editor could never have printed, and flung the newspaper petulantly aside.

His wife observed all of this surreptitiously, keeping the kitchen door ajar whilst she engaged herself in the politically highly incorrect processes of keeping her man happy. Thirty years of marriage to a policeman as he moved through the ranks to his present eminence had taught Christine Lambert many things. One of them was that men, whatever their professional successes and the accolades heaped upon them, are essentially children in the home.

This can be trying at times, even infuriating. But it is also a factor which that can be turned to a resourceful wife’s advantage. It is much better to use this weakness than to fight it. Such a sentiment was a triumph of pragmatism over feminism, Christine reflected, but it made domestic control and even domestic harmony much more attainable. She only taught part-time now, after a serious illness a year or two back, but she had many years’ experience of successful teaching, and she knew how to deal with children.

Cheese on toast, with slices of small, tasty cherry tomatoes blended into its amber surface. That had been John’s favourite lunchtime snack throughout their marriage and he didn’t change his opinions lightly. She served it to him not at the table but in his favourite armchair, a sure sign of indulgence. He ate with slow relish, his mood improving imperceptibly with each measured movement of his jaws. When she heard him switch off the television after the headlines of the one o’clock news, Christine brought her own plate in and sat down opposite him.

John Lambert glanced at her, feeling a sudden shaft of tenderness as he saw the lines in her still attractive face. As a young CID officer working round the clock and building a career, he had shut this woman out of his professional life, forcing her away from him, forcing her to retreat into her own job and the progress of her two young daughters. It had almost cost him the marriage that most of his younger colleagues now saw as rock-solid and a model for others. Those days were long gone, though on some days he still had to force himself to reveal anything to Christine of his life at work.