“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
That was clearly my cue to go and sit down. I just carried on smiling and leaning on the counter. “I’ll wait,” I said.
He breathed heavily through his nose and disappeared through a door behind the counter. One of the hacks casually wandered across to me and offered his cigarettes. “I don’t do suicide,” I said. “Quick or slow.”
“Sharp,” he said, slotting in beside me at the counter with a swagger designed to show off his narrow hips and expensive suit. “What’s a spice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Just a little local difficulty to sort out,” I said. “What about you? You don’t look like Oldham Man to me.”
He couldn’t resist. “I’m a reporter.”
“Ooh,” I said. “That sounds exciting. Who do you work for?”
I got the full CV, ending with the most notorious national tabloid. He shrugged his shoulders in his jacket, just to make sure I hadn’t missed how gorgeous he was. In his dreams.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s impressive. So what’s the big story tonight?”
“Are you a Northerners fan?” I nodded. “You’ll have read about Dorothea Dawson getting murdered on the set, then?” I nodded again. “Well, a couple of my colleagues got a tip-off from the police
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had no doubts where this particular leak had come from. That bastard Jackson was getting his own back for being made to look a pillock first by me and Gloria and then by John Turpin. “No!” I gasped, struggling to keep up the pretense in the teeth of my anger.
“I’m telling you, that’s what we heard. So we send out a pic man and a reporter to Gloria’s place, out in Greenfield. She comes out in the car, and our lads are standing at the entrance to her lane, just doing their jobs, trying to get a picture or a story. Then this big black lad comes jumping out of the car and weighs into our lads. One of the reporters calls the police, Gloria shoots off God knows where in the car, and the rest is history.”
“The bodyguard started it?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
My new friend winked. “Five words against one. Who do you think the cops will believe?”
Not if I had anything to do with it they wouldn’t. But before I could let him know what I thought of the credibility of the press, the door to the station swung open and Ruth sailed in like a Valkyrie on ice, her blonde hair loose for once, falling in a cascade over the silver fake fur. At once, the journalist forgot all about chatting me up and scuttled towards her. “Ruth,” came the cry from several throats. “Tell us what’s going on!”
She swept past them, a snow leopard scattering fleas in her wake. “Later, boys and girls, later. Let me at least speak to my client. Kate,” she greeted me, putting one arm round my shoulders and turning me so that we formed an impenetrable wall of backs as she pressed the button for the desk officer. “You know I can’t take you in with me?” she said, her voice low but audible against the clamor behind us.
“I know. But I want to talk to the arresting officer first, before you all get embroiled in interviews. I want him to know that if they charge Don, I’m filing a racial harassment suit first thing in the morning. I told you about their antics last week, didn’t I?”
“Oh yes. I’m sure we’re not going to have a problem with them.”
“It’s Jackson that’s behind this.” I told her briefly what I’d just learned. There was no time to discuss it further, for the desk officer reappeared.
“I’m Ruth Hunter,” she said. “Here to see my client, Donovan Carmichael. His employer also has some relevant information to place before the arresting officer if you would be so good as to get him here?”
The desk man nodded to a door at the side of the reception area. “He’ll be right out.”
The journalists were still hammering us with questions when the door opened moments later. The uniformed sergeant who emerged looked harried and hassled, his short red hair sticking out at odd angles as if he’d been running a hand through it. His freckles stood out like a rash on skin pallid with tiredness. “Ms. Brannigan?” he asked, looking at Ruth.
“I’m Ruth Hunter, Donovan’s solicitor,” she said. A gentle shove in the small of my back propelled me towards the door. “This is his employer.” Ruth continued her forward movement, sweeping all three of us back through the door and neatly closing it behind us. “A moment of your time before I see my client, Sergeant?”
He nodded and led us into an interview room that looked freshly decorated but still smelled inevitably of stale smoke, sweat and chips. I think they buy it in an aerosol spray. “I’m Sergeant Mumby,” he said, dropping into a chair on one side of the table. “I’m told Ms. Brannigan wanted a word.”
“That’s right,” I said, glad I’d had the chance to forearm myself with information from the smoothie outside. “I don’t want this to sound threatening, but if you charge Donovan tonight, Ms. Hunter’s firm will be making a complaint of racial harassment against GMP. He’s already been arrested twice in the last week for nothing more than being black in the wrong place. Now he’s facing serious charges because five white people who were blocking my client’s private road wouldn’t get out of the way and they didn’t like being told what to do by a young black lad. That’s about the size of it, isn’t it?”
He sighed. “I’ve got five witnesses saying he came at them like a madman, pushing them and shoving them, and that he punched
I caught my breath. “What happened?”
“Just a split lip. He says one of the photographers swung his camera at him; the photographer says Mr. Carmichael tried to head butt him and the camera got in the way.”
I shook my head incredulously. “This is outrageous. Some scummy paparazzo smacks Donovan in the face with a camera then turns round and says he started on them? And Don’s the one facing charges? What has Gloria got to say about all this?”
The sergeant’s lips compressed in a thin line. “We’ve not been able to contact her yet.”
“I bet she’ll have plenty to say. Not least about the fact that this whole thing happened because one of your colleagues decided to leak confidential evidence in a murder inquiry to the press. Evidence which has already been totally discredited,” I said bitterly.
Ruth leaned forward. “There is, of course, one way to make all of this go away. You can let my client go without charge. Give him police bail if you must. He’s not going anywhere. He’s a student at Manchester University, he lives at home with his mother and sister, he has no criminal record and he has a part-time job with Ms. Brannigan. I’m certain that once Ms. Kendal has outlined the real course of events you’ll realize the only charge that should be brought is one of wasting police time, and not against my client. What do you say, Sergeant? Shall we all have an early night?”
He rubbed a hand over his chin and cocked his head on one side. “And if I do what you suggest, it’ll be all over the papers that we let a black mugger walk free.”
“Probably,” Ruth agreed. “But that’s a story that will be history by the weekend, whereas a racial harassment action will rumble on for a very long time. Especially one that’s supported by Gloria Kendal.”
“And the Manchester Evening Chronicle ,” I added. “Donovan’s mother is a very close friend of the Chronicle ’s crime correspondent, Alexis Lee. They love a good campaign at the Chron .”
He smiled, a genuine look of relief in his eyes. “You talked me into it, ladies. Between ourselves, I never saw it the way the journalists were telling it. For one thing, a lad built like your client would have done a hell of a lot more damage if he’d had a serious go. But what can you do? You’ve got witnesses saying one thing and not much evidence pointing the other way. At least now I can let you take Mr. Carmichael home secure in the knowledge that I’ve got good reasons to put in front of my inspector.” He got to his feet. “If you’d just wait there a minute, I’ll get it sorted.”
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