Stephen Leather: Tango One

"So there you are. That proves something, doesn't it?"

Latham smiled thinly.

"All it proves is how smart you are, Fullerton. Or how smart you'd like to think you are."

Fulleiton leaned forward again, trying to seize back the initiative.

"My background was checked, sir. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket."

"Are you denying that you take drugs on a regular basis?"

"Yes."

"And that you were caught dealing cannabis while at university?"

Fullerton's eyes widened and his mouth went dry.

"Caught with three ounces of cannabis resin in the toilets at an end-of-term concert?" Latham continued, his eyes boring into Fullerton's.

Fullerton fought to stop his hands from shaking.

"If that had been the case, sir, I'd have been sent down."

"Unless your tutor also happened to be a customer. Unless you threatened to expose him if he didn't pull strings to get the matter swept under the metaphorical carpet. Might also explain how you managed to graduate with a first."

"I got my degree on merit," said Fullerton, quickly. Too quickly, he realised.

"There's no proof of any of this," he said.

"It's all hearsay."

"Hearsay's all we need," said Latham.

"This isn't a court, there's no jury to convince."

"Is that what this is all about? A conviction for possession that wouldn't even merit a caution?"

"Do you think I'd be here if that was all that was involved, Fullerton?

Don't you think I'd have better things to do than interview someone who thinks it's clever to get high now and again?"

Fullerton swallowed. His nose was itching and he badly wanted to scratch it, but he knew that if he took his hands off his knees they'd start trembling.

"I'm not interested in slapping the wrist of a recreational drug-user, Fullerton, but I am very interested in knowing if you're serious about wanting to be a police officer. A real police officer."

"Yes, sir. I am."

Latham looked at Fullerton, his mouth a tight line. He nodded slowly.

"Very well. From this moment on I want absolute truth from you. Do you understand?"

Fullerton licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry.

"Agreed, sir."

"Thank you," said Latham.

"Exactly what drugs do you use?"

"Cocaine, sir. Occasionally. Cannabis. Ecstasy on occasions."

"Heroin?"

"In the past, sir. Only inhaling. Never injecting."

"Not since university, sir. I didn't like the loss of control."

"Would you consider yourself an addict?"

Fullerton shook his head emphatically.

"I don't have an addictive personality, sir. I use because I enjoy it, not because I need it."

"That's what all addicts say."

"I've gone without for weeks at a time, sir. It's not a problem."

"And you switched urine samples?"

"I gave a friend fifty quid for a bottle of his piss."

"And your tutor at Oxford? You pressurised him?"

Fullerton nodded.

"But only for the cannabis thing, I swear. I got the first on merit."

"Do you still deal?"

Fullerton grimaced.

"That depends, sir."

"On what?"

"On your definition of dealing."

"Selling for profit."

Fullerton grimaced again.

"I sell to friends, and it'd be stupid to make a loss on the deal, wouldn't it? I mean, you wouldn't expect me to sell at a loss."

"That would make you a dealer," said Latham.

Fullerton could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn't want to wipe it away, didn't want Latham to see his discomfort.

"What's this about, sir?" he asked.

"I assume there's no way I'm going to be allowed to join the force. Not in view of… this."

For the first time, Latham smiled with something approaching warmth.

"Actually, Fullerton, you'd be surprised."

"Don't think you think it's going to be tough for you in the Met, being a nigger?" said Assistant Commissioner Latham.

At first Cliff Warren thought he'd misheard, and he sat with a blank look on his face.

Latham folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head back slightly and looked down his nose at Warren.

"What's wrong, Warren? Cat got your tongue?"

Still Warren thought he'd misunderstood the senior police officer.

"I'm not sure I understand the question, sir."

"The question, Warren, is don't you think that being black is going to hold you back? The Met doesn't like spooks. Spades. Sooties.

Whatever the latest generic is. Haven't you heard? We're institutionally racist. We don't like niggers."

Warren frowned. He looked away from Latham's piercing gaze and stared out of the window at the tower block opposite. It was like a bad dream and he half expected to wake up at any moment and find himself looking at his brand new uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. This didn't make any sense. The drive to the Isle of Dogs. The lift with a security code. The empty office, empty except for a desk and two chairs and a senior police officer whom Warren recognised from his many television appearances, who was using racist language which could lose him his job if it was ever made public.

"I'm not sure of your point, sir," said Warren.

"My point is that it's not going to be much fun for you, is it?

Pictures of monkeys pinned up on your locker. Bananas on the backseat of your patrol car. Memos asking you to call Mr. K.K. Clan."

"I thought the Met wanted to widen its minority base," said Warren.

Latham raised an eyebrow.

"Did you now?" he said.

"And you were eager to take up the challenge, were you?"

"I wanted the job, yes."

Latham steepled his fingers under his chin like a child saying his prayers and studied Warren with unblinking eyes.

"You're not angered by what I've just said?" he said eventually.

"I've heard worse, sir."

"And you're always so relaxed about it?"

"What makes you think I'm relaxed, sir?"

Latham nodded slowly, accepting Warren's point.

"That was a test, was it, sir?"

"In a way, Warren."

Warren smiled without warmth.

"Because it wasn't really a fair test, not if you think about it.

You're in uniform, I'm hoping to become an officer in the force that you command, I'm hardly likely to lose control, am I?"

"I suppose not."

"See, if you weren't an Assistant Commissioner, and you'd said what you'd said outside, in a pub or on the street, my reaction might have been a little less… reticent." Warren leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Latham's face.

"In fact," he said in a low whisper, "I'd be kicking your lily-white arse to within an inch of your lily-white life. Sir." Warren smiled showing perfect slab-like white teeth.

"No offence intended."

Latham smiled back. This time there was an amused glint in his eyes and Warren knew that he'd passed the test. Maybe not with flying colours, but he'd passed.

"None taken," said the Assistant Commissioner.

"Tell me about your criminal record."

"Minor of fences said Warren without hesitation.

"Taking and driving away when I was fourteen. Driving without due care and attention. Driving without insurance. Without a licence. Criminal damage." Warren's criminal past had been discussed at length prior to his being accepted as a probationary constable.

"And there's nothing else that we should know about you, nothing that might have influenced our decision to allow you to join the force?"

"The interviews and tests were wide-ranging, sir," said Warren.

"You didn't reveal your homosexuality," said Latham.

"I wasn't asked," said Warren without hesitation.

"You didn't think it relevant?"

"Clearly the interviewers didn't."

"Your home situation would have been enquired about. Your domestic arrangements."

"I live alone."