Ian Rankin - Beggars Banquet

Today, I was sitting in Detective Inspector Jack Preston’s office. He’s a friend of mine, insofar as we’ve been known to share a drink, a meal, a joke. We have met socially at parties full of other CID men and lawyers. That’s why he was doing me what he called a ‘favour’. We were having a quiet word, the door closed, about a client of mine. Jack was keen to see my client put away, but knew I could mount a reasonable defence. He wanted to do some trading. He would drop a couple of charges if my client changed his plea.

This is the way the law works. It’s the only thing that stops the courts blocking up completely. ‘Plumbing’, Jack calls it. He says we’re all plumbers’ mates, trying to keep the merde flowing.

I was putting the case for my client, not really trying too hard, just enjoying the exercise, when there was a knock at the door.

‘Yes,’ Jack called. A head appeared round the door.

‘Sorry, sir, I know you didn’t want to be disturbed.’

Jack waved the young man inside and introduced him as DC Derek Halliwell.

‘What is it, Derek?’

‘The eleven o’clock identification,’ DC Halliwell said. Jack checked his watch. It was two minutes to eleven.

‘Christ,’ he said.

I smiled. ‘Time flies.’ It was true I’d been in his office a while. We’d been chatting, that’s all. Some gossip, a few stories, a cup of coffee.

‘Do it without me,’ Jack said.

‘It’s not that, sir. We’re one short for the lineup.’

‘Have you had a look around?’

‘Nobody’s available.’

Jack thought about it. ‘Well, she knows me, I can’t do it.’ Then he had an idea. He turned to me. I widened my eyes.

‘You want me to appear in an ID parade?’

‘You’d be doing us a big favour, Roddy.’

‘Would it take long?’

He smiled. ‘You know it wouldn’t.’

I sighed, a little theatrically. ‘Only too pleased, Inspector, to help police with their inquiries.’

Jack and DC Halliwell had a laugh as I got to my feet.

Most people I know, when they think of an ID parade, they imagine the American system: two-way mirror, the witness hidden from view. But it’s not like that here. Here, the witness is face-to-face with the lineup. He or she walks along the line, then walks back along it. It can be distressing for all concerned. When Jack told me which case this present identification was concerned with, I felt pretty distressed myself.

We were standing in the anteroom.

‘You might have warned me,’ I said.

‘I’m telling you now,’ Jack said.

It was the Marshall case. Sophie Marshall had been mugged, and had died of her injuries before help could arrive. Her attacker had left her propped against a wall, and had taken only cash and jewellery. The hell of it was, I’d known Sophie Marshall. Well, I’d met her a few times, as had Jack. She’d been a court usher. We’d met her both professionally and at drinks parties. She’d been a good-looking young woman, full of life.

‘Thing is,’ Jack confided, ‘you know and I know that the MO fits Barry Cooke.’

I nodded. Barry Cooke was a young thug of the district who had mugged before and served time. He’d left the victim propped against a wall. I recalled his barrister saying in mitigation that Cooke had left the victim in that position to make him more comfortable. From the moment they found Sophie Marshall, the police suspected Cooke. They took him in for questioning, but he had a good alibi and a keen young solicitor. The evidence against him was circumstantial. It wouldn’t hold up in court.

‘But now you’ve got a witness?’ I said, interested.

Jack nodded. He seemed nervous. ‘A young woman, says she saw somebody near the scene about the time Sophie Marshall was attacked. We’ve brought Cooke in, see if she can point the finger.’ He shrugged. ‘That would just about do it.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Who is she?’

‘The witness?’ Jack shrugged again, lighting a cigarette for himself, despite the No Smoking signs on all four walls and above the door. ‘Just someone who lives near there. Actually, she lives on the floor above Marshall, but she didn’t know her. She’s not what you’d call the perfect witness.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Wait till you see her: cropped hair, ring through her nose, tattoos. She’s Ray Boyd’s girlfriend. Know him?’ I shook my head. ‘He’s got a bit of a temper on him. He was in court a couple of days ago for assault. Got off with it though.’

I nodded. ‘I think I recall the case.’

The other members of the lineup were milling around, and now the anteroom door opened and Barry Cooke was led in. I didn’t look at him. There was a quick briefing from Jack, and we were told to go into the ID room. There, we were arranged into a line. I was wearing a jacket borrowed from DC Halliwell, to make me look more ‘casual’, and I’d taken off my tie. I still looked a good deal more formal than the others in the lineup, one of whom was a police officer.

I ended up as Number Four. Barry Cooke was right next to me. He was about a foot shorter than me, with thick unkempt hair tied back into a matted ponytail. His mouth was missing a few teeth, and his face was scarred with acne. I tried to look straight ahead of me, but of course he knew who I was.

‘You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘No talking!’ one of the policemen ordered.

Then the witness was brought into the room. Jack was with her, along with Cooke’s solicitor, an upstart called Tony Barraclough. Barraclough recognised me, but didn’t let it show. He’d probably been forewarned by Jack.

The witness was about Cooke’s height and age. It struck me that they might know one another, but then this parade wouldn’t have been necessary. She was an ugly little thing, except for her eyes. Her eyes were pretty, the way she’d once been pretty all over. But she’d scraped and savaged herself, pierced herself. She wore her underclass like a uniform.

She stopped in front of Number One, then passed Two and Three and stopped in front of me. I stared straight ahead, and she moved on to Barry Cooke. But she walked right past him to Number Six. I could see hope fade from Jack’s face. His shoulders sagged. Eventually, she walked past us again. I thought this time she was going to stop at Cooke, but she was standing in front of me.

Then she reached up and tapped my shoulder.

‘That’s him,’ she said, ‘that’s the bastard.’

Jack shuffled his feet. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, I’m sure all right. Definitely him. Bastard! ’ And she slapped me hard across the face.

Two uniformed officers led her away, still screaming. Everyone looked a bit shaken up. I rubbed my cheek where it stung. Barry Cooke was watching me intently. Jack was having a quiet word with Tony Barraclough. Jack was smiling, Barraclough nodding. Then the lineup was dismissed, Cooke went off with Barraclough, and Jack came over to me.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

‘Do you think I should press a charge for assault?’

‘What do you reckon?’

I shrugged. ‘You say her boyfriend’s often in trouble?’

‘Not often.’

‘Maybe she’s seen me in the courts.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. Decided to have a go at you. That makes sense. Otherwise… well, I mean, you and Cooke, you’re chalk and cheese.’

‘Further apart than that, I think.’

‘Well, anyway, sorry.’ He pointed to my cheek. ‘I can see the outline of her fingers.’

I rubbed the cheek again. ‘I hope it fades before I go home.’

‘I didn’t know your wife was the jealous type.’ Jack put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Roddy, these identity parades work less often than you’d think. I’ve been picked out myself once or twice.’