left. If he was still there later, Sam would call the police.
They reached the entrance to the police station. It was an old stone building, with roman window arches and block-effect stone on the corners. Steps went up to double-glazed doors and a bright sign, the old wooden doors and blue lamp long gone. Reinforced glass windows lined the building at pavement level, a faint glow giving the only hint that anyone occupied the rooms below. They were the cells, a line of damp, tiled rooms, with an aluminium toilet and a PVC mattress for furniture.
As they were about to climb the steps, Sam turned to Luke. ‘Are you okay about this? We don’t have to do it.’
Luke didn’t respond.
‘It’s your call, not your father’s. If there’s something you want to keep from the police, then leave.’
Luke looked towards the police station, and then back towards Sam’s office. He saw the group of drunks outside the court.
He turned back towards Sam, and Sam sensed more determination than before. Luke seemed suddenly confident, his eyes less scared.
‘There’s something you ought to know,’ he said.
Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re here as a witness. I’m not going to change anything you’re going to say. I’m here just in case the police think that you’re more than that.’
He shook his head. ‘No, you’ve got to know this.’ He moved closer to Sam and grabbed his wrist. Sam could smell the office coffee on his breath, could see the gloss of sweat on his top lip.
‘I did it.’
I watched Sam Nixon walk by, and I was curious.
I was on the steps of the court, just passing the time between cases, when I saw him, the brightness of his shirt loud in the shadows beneath the old grey buildings. Then I noticed the young man walking alongside him, nervous in a grey suit, the pads hanging off his skinny shoulders. Sam was walking quickly and the young man was struggling to keep up.
As they walked past, I saw Sam glance at me and then walk on. The police station was next door to the court, and I watched them slow down as they got near to the steps.
I was interested. Not many people go to the police station in a suit, and I knew that solicitors didn’t go to the police station as much as they used to do. Police-station runners do most of it now, cheaper versions of the real thing.
I had read the reports, that for lawyers crime no longer pays. It is all about volume, so police-station runners handle most of the police-station work, giving the lawyers the time to go to court. The runners only have one choice to make: whether to advise clients to answer questions or stay silent. The suits are cheaper, shinier, the faces younger, but they are prepared to put in the hours, and they are all billable hours.
‘Look at the cunt.’
I whirled around. It was the drunk from before, Terry McKay.
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Sam Nixon?’ As a journalist I had learned a long time ago that it was good to listen to anyone who was prepared to talk.
Terry swayed on the steps, and turned to me slowly, his eyelids barely open.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the person you’re talking to,’ I said, ‘so tell me, who’s the cunt?’
Terry turned back to the street.
‘Him,’ he said. ‘With fucking Nixon. Cunt. And Parsons.’ His head bobbed as he talked.
I nodded towards Sam and the young man in the suit, who were now by the bottom of the police-station steps.
‘Who is he?’
Terry turned to face me. I saw that his denim jacketwas covered in stains, and the sides of his shoes were splitting where his feet were forcing their way out.
‘Don’t you fucking know, arsehole?’ He launched spittle onto his chin when he said this, as his head bobbed and shook.
I grinned. Drunks like him didn’t bother me. He wanted to talk. The booze had just made him forget how. ‘You tell me, arsehole,’ I said.
Terry stared at me, in that way that drunks always do, concentrating too hard. He swayed and his feet shuffled
They reached the entrance to the police station. It was an old stone building, with roman window arches and block-effect stone on the corners. Steps went up to double-glazed doors and a bright sign, the old wooden doors and blue lamp long gone. Reinforced glass windows lined the building at pavement level, a faint glow giving the only hint that anyone occupied the rooms below. They were the cells, a line of damp, tiled rooms, with an aluminium toilet and a PVC mattress for furniture.
As they were about to climb the steps, Sam turned to Luke. ‘Are you okay about this? We don’t have to do it.’
Luke didn’t respond.
‘It’s your call, not your father’s. If there’s something you want to keep from the police, then leave.’
Luke looked towards the police station, and then back towards Sam’s office. He saw the group of drunks outside the court.
He turned back towards Sam, and Sam sensed more determination than before. Luke seemed suddenly confident, his eyes less scared.
‘There’s something you ought to know,’ he said.
Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re here as a witness. I’m not going to change anything you’re going to say. I’m here just in case the police think that you’re more than that.’
He shook his head. ‘No, you’ve got to know this.’ He moved closer to Sam and grabbed his wrist. Sam could smell the office coffee on his breath, could see the gloss of sweat on his top lip.
‘I did it.’
I watched Sam Nixon walk by, and I was curious.
I was on the steps of the court, just passing the time between cases, when I saw him, the brightness of his shirt loud in the shadows beneath the old grey buildings. Then I noticed the young man walking alongside him, nervous in a grey suit, the pads hanging off his skinny shoulders. Sam was walking quickly and the young man was struggling to keep up.
As they walked past, I saw Sam glance at me and then walk on. The police station was next door to the court, and I watched them slow down as they got near to the steps.
I was interested. Not many people go to the police station in a suit, and I knew that solicitors didn’t go to the police station as much as they used to do. Police-station runners do most of it now, cheaper versions of the real thing.
I had read the reports, that for lawyers crime no longer pays. It is all about volume, so police-station runners handle most of the police-station work, giving the lawyers the time to go to court. The runners only have one choice to make: whether to advise clients to answer questions or stay silent. The suits are cheaper, shinier, the faces younger, but they are prepared to put in the hours, and they are all billable hours.
‘Look at the cunt.’
I whirled around. It was the drunk from before, Terry McKay.
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Sam Nixon?’ As a journalist I had learned a long time ago that it was good to listen to anyone who was prepared to talk.
Terry swayed on the steps, and turned to me slowly, his eyelids barely open.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the person you’re talking to,’ I said, ‘so tell me, who’s the cunt?’
Terry turned back to the street.
‘Him,’ he said. ‘With fucking Nixon. Cunt. And Parsons.’ His head bobbed as he talked.
I nodded towards Sam and the young man in the suit, who were now by the bottom of the police-station steps.
‘Who is he?’
Terry turned to face me. I saw that his denim jacketwas covered in stains, and the sides of his shoes were splitting where his feet were forcing their way out.
‘Don’t you fucking know, arsehole?’ He launched spittle onto his chin when he said this, as his head bobbed and shook.
I grinned. Drunks like him didn’t bother me. He wanted to talk. The booze had just made him forget how. ‘You tell me, arsehole,’ I said.
Terry stared at me, in that way that drunks always do, concentrating too hard. He swayed and his feet shuffled
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