Nineteen Eighty by David Peace Page B

–
Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties, a friend .
He’s shaking, sweating.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He says: ‘Do you know Bob Douglas?’
Ghosts –
Again the ghosts of Christmases past:
Again the Strafford Shootings –
Again the wounded coppers:
Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas .
I nod: ‘Used to. Why?’
‘Well, I’ve been using him as a security advisor. Anyway, late last night he calls to tell me that he’s heard that I’m the subject of a bloody police investigation; then at lunchtime today my bank in Didsbury calls and says that a couple of detectives have taken away all their financial records pertaining to my accounts with them.’
‘What?’
‘I’m in bloody shock.’
‘You should’ve called straight away’
‘I didn’t want to. I’d seen you were over in Leeds and I don’t like to take advantage of the fact that we’re friends or anything.’
‘Richard! What are friends for?’
He smiles wanly.
‘Let’s sit down,’ I say, walking us over to a pair of crimson and gold lobby chairs.
‘Spoiling your evening,’ he mumbles again.
‘Rubbish. Start from the beginning.’
‘That’s a good question in itself. I didn’t know there was a beginning, didn’t know anything had started until last night.’
‘What about Bob Douglas? When did he come on the scene?’
‘End of October, start of November. I was worried about the house. He came out and had a look, tightened things up. I got to know him, like him.’
‘You know about –’
‘Yeah, yeah. Told me all about it. Why? What do you know about him?’
‘I went over there after the shootings, but he was sedated so I never actually spoke to him. By all accounts he was a good bloke. Good copper. When he left, he went kicking and screaming.’
‘That’s what he said. Ten years in the police, then out on his arse.’
I nod: ‘So after the house, what kind of stuff was he doing for you?’
‘Consulting. Insurance work. Nothing heavy.’
‘Until last night?’
‘Yes. Called about midnight. Said he’d been out and about, you know. And he’d heard from a so-called reliable source that I’d been targeted for investigation.’
‘A reliable source?’
‘A policeman. One of your lot.’
‘He say who?’
‘Said he couldn’t.’
‘He say why you were being investigated?’
He looks down at his hands, the carpet: ‘Financial irregularities. Supposedly’
‘What kind of financial irregularities?’
‘We don’t know. That’s all he heard.’
‘Did he get a name? Of the man in charge?’
‘Roger Hook.’
Fuck .
‘What about the bank? They give you anything more?’
‘No,’ he’s shaking his head. ‘Bloody humiliating though, I can tell you. Your bank manager, your golf partner and friend, calling you at home to tell you that the police have been in asking about you, taking away their records on you.’
‘I’m sorry, Richard.’
‘You know this Roger Hook?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. You’ve nothing to hide.’
He looks up from the carpet, his hands: ‘Who knows what they’ll find.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘There’s nothing to find, is there?’
His eyes still aren’t meeting mine.
‘Richard,’ I say. ‘Tell me there’s nothing to find.’
‘Who knows?’
‘You do, for Chrissakes man.’
‘Look –’
‘Jesus, Richard.’
‘I need your help.’
I look him in the eye, hold him there, tell him: ‘There’s nothing I can do for you.’
‘Pete –’
I stand up, ready to walk.
‘There’s something else,’ he says.
I stop.
‘About you,’ he says.
‘Me? What about me?’
‘You asked me why, why I was being targeted?’
I nod.
‘Douglas said it’s down to you.’
‘What is? What are you talking about?’
‘This. I’ve been singled out because I’m friends with you.’
‘Rubbish. Utter rubbish.’
He has hold of my arm: ‘Peter –’
‘Douglas is wrong. You’re wrong.’
‘To put you in your place, that’s what they told him.’
I turn away, freeing myself from his grip.
Him: ‘What are you going to do?’
I turn back: ‘Nothing.’
‘You’re just going to leave me up to my