civility was the last thing on the officer's mind.
“You'll have to go back the way you came. You must be used to shootings by now, living here. You should know the procedure.”
Warren stared at the officer, who slowly reached for the radio receiver that was clipped to his jacket.
“Not going to give me a problem are you, sir?” he said, the officer, his eyes hardening.
“Obstructing a police officer, disorderly conduct, threatening behaviour, there's a million and one reasons why I could have you taken back to the station right now. So why don't you be a good lad and head off back to the main road like I said.”
Warren exhaled slowly. Two uniformed officers were walking towards one of the cars, deep in conversation. One was an inspector. Warren looked at the inspector and then back to the constable. He considered registering a complaint but dismissed the idea. There was no point. The constable continued to stare at Warren contemptuously. Warren forced a grin and winked.
“You have a nice day, yeah?” he said and walked away.
Warren's heart was pounding, but the only visible sign of his anger was the clenching and unclenching of his hands. He would have liked to have confronted the officer, at the very least to have hit back verbally, but he'd long ago learned that such confrontations with authority were pointless. There was nothing he could say or do that would change the way the man behaved. It was best just to smile and walk away, although knowing that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
Three Jamaican teenagers were huddled outside a news agent wrapped up in gunmetal-grey Puffa jackets with gleaming new Nikes on their feet. Warren nodded at the tallest of the youths.
“What's the story, PM?”
PM shrugged carelessly and scratched the end of his nose. His real name was Tony Blair and he'd been given the nickname the day that his namesake was elected to Number 10. A scar stretched from his left ear to halfway across his cheek, a souvenir of a run-in with a group of white football supporters a few years earlier.
“Jimmy T. took a couple of slugs in the back. Should have seen him run, Bunny. Like the fucking wind. Almost made it.”
Warren shook his head sadly. Jimmy T. was a fifteen-year-old runner for one of the area's crack cocaine gangs.
“He okay?”
“He look dead as dead can be.”
“Shit.”
“Shit happens,” said PM.
“Specially to short-changers.”
That what he did?"
“Word is.”
Warren gestured with his chin over at the police investigators.
“You told the Feds?”
PM guffawed and slapped his thigh.
“Sure, man. Told 'em who killed Stephen Lawrence while I was at it.”
All three youths laughed and Warren nodded glumly. Shootings were a regular occurrence in Harlesden, but witnesses were rarer than Conservative Party canvassers at election time.
“You saw who did it?”
“Got eyes.”
Warren looked expectantly at PM. The teenager laughed out loud but his eyes were unsmiling.
“Shit, man, I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you.”
Warren smiled despite himself. He wondered how much PM would have told him if he'd been standing there in a police constable's uniform.
“You look wound up, Bunny-man. You want some puff?”
“Nah, I'm sorted. Gotta get back to the house.”
“You got a chauffeur, Bunny?”
Warren kept smiling but he could feel his heart start to race.
PM couldn't have seen him getting out of the Vectra, so someone must have seen the car picking him up from his house that morning.
“Minicab,” he said.
“Anywhere interesting?”
Warren chuckled at the question.
“Yeah, PM. I could tell you ...” He left the sentence unfinished.
PM guffawed.
“Yeah, but you'd have to kill me,” he said, nodding his head as if to emphasise each word.
Warren made a gun from his right hand and mimed shooting PM in the chest.
“You take care, PM.”
“Back at you, Bunny-man,” laughed PM.
Warren headed back to the main road, his head down,
“You'll have to go back the way you came. You must be used to shootings by now, living here. You should know the procedure.”
Warren stared at the officer, who slowly reached for the radio receiver that was clipped to his jacket.
“Not going to give me a problem are you, sir?” he said, the officer, his eyes hardening.
“Obstructing a police officer, disorderly conduct, threatening behaviour, there's a million and one reasons why I could have you taken back to the station right now. So why don't you be a good lad and head off back to the main road like I said.”
Warren exhaled slowly. Two uniformed officers were walking towards one of the cars, deep in conversation. One was an inspector. Warren looked at the inspector and then back to the constable. He considered registering a complaint but dismissed the idea. There was no point. The constable continued to stare at Warren contemptuously. Warren forced a grin and winked.
“You have a nice day, yeah?” he said and walked away.
Warren's heart was pounding, but the only visible sign of his anger was the clenching and unclenching of his hands. He would have liked to have confronted the officer, at the very least to have hit back verbally, but he'd long ago learned that such confrontations with authority were pointless. There was nothing he could say or do that would change the way the man behaved. It was best just to smile and walk away, although knowing that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
Three Jamaican teenagers were huddled outside a news agent wrapped up in gunmetal-grey Puffa jackets with gleaming new Nikes on their feet. Warren nodded at the tallest of the youths.
“What's the story, PM?”
PM shrugged carelessly and scratched the end of his nose. His real name was Tony Blair and he'd been given the nickname the day that his namesake was elected to Number 10. A scar stretched from his left ear to halfway across his cheek, a souvenir of a run-in with a group of white football supporters a few years earlier.
“Jimmy T. took a couple of slugs in the back. Should have seen him run, Bunny. Like the fucking wind. Almost made it.”
Warren shook his head sadly. Jimmy T. was a fifteen-year-old runner for one of the area's crack cocaine gangs.
“He okay?”
“He look dead as dead can be.”
“Shit.”
“Shit happens,” said PM.
“Specially to short-changers.”
That what he did?"
“Word is.”
Warren gestured with his chin over at the police investigators.
“You told the Feds?”
PM guffawed and slapped his thigh.
“Sure, man. Told 'em who killed Stephen Lawrence while I was at it.”
All three youths laughed and Warren nodded glumly. Shootings were a regular occurrence in Harlesden, but witnesses were rarer than Conservative Party canvassers at election time.
“You saw who did it?”
“Got eyes.”
Warren looked expectantly at PM. The teenager laughed out loud but his eyes were unsmiling.
“Shit, man, I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you.”
Warren smiled despite himself. He wondered how much PM would have told him if he'd been standing there in a police constable's uniform.
“You look wound up, Bunny-man. You want some puff?”
“Nah, I'm sorted. Gotta get back to the house.”
“You got a chauffeur, Bunny?”
Warren kept smiling but he could feel his heart start to race.
PM couldn't have seen him getting out of the Vectra, so someone must have seen the car picking him up from his house that morning.
“Minicab,” he said.
“Anywhere interesting?”
Warren chuckled at the question.
“Yeah, PM. I could tell you ...” He left the sentence unfinished.
PM guffawed.
“Yeah, but you'd have to kill me,” he said, nodding his head as if to emphasise each word.
Warren made a gun from his right hand and mimed shooting PM in the chest.
“You take care, PM.”
“Back at you, Bunny-man,” laughed PM.
Warren headed back to the main road, his head down,
Similar Books
