jail for it.
Synnott began typing his own statement, using just the index finger of each hand. The fact that this was slow had never bothered him. He could type as fast as he could think of what he needed to write. It would take him a couple of days’ writing and revising to get his own statement right.
The DPP’s office wasn’t into idealism. It was no use knowing that someone did something. Prosecute everyone who the police believed had committed a crime and the courts would seize up within a month. Worse than that, the state would look inept when juries threw out cases they couldn’t be sure of, or when judges kicked out evidence without which the case was threadbare.
There would be no case against Max Hapgood Jr without the victim’s own statement and the remarks that Synnott had winkled out of the young man. But the element that would make the file a runner would have to be Synnott’s own account of his inquiries.
Nail down the actus reus , the performance of the criminal act, then stitch in the mens rea , showing that the accused was aware the act was wrong .
Synnott was six paragraphs into the statement when he got a phone call. He glanced at the caller ID and recognised the number of his old station, Turner’s Lane. The voice was young and female and unfamiliar. She wouldn’t give her name. ‘This may be none of my business, but I think you should know.’ Synnott waited. ‘There’s a woman who’s been trying to get in touch, needs to speak to you. Dixie Peyton? She’s in Mountjoy.’
*
They brought Dixie Peyton to a small room in Mountjoy’s administration block to meet Harry Synnott. She looked like she hadn’t seen sunshine for a few months, and if she’d tried sleeping recently it hadn’t taken. No make-up, her eyes sunken, her cheeks thin. She moved to the front of the desk across from Synnott and let the chair catch her as she slumped.
‘I’ve been calling you for two days.’
‘I transferred out of Turner’s Lane. Just heard an hour ago that you were looking for me.’
She examined him like she knew he was lying. Then she looked down at the desk.
‘Can you get me out of here?’
There were lines around her eyes that Harry Synnott didn’t remember being there.
‘Come on, Dixie, this is not shoplifting. A syringe full of blood, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Whatever it takes, I have to get out. Christopher. My kid.’
‘The procedure—’
‘I can give you something.’
‘Not for this, Dixie. Needles and blood, that’s serious stuff.’
‘It wasn’t blood, it was ketchup.’
‘It was a needle. They tell me you scared the shit out of a couple of tourists. You know what that’s like.’
Mug a tourist and if you came up in front of the wrong judge you’d get a far longer sentence that you’d get for the same crime against a native. Judicial sentencing policy wasn’t supposed to give priority to protecting the tourist industry, but some judges didn’t see it that way.
Synnott shrugged. ‘Besides, what could you possibly trade – something this heavy – I’m sorry, love, I’d like to help you.’
He was already leaning back in his chair, the first move towards levering himself to his feet, knowing that the gesture would unsettle her enough to speed things up.
‘I want money, too.’ The pitch of her voice was higher.
Synnott smiled. ‘And a cherry on top. Come on, love, you’re not exactly dealing from a position of strength.’
‘I want five hundred.’
Synnott put his hands flat on the table. In the years he’d known Dixie Peyton, she’d given him four good tips that had led to arrests and convictions, another half-dozen that helped foul up criminal projects and a dozen scraps that hadn’t taken him very far. Some informants were one-offs, the product of an arrest and panic, ready to sell whatever and whoever they could in the hope that it would ease the weight coming down on them. Others, like Dixie Peyton, were there or thereabouts among the
Synnott began typing his own statement, using just the index finger of each hand. The fact that this was slow had never bothered him. He could type as fast as he could think of what he needed to write. It would take him a couple of days’ writing and revising to get his own statement right.
The DPP’s office wasn’t into idealism. It was no use knowing that someone did something. Prosecute everyone who the police believed had committed a crime and the courts would seize up within a month. Worse than that, the state would look inept when juries threw out cases they couldn’t be sure of, or when judges kicked out evidence without which the case was threadbare.
There would be no case against Max Hapgood Jr without the victim’s own statement and the remarks that Synnott had winkled out of the young man. But the element that would make the file a runner would have to be Synnott’s own account of his inquiries.
Nail down the actus reus , the performance of the criminal act, then stitch in the mens rea , showing that the accused was aware the act was wrong .
Synnott was six paragraphs into the statement when he got a phone call. He glanced at the caller ID and recognised the number of his old station, Turner’s Lane. The voice was young and female and unfamiliar. She wouldn’t give her name. ‘This may be none of my business, but I think you should know.’ Synnott waited. ‘There’s a woman who’s been trying to get in touch, needs to speak to you. Dixie Peyton? She’s in Mountjoy.’
*
They brought Dixie Peyton to a small room in Mountjoy’s administration block to meet Harry Synnott. She looked like she hadn’t seen sunshine for a few months, and if she’d tried sleeping recently it hadn’t taken. No make-up, her eyes sunken, her cheeks thin. She moved to the front of the desk across from Synnott and let the chair catch her as she slumped.
‘I’ve been calling you for two days.’
‘I transferred out of Turner’s Lane. Just heard an hour ago that you were looking for me.’
She examined him like she knew he was lying. Then she looked down at the desk.
‘Can you get me out of here?’
There were lines around her eyes that Harry Synnott didn’t remember being there.
‘Come on, Dixie, this is not shoplifting. A syringe full of blood, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Whatever it takes, I have to get out. Christopher. My kid.’
‘The procedure—’
‘I can give you something.’
‘Not for this, Dixie. Needles and blood, that’s serious stuff.’
‘It wasn’t blood, it was ketchup.’
‘It was a needle. They tell me you scared the shit out of a couple of tourists. You know what that’s like.’
Mug a tourist and if you came up in front of the wrong judge you’d get a far longer sentence that you’d get for the same crime against a native. Judicial sentencing policy wasn’t supposed to give priority to protecting the tourist industry, but some judges didn’t see it that way.
Synnott shrugged. ‘Besides, what could you possibly trade – something this heavy – I’m sorry, love, I’d like to help you.’
He was already leaning back in his chair, the first move towards levering himself to his feet, knowing that the gesture would unsettle her enough to speed things up.
‘I want money, too.’ The pitch of her voice was higher.
Synnott smiled. ‘And a cherry on top. Come on, love, you’re not exactly dealing from a position of strength.’
‘I want five hundred.’
Synnott put his hands flat on the table. In the years he’d known Dixie Peyton, she’d given him four good tips that had led to arrests and convictions, another half-dozen that helped foul up criminal projects and a dozen scraps that hadn’t taken him very far. Some informants were one-offs, the product of an arrest and panic, ready to sell whatever and whoever they could in the hope that it would ease the weight coming down on them. Others, like Dixie Peyton, were there or thereabouts among the
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