involvement?’ asked Sam.
Jimmy paused for a moment, uncertain. ‘What do you mean?’
Sam glanced at Harry. He was still staring, letting him talk.
‘Mr Parsons said “elimination”’,’ said Sam. ‘You said “involvement”’.’
Jimmy King twiddled with a ring on his little finger, a cluster of tiny diamonds glinting. ‘Semantics, Sam.’
‘Semantics convict people.’
Jimmy smiled, but Sam could see that the warmth had gone. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘If I agree to do this, the only people who go are Luke and myself
Jimmy was quiet again, flashing looks at Harry, waiting for guidance. Harry exhaled and then nodded.
‘Wait downstairs,’ said Harry to Jimmy. ‘Ask reception to let you wait in a side room. I’ll just have a talk with Sam first.’
When Jimmy stood up, he looked at Sam and then said quietly, ‘I give my lawyers some leeway because a rude lawyer is often a good lawyer. But I’ll warn you now, if I find out that you are just plain rude, you have made an enemy, whoever your wife is.’ He smiled thinly, his stare hard and direct. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that as an option.’
Sam didn’t say anything as Jimmy left the room.
Harry turned to Sam. ‘What are you playing at?’ He looked angry, his brow furrowed.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sam.
‘You were rude to an old friend of mine. He has been good to this firm, and good to Helena. I expected better.’
‘If I deal with a client, I am in charge. That’s the rule. You taught me it, Harry. If Jimmy King hangs around, he will want to run the case his way.’
‘There isn’t going to be a case.’
‘The parents are always best left out. That’s the right way, isn’t it?’
Harry was quiet. He knew that was his motto. Control. It was all about control. The lawyer had to be in charge, because the line between lawyer and criminal can be a thin one. If the criminal is in charge, he can pull the lawyer over the line with him. No client is worth your career. That had been Harry’s mantra throughout Sam’s training. Don’t run errands, don’t pass on messages, don’t take anything to them. Stay professional and distant.
And parents were the worst of all, because they controlled the client as well. It didn’t matter how old they were, children didn’t tell the truth in front of their parents.
Harry turned away to look out of the window. ‘At least be polite. For your own sake.’
Sam nodded and then turned to leave the room.
Blackley police station was next to the court, so Sam had to run the gauntlet of courthouse drunks and crooks to get there, Luke King tucked in behind him. Sam tried to make conversation, asked him what he did with his life, but Luke didn’t answer.
Sam shrugged and gave up. He had just to advise him, not like him. And the day was getting weird. The old man had been outside the office again, staring at him as he 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
