should I say we, tried to put together a convincing case. Kerry said goodbye to me at the doors and after taking my mobile number she drove off, leaving me with my arresting officers.
‘You’re okay getting back to Hove I take it, mate?’ Barnett asked, his voice sweet as he turned and closed the door, shutting me outside with no hint of remorse.
Cursing under my breath, I began the long walk back to the train station, adding Barnett to the mental list I keep of people who will get their comeuppance come judgement day.
Two hours later I was sitting at home in my front room, enjoying the space that I hadn’t refilled since my ex-wife, Lucy, had taken all of the furniture, apart from the sofa and my widescreen TV. I flicked idly through the channels, unable to concentrate on anything in particular as I tried to ignore the frustration that was nagging at me.
They had taken my warrant card before they chucked me out of custody and I felt more than a little naked without it. It had been a constant companion for eight years, a shield that I could use to help people without being dragged through the court system myself. Some use it had turned out to be.
My phone rang for the fourth time since I’d been back and I didn’t even bother to take it out of my pocket, knowing it would be Kev Sands trying to make sure I was okay. I couldn’t face talking to him right then; I felt like I might dissolve into tears if anyone showed me the slightest sympathy.
Eventually the ringing stopped, and I got up to go into the kitchen, tripping over the worn patch in the grey carpet that I kept meaning to get around to replacing. One day. I’d intended to make a cup of tea but one look at the mess I’d left the kitchen in put me off. I’d been working so much recently that I had been literally dumping stuff on the worktops and running and it looked like a group of students had moved in. Dishes and takeaway boxes littered the worktops and the sink was piled high with dirty crockery. Just looking at it depressed me even more. I grabbed my jacket from the end of the banister and headed out, not sure where I was going but needing to get away.
I got into the car and drove on autopilot, fairly unsurprised when I ended up sitting outside my dad’s bungalow on Farm Hill in Woodingdean, where he’s lived alone since my mother died of cancer ten years ago. It’s a pleasant street, set back from the main road and dotted with a mixture of houses and bungalows that stretch up the hill towards the fields that separate the village from the A27.
I got out of the car and crunched up the gravel driveway, hearing Lily – my dad’s German shepherd – begin barking as I intruded on her territory. I walked up the side of the bungalow, past the half-finished shed that has been in that state since before I joined the job, and was greeted at the back gate by a whirling dervish of black-and-tan fur. Lily’s lips were pulled back to show her impressive teeth as she barked and snarled, but we knew each other of old and I knew that she was just showing off. As soon as I was through the gate, she turned the snarls into little yaps as she jumped up, trying to growl and lick my face at the same time.
True to form, my dad was ignoring the noise, trusting Lily to get rid of anyone who wasn’t welcome, no matter how many times I told him to listen to her just in case. I tried the back door handle and found it unlocked. Sometimes I wished that he would get burgled, just so that he’d take a little more care in future.
I kicked Lily’s football up the lawn, and she chased after it, grinding the leather with her back teeth as I walked into the kitchen. It was cleaner than mine and I set about figuring out the coffee machine as my dad finally came in from the front room to see who had invaded.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ he asked, sounding old and tired.
‘Now there’s a story. Let me make coffee and I’ll tell you about it,’ I replied, turning to look at him over my shoulder.
He looked as tired as he sounded and had dark circles under his eyes, presumably from lack of sleep. He isn’t a tall man, only five foot six if he stretches, but he’s stocky, with a belly that has always inspired me to fight my genetics, most of which I have inherited from him. His shock of white hair was sticking out in all directions, the same as it always does, and several days’ worth of snowy stubble made him look older than his sixty years.
‘If you keep growing that beard, you’ll end up looking like Papa Smurf!’ I warned him, as the coffee machine finally yielded to my ministrations and began to make the right noises. ‘You having trouble sleeping still?’
He nodded, moving to the cupboards and getting out a couple of battered but serviceable ceramic mugs. ‘Yeah, I’ve been having the nightmares again.’
‘About Mum?’ She passed away while holding his hand, lying in a hospital bed with dozens of tubes coming out of her and he hasn’t been the same man since. When she died, something indefinable but vital went out of him at the same time. Then my brother Jake, already hooked on heroin, had disappeared without a trace, and it was a wonder the man hadn’t fallen apart completely.
‘Yeah. Anyway don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. What’s your news?’
More and more, my father had begun to live vicariously through me. He still worked when he felt like it, but he had made an absolute mint in the first dotcom explosion and he probably had more money squirreled away than I would earn in ten years. He’s always wanted to be a copper though, ever since he was a lad, and I had honestly thought he would cry with joy the day I passed out of Ashford Training School.
I sighed, dreading telling him my news, not wanting to disappoint him. ‘I think you’d better sit down before I tell you this one, Dad, it’s a biggie.’
He looked at me over the top of his glasses, a warning expression on his face. ‘You can stop treating me like I’m made of glass; I can read the papers as well as the next man. Probably better, seeing as the next man is you.’
I ignored his jibe, swallowing the echo of guilt I felt from having dropped out of my English degree so many years before. Although it has never bothered Dad, I felt like I had let Mum down. She had been so proud when her little boy got into university. Suddenly the words he had used actually registered with my brain. ‘Read the papers? Oh shit!’
He passed a folded copy of The Argus over to me while he took over coffee duty. The headline read, in massive letters:
POLICE OFFICER ARRESTED IN SHOCK ATTEMPTED MURDER EVIDENCE SWITCH!
It went on to explain in the article about the court case and the fact that one of the officers ‘who couldn’t be named for legal reasons’ had been arrested and bailed pending further enquiries. All the other officers in the case were named, and the lack of mine in print was a glaring indication of who they were talking about, to me at least. So much for keeping this one quiet.
‘You could have phoned to see if I was okay,’ I accused my dad, feeling hurt.
‘I did bloody phone you, twice! If you ever looked at the damn thing then maybe you’d know I called!’ he threw back at me as he delivered a steaming mug of coffee that suddenly I didn’t fancy, my stomach heaving as I read the rest of the article.
In a nutshell, it said that the police had screwed up in a case where a police officer had been stabbed and that, because of an evidence blunder, a notorious criminal had walked free.
It’s
