Post Mortem, Gary Bell [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

the truth about jogging, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t also trying to flush his own wares when the police stormed the building.’

‘True,’ she replied, ‘but there’s also a chance he’s being fitted up.’

‘I’m not sure why they would bother. What’s the use in framing one defendant when they have five more bang to rights?’

‘Well, considering we haven’t been working together for half a year yet and we’ve already proven two coppers to be lying headcases, you really reckon it’s so far-fetched that a few more might’ve planted drugs on some black lad from Newham?’

‘Far-fetched?’ I shook my head. ‘No, but not entirely likely either. We did have quite the case last year, but it won’t do you any good to maintain this idea that the police are villains. That was something I saw a lot of growing up, and it didn’t make for a healthy culture. This idea of the working class versus the police. ACAB. You ever heard that?’

‘All coppers are bastards,’ she said. ‘It was scrawled all over the parks when I was a kid.’

‘Yes, you used to see it tattooed across knuckles, mostly in the seventies and eighties. We all hated the police until we needed the police, then it was a case of dial 999 and all is momentarily forgiven. The truth is that there are far more decent coppers than bad. The vast majority are just ordinary people trying to do a little good between paydays.’

She grunted non-committally. The vacuum from my open window was whipping her hair into a frenzy behind her head. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘so where would you start with this?’

I took a measured, thoughtful drag. ‘I’d pay more attention to the raid itself. Were the police prowling the area in anticipation? Did they have a warrant, or did they simply follow Andre Israel on a hunch and end up striking gold? And what did he mean when he said it wasn’t a win for the police?’

‘I’ve no idea. He’s not mentioned anything like that before.’

I looked to my hand; the filter was now cold between my fingers. I tossed it. A mental wave was sweeping all of the disparate details up inside my head and then dropping them back into chronological order like sediment beneath the tide. It was a while before I spoke, and when I did, I was contemplating dates. ‘Even if Andre wasn’t carrying that night … the raid must have placed five verified dealers into Wormwood Scrubs only days before thirteen inmates died, supposedly as a result of tainted drugs.’

I closed my window, quietening the inside of the car. From the corner of my eye, I saw Zara’s hair fall flat with the change in pressure. ‘That’s why you came this afternoon! Your new case has something to do with those deaths from the news, doesn’t it? You sat there implying that any information he gave you could improve his chance of getting bail, but it was just to help with your case?’

‘I don’t believe that my case does have anything to do with those deaths,’ I replied truthfully. ‘Not directly, anyway. But yes, I am defending an employee accused of smuggling drugs into that prison.’

‘Bastard!’ Her fierceness caught me by surprise. ‘Oh, not you. This guard. He’s supposed to be responsible for keeping those inmates safe.’

‘The accused is a woman.’

She groaned. ‘Well, you could’ve told me earlier. You should have. I don’t like being used.’

‘I wasn’t using you. I was worried that my case might prove a little too close to home, all things considered.’

‘Still, it wouldn’t have hurt you to keep me in the loop.’

A moment’s silence followed, and I was relieved when my phone started vibrating in the cup holder between us. ‘Could you check who that is for me?’ I asked.

She did. ‘Landline. London number.’

‘Answer it, won’t you? See what they want.’

She straightened up, cleared her throat rather aggressively, and answered.

‘Hello, this is Elliot Rook’s phone, he’s driving at the moment. Can I take a message?’ She listened in silence while I negotiated the lanes on the carriageway. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong number … That’s right, this is Mr Rook’s phone, but … No. No. No, he definitely doesn’t have a dog.’

My hands clenched around the steering wheel. I glanced across and caught her frowning. Heat spread through my face.

‘Oh,’ she said, her voice flattening out. ‘Oh, I see … Last night, was it? OK, well, I think it might be best if he rings you back, he doesn’t bother to share these things with me, apparently. Is this the number to call …? Victoria Blue Cross. OK, and when you say she’ll be euthanised, what exactly does that –’

‘Wait!’ I blurted. ‘Tell them we can be there in ten minutes.’

We made it in nine.

Zara stared down at the dog for quite some time before speaking.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘I just … I don’t get it.’

‘It’s a blood sport,’ I told her quietly. ‘Werner had been breeding some to fight to the death, and others to sell on as guard dogs.’

‘No, I understand that,’ she muttered. ‘But why did you have to get involved?’

‘It comes back to something a drug dealer called Isaac Reid told me. He’s been convicted of assassinating rivals in Margate, and he wants me to conduct his appeal. His defence was that the place he allegedly burst into was protected by a Dogo Argentino, an extremely rare breed of fighting dog originally from South America. He suggested – and fairly, I thought – that if he’d turned up at a rival’s front door with a knife, as it appears the killer or killers did, he wouldn’t have been welcomed into the property, and he certainly wouldn’t have made it out again without at least a few bite wounds. Last week, Jacob Werner was accused of running fights with similar breeds, so I thought it was worth a look.’

I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets like