Smokescreen Chapter 3

There was a quiet knocking on the open cell door. It was Sergeant Patel: with a mug of tea in his hand.

‘How the fuck did you do that?’

‘I bring a camping stove in: got to have a cuppa, Gov.’

‘Bet the Health and Safety Nazis don’t know about that. That would be a four pager.’

‘Yeah… I take it out before 8, that’s why you’re getting it now. Four pager? You’re havin’ a laugh. That twat Smithson’s last risk assessment kept these cells in toilet paper for a week!’

‘Thanks, Jerry.’

Maybe I would put in a word, at that. I looked at my watch; it was 0715. 45 minutes to power. The Assistant Chief Constable; David ‘Elvis’ Pressley, wouldn’t be in until half eight. If Harry pitched up before then, too bad. Those are the breaks, Jerry, I thought. Nice tea, though.

 

Harry came in at about 8.15. I was in the canteen. The TVs were on. One in each corner, all tuned to the single BBC channel. They did well to be able to start programming as the power came on. News: grey men telling us what the government wanted us to know. I’d have thought the presenters were CGI if I’d believed for one minute the BBC could afford such things. Harry sat opposite me. The station was full now: uniforms, WPCs too: since the power situation began, the Federation had insisted it was unsafe for them to work after lights out. No night shifts. I took a deep sniff of the air:

‘Smell that, Harry!’

‘What? I can’t smell anything.’

He looked around, hunting for the source of the non-existent smell.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Remember the smell of the frying food… the cigarette smoke?’

‘Don’t be daft, Ray. I joined the Force in 2003. Of course I don’t remember the smoke. What I wouldn’t give for a full English though, eh?’

‘Yeah…’

The financial bit came on.

‘The Pound is at 40 cents on the Euro this morning, slightly up in expectation of the PM’s speech in the house today. The FTSE broke the 2000 mark for the first time in 2 years today, fuelled by rumours that the PM has a startling announcement on rejoining the EU….’

I tuned it out. We’d rejoin or we wouldn’t. But the electorate would have little or no control over the matter. I asked Harry:

‘Got any Euros?’

‘Yeah, some… pulled a Spanish diplomat in Soho. Arguing over the bill. Didn’t realize that a smoke afterwards was extra. I split his cash with Demetrios.’

‘What, your brother did that willingly, then?’

‘What do you think? His club’d have been shut long ago, without me.’

‘When did you lift someone last, Harry?’ I cocked my head.

‘Nick or send down, for jail time, like?’

‘A real bang-to-rights, minimum of 10 years, take him down,collar?’

‘Dunno… coupla years?’

‘What for?’

‘Paedo. Musician.’

‘Gary Glitter.’ I paused. ‘Gotcha! One… two…

A voice came from over my shoulder:

‘Max Headroom.’

‘Not a musician…’ I turned to look at the voice’s owner.

‘Fraid so. Released a single ’82 ’83 - something like that.’

The ACC, ‘Elvis’ Pressley grinned. I had a dim memory of a TV programme, when I was 10… something apocalyptic in the title.

‘But he wasn’t a real person….Sir!’

‘Who is?’ he said. ‘My office, now. Both of you.’

 

Elvis’ office was on the top floor. A view of the high-rises and smog at our end of town. Could have been the view from any borough, except for theme-park London; the West End, Canary Wharf, Westminster. The City and the Country spent some money there, in the hope of attracting some Euros, now the dollars never came. A good TV was in the corner. Sport now: Chelsea had qualified for UEFA. First British club in Europe for a long, long time. The players were all English now. The super-rich mercenaries had long gone: when the Russian Oligarchs had taken their money to safer havens. Zurich Grasshoppers had won the Champions League 3 times in the last 5 years.

‘Sit down, gentlemen.’

We sat, we waited. Elvis flicked through a pair of very thick personnel files. I didn’t need to guess whose.

‘Umm, you’re probably wondering why I’ve called you in - nothing to worry about, exactly. Just… Anything you’d like to tell me?’

I saw Harry start to open his mouth, a discreet but hard kick silenced him.

‘No… I don’t think so, sir.’

He gave us both a hard look, the avuncular, diffident manner had disappeared.

‘You’d better be very sure about that.’

Elvis stood up. Hands behind the back, the Royal position we called it. Important people walk about like this: it stops them doing inappropriate things with their hands – like putting them in pockets, or smoking a cigarette.

‘Look at this.’ He indicated one of the 20-or-so photos on his vanity wall.

The picture was old. Elvis looked about 30, no uniform. From the car in the background it looked to be about ’93, the year I’d joined the Met. It was just him and some suits, outside a building. The ACC didn’t wait for any reaction, just pointed at another picture:

‘And this.’

Elvis again, more than 10 years later. Most of the suits were the same people. There was a uniformed copper in the photo. Lots of scrambled egg on the hat.

‘Gregory Peck, that one, isn’t it?’ I pointed at the hat.

‘Star of the Boys from Brazil? God he hated that nickname. You’ll notice he’s not in this photograph?’

He’d moved on to the most recent photograph. 8 of the 10 in this one had been in the original, including Elvis and the man Harry and I had had in the interview room last night.

‘Sit down, there’s going to be something interesting on in a minute.’

We swivelled our chairs to look up at the TV in the corner.

‘The scheduled broadcast by the Prime Minister has been cancelled.’

The grey man on the screen was almost showing some animation.

‘We’re going live to Number 10 for a statement from a cabinet office spokesman.’

A man with a piece of paper stood in front of the familiar door with no handle. There were a few microphones in front of him. I wondered which countries this broadcast would actually reach.

‘The Prime Minister was found dead this morning in the Palace of Westminster. A Police Investigation is underway to determine the cause of death. Jackie Carlton, the Foreign Minister will make a further statement in the House today. The British Public are requested to remain calm and we emphasise that it is ‘business as usual, for the time being.’

Elvis clicked the remote. Looked hard at us. I stared back. Harry suddenly found the depressing view fascinating 'You know what's expected, Murray?'

I gave a respectful grunt. He nodded at me; 'I hope so, at least. That’s all.’

And he began flicking through the files again, not seeing a word. Bad luck, Jerry, I thought.

 

Harry and I were in the car. Driving aimlessly. It was about 10 a.m.

‘Let’s have one then.’

‘Have what, Ray?’

‘A fry-up, Full English.’

‘Shaftesbury? You can’t park there, Ray. Not without a dip plate or a tourist’s rental car.’

‘Fuck off, Harry. We’re the law, I wish you’d remember that.’

He didn’t look happy, but he flicked the indicator just the same.