Mr. Swan was dead, his killer on the loose, Ken had been wrongly accused of his murder and now slept under coarse blankets, Ron and Daphne's ambitions had been shattered and they lived in fear, Jill's family lie in ruins. But we content ourselves with small blessings. A good lawyer was now onto the case, Jill had a job, the Kavanagh family was back together. Things were looking up.
Things just didn't add up. Dr. Flynch had spread the photos of Mr. Swan's corpse over his desk, along with the police file photos of Miss Catherine Prior, post attack. The gore was reflected in miniature on his thick lenses. He would dearly have liked a few photos of Paul staggering into Nutswood, too, but alas no such documentary evidence existed. Something was missing, or perhaps even somethings, in plural. He was more and more convinced that Sam Kavanagh was not responsible for the rape of that poor girl. The profile didn't fit, and he would be prepared to defend that in court if necessary. The same went for Ken Kavanagh. He was sure that Ken was incapable of such premeditated murder. You don't kill a man in cold blood then blithely go back to work without an alibi.
So Sam Kavanagh had to be found. Or at least the real sexual offender had to be unearthed. Then he had to come up with Mr. Swan's real killer to be able to clear Ken. Put like that it also sounded ridiculous. Here were two crimes, violent crimes, wrongly attributed to members of the same family. Highly unlikely. Although to be fair Sam had never actually been accused of anything other than disappearing. In fact it had been Dr. Flynch himself who had rekindled the rumours about his possible implication. So perhaps we had two different cases after all. Miss Prior may simply have been a coincidence. But Mr. Eagle was certainly dead, just look at the snapshots, and Ken Kavanagh had been arrested and accused of his murder. He sighed and flitted through the photos once more, hoping that he would suddenly see, as they do at the cinema, something nobody else had seen before, and 'zap', the case would be solved. With just twenty four hours to go. Phew! Unfortunately Dr. Flynch's reality was much the same as everyone else's and he saw nothing new.
He was reluctant to contact Jill. They had become 'friends' over the last few months. He had invited her to his office on various occasions and shown her his collection. Again, that is not a euphemism. Still he found himself growing fond of her. She was an attractive woman, to him, and he knew the home front was not exactly a bed of roses. She seemed to find him attractive too, though perhaps on a more intellectual level. Either way they both suspected that, had they met under different circumstance, in a different age, in a parallel world, perhaps, well, who knows? Or at least that is what he imagined. But now she was the wife, albeit separated de facto, of a presumed murderer. He should not be seen liaising with her, it would only be fodder for the prosecution. If he wanted to maintain his reputation for independence, and that was indeed his intention, he would have to steer well clear of Mrs. Jill Kavanagh. So he sent her an SMS.
Bobby Hornsby had a future in long term institutions, but for the time being was about as mad and as violent as you can be without being locked away. Basically because he hadn't been caught yet. Naturally he'd been in trouble often enough, had been through his probation and asbos, but that was all under age stuff, the modern equivalent of caning, and about as successful. Bobby Hornsby was an 'acquaintance' of Danny Morton's, as you can't be 'friends' with someone like that. Bobby Hornsby would cross the street and punch you to the ground because for some reason or other your walking along that stretch of pavement at that time of day offended him, made him see red. Bobby Hornsby hated everyone, including his Mum, starting with his Mum, which in a boy just ain't right.
Chris Morton couldn't stand him, he considered him a bad influence on his kids. He had warned them to give this nutter a wide berth, though he also knew that if Bobby decided to 'befriend' you it was difficult to avoid his bear hug. To Chris Morton people like Bobby Hornsby gave violence a bad name. Aggression was a tool to be used as a means to an end. If he thumped Danny's head against the wall it was to glean information. It was not done for fun. If he caught Catherine's attacker and ripped off his bollocks it was in revenge, it was not light entertainment. But this Bobby. He'd beat you to death for the hell of it. Or for a packet of fags. Or because it was Wednesday. He was dangerous, mad, out of control, an ill wind.
He had no racial awareness either, and would hang around with blacks and Pakis and god knows who else. Anyone who would put up with him, or didn't know how to get rid of him. And he was just too hairy, had far too much hair, his thick black hair sprouted out of his head just above his thick black eyebrows. The bastard would never go bald, which to Mr. Morton with his receding hairline was provocation.
But that was beside the point. What Chris really needed to know was - what the fuck was this maniac doing knifing that Swanny bloke? The kids explained.
Both Danny and Tommy had recruited help for their harassment campaign against Paul's headquarters and Ron's house. They were the kids from school, their mates, their neighbours. They'd let sister Laura in too, but had warned her for her own good not to tell anyone, because she was a girl, and too young, and needed their protection. They were good brothers. Laura grinned as she sensed her father's pride at her precociousness. Unfortunately Bobby Hornsby had found out about it and wanted to take part too. What could they do? At first he had joined in just like another member, ringing the door bell and running with the rest of them. But then he had got out of hand. He'd pushed dogshit through Ron's letterbox. He had hurled a rock at Paul's window which somehow hadn't broken. He had wanted to lie in wait for the sect members and beat them up. The other kids were at a loss what to do, because if Bobby got out of hand they would all end up in trouble, and most of them couldn't afford that, not again. But nobody in their right mind would say- 'Listen Bobby, we don't want to call too much attention to ourselves. We want to maintain a low profile here. The idea is to ruffle their feathers without getting caught, without going too far, ok?' They were all young and did not wish to be disfigured and spend the rest of their lives in a wheelchair. Ah, how many times had Father Morton warned them of the company they keep. Then to everyone’s relief he suddenly stopped turning up. They all thought he'd had enough and had moved on to cat hanging or old lady beating. Two days later Mr. Swan was stabbed to death. Bobby had shown Danny the knife, the same one he'd used to slash Ron's tyres. The idiot refused to throw it away because it had been his uncle's or something. The only good thing to come of it was that Bobby Hornsby now felt he had done enough. He had lead the way, was the hero, the man of the moment. He would be followed and respected. Now he could leave the 'kids' to their childish games, could move on to find something better to do with his valuable time. They hadn't seen him since.
Chris Morton dismissed his troops and ordered an end to all hostilities for the time being. Events had moved on too quickly of late and he needed time to regroup and revise his strategy. Anyway, he had a sneaking suspicion that if he was crafty enough this Bobby Hornsby incident might even turn out to be a stroke of luck.
The Burton police are owed an apology. It was not kind to call them 'dickheads'. Given the circumstantial evidence at hand they could not very well have left Kenneth Kavanagh at large. They were virtually forced by events to arrest him and charge him with the murder of Mr. Eagle. That does not mean however that they necessarily believed him to be the culprit. At first they had just been doing their job, and had sincerely hoped for a swift end to it all. They had wanted Ken to be guilty. But now they were not so sure. After questioning his workmates, his friends, his family, after heaven knows how many cross examinations, they tended to agree more and more with Dr. Flynch. Call it a hunch, a gut feeling if you will, but the more time went by, the less they considered K. (as he was fittingly referred to in their internal notes) capable of committing such an atrocity. His defence lawyer Quigley had quickly come to the same conclusion, much to everyone's relief, and he was convinced that Kenneth would eventually walk free from this hastily put together accusation. He would be proven innocent.
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Not that the media or the general public could care less one way or the other, they were having fun reaching their own verdicts. It was like a game. You had to pass judgement on the evidence you were given. You could pick and choose which evidence you considered relevant to the case – snippets of information gleaned from press reports, quotes from unnamed sources, what you heard on a radio debate. Personal theories did not need solid proof either, and would be taken into consideration at the time of passing sentence. There was no need to beware of slander or false testimony, neither you nor your witnesses would be thrown out of court. You could harangue and jeer, insult and smear to your heart's content because you were both judge and jury, prosecution and defence, guardian angel and warder. You were The Voice of Experience, hardened through a lifetime of TV detective series and movie murder plots. You knew how the human mind works, what makes a villain tick. You had it all on file.
You put down your coffee cup and wipe your mouth on a serviette, you want to sum it all up, but to avoid saying something cliché like 'I rest my case', you choose something less pretentious, more layman. Mark my words, you say.
Parallel trial. The idea was driving Ronald insane. He didn't want to know what the papers said, what the TV made of it all, if Paul's gonads had been found or not, but at the same time he could not stop buying newspapers, soaking up the news on the hour, scouring the web for the latest gossip. He claimed that all this nonsense, this, this, bullshit, left him speechless, which was not true, as Carlton the security guard could confirm. Ron may have lost his verve, his drive, his keen initiative, but he certainly had not lost his desire to play to a crowd, albeit a crowd of one.
Codswallop! The nerve of it! Where do they get this stuff? Christ, it's enough to make you, you... They've been nosing around the old school for god's sake. What are they going to do, eh? Ask old Moseley if we played truant? Stole a magnet in the third year, did you, smoked behind the bike stands? Eh? Carlton. What do you make of that? Journalism? Fucking shit stirrers.
'Fucking' he almost whispered. It was audible, but only to those with a keen or lurid ear. It took the edge off it, made it sound less common. Sometimes, if he really fancied a rant, he would change the 'f' for a 'p' and slag off the whole pucking lot of them.
Impassive. That was Carlton, Carlton Wallace. He listened in a gentlemanly way, he nodded, every so often he arched his eyebrows ever so slightly, as if changing his facial expression was reserved for more tragic circumstances. He didn't laugh, or show anger, or make comments of any kind. Which to Ron was a challenge.
When Mr. C. Wallace had first been assigned to the Kavanaghs, they had decided to maintain a strictly professional attitude whilst in his presence. There was no need for the security guard to be informed of their personal family life. He was there to perform his duty. Full stop. But as time passed, and it had been over two weeks now, Ron had started to appeal to Carlton's more sensitive side, his heart, his soul. By hook or by crook Ron would crack that man's mask, get a snort out of him, a cackle, a hoot, anything.
‘Mr. Wallace. How would you feel, I mean feel, deep down, if you had a brother in prison who was wrongfully accused of a crime he had not committed? What would you do? How could you come to terms with it, with all this mire, grime, filth?’
Impassive.
‘Eh? Carlton? Your father maligned?’
Impassive.
Daphne had felt a little uncomfortable at Mr. Wallace's posting, especially the first few days. It was a question of contact more than anything. There had been an Asian girl at school once, but she was not in her year. She hadn't noticed it at first, but over the years she had come to realise that her life up to now had been extraordinarily, shall we say, mono ethnic. Carlton on the other hand was what she had referred to as an Afro-European, which was awkward, because although she did not consider either herself or her husband to be racist, she was all too aware of the fact that she may be accused of being so. Some of their friends were racially prejudiced, it was true. John and Catherine for instance had lived in Africa for many a year, too long probably, and couldn't help but refer to those of African descent as 'our coloured brethren', said with raised eyebrows and a 'knowing' look It was not a feeling that she shared. Therefore she had to pre-empt any suggestion of that ilk. She had learnt through her social work that simply ignoring the issue would not do at all, you can't pretend you haven't noticed. After all, if someone is blind, they know full well they are, and they know that you know, so the best thing to do is be natural. Although it isn't always that easy. It's like being surrounded by jockeys and saying daft things like 'his house was so small', or 'he had such a tiny car'. Perfectly innocent sentences not meant to harm, but... Context. Taken out of context and used against you. Dreadful situation. Not that being of African descent can be classed as a disability, she wouldn't like us to think that. That is not what she meant at all. And naturally she had nothing against jockeys, either. It was rather that, well, his being a different colour, and quite obviously so, quite blatantly..., and now that you can't say 'black' or 'coloured' any more, well, you just had to watch your tongue, be very careful not to indirectly, unconsciously offend. Which is easier said than done, because Quigley's car was black, and it does get dark very early these days. And some people seem only too ready to take offence, seem to enjoy others' discomfort, are always ready to play the victim. She decided she would call him Mr. Wallace. She would be polite but distant, be her middle class self, that way she could avoid the pitfalls of presumed discrimination.
Carlton, born and bred just on the other side of town, had spotted it, was not in the least surprised, it was written into the address - these little isolated pockets existed all over the nation. She seemed to want to scream 'for heaven's sake I am not a racist, I don't mind, I don't care, I judge not. But you are black' and it had irritated him. For the first few days he had remained aloof, impenetrable almost, and this had made her feel flustered and ill at ease. But after the first week he had decided to give her a break, as she was clearly distraught. Anyway, he thought she suffered enough having a husband like Ronald.
As always Mr. Ronald Kavanagh was immaculately dressed . He was unable to don a track suit or loll about in pyjamas even if he had absolutely nothing to do all day – some habits never die. Except that today he had a full agenda, and was expecting Dennis Quigley to arrive at any moment, fresh back from another fact finding mission at the provincial prison. Daphne was in the study, phoning around, putting people in touch with people, in an attempt to put together a juicy contract for Quigley and Woo Associates, which they could then use to 'negotiate', thereby keeping down their own personal legal costs. Another arm and a leg and Ron would be limbless.
Dennis Quigley arrived punctually, at 12.30, as planned. He parked the car whose colour Daphne could no longer name and picked his way nimbly up the drive. He was plump, with short legs, but dainty feet which seemed far too small for him, so that when he walked he seemed rather to dance, giving him a slightly camp air which had confused more than one. Carlton opened the door and showed him through to the lounge where Ron stood eagerly. They whizzed through the normal formalities, grunting 'good afternoon' and the like, then settled down into their respective places, a seating arrangement set on his very first visit and upheld ever since. The comfort of routine.
Ron admired Quigley as a lawyer, but was appalled by his appearance. His shirt and suits were always too tight, accentuating his stoutness, and the design was neither here nor there, neither old-fashioned nor modern, neither shabby nor smart. Nondescript. And his hair. It looked as if someone had smeared his bald head with glue then stuck his head in a bucket of gingery fluff. It was thin and wispy, with no defined style. He was pale, too, overly so, and appeared unwell, giving the impression that he was a creature who had adapted to his surroundings, whose features had evolved over the years to better suit his dress sense. In short he looked untidy, therefore unprofessional, thereby fooling us all.
They
were about to begin when Daphne entered. She threw a glance at her husband which said 'I hope you weren't thinking of starting without me'. Of course not dear, he smiled back weakly. As if he'd dare. She took her place.
Her presence unsettled the two men. That mauve dress with a silver belt, her heavily lacquered hair, a waft of a familiar perfume they couldn't name, round beady eyes shaded in blue, her tight, no nonsense mouth. She came from a world of unfathomable taste and fashion, of infinite subtle decisions of colour and design. Pearls or chain? Long sleeves or cardigan? Important choices had to be made, the wrong shoe, smudged lipstick, ill matching accessories could spell disaster . So much easier to stick to collar and tie. What drove her to hide behind so much make up, to spend so much time time worrying about what to wear? To please them? To make herself attractive? Surely not. Did she think this was carnival or something? What point was she trying to make, and why couldn't they ever grasp it?