Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(84)
‘Ashes to Ashes, great. And you’re what? Keeley Hawes?’
‘I suppose.’
‘But in black face.’
‘Hey! Hey!’
‘Hey what?’
‘Why are you giving me such a hard time?’
Karen shook her head and sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, I–’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Well, I am …’
‘Pleased for me and well, I guess, pleased ‘cause of what it is. You know, someone – well, someone like you … Oh, you know what I mean.’
‘A positive role model?’
‘Yes.’
‘If that’s what it turns out to be.’
‘At least, give it a chance.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s just …’
‘Just what?’
Karen shrugged.
‘Not a great time, you think, for being a role model for women of colour. Out in the real world, that is.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
The operation to arrest the suspects identified in the killing of Hector Prince had been carried out that morning. Five addresses in the Wood Green area raided, one hundred and fifty front-line officers involved, thirty of them armed, with three teams of firearms officers in reserve. As things had played out, there was considerable local resistance, in the course of which seven officers were injured, one seriously, when a length of stone coping was thrown from the ninth-floor balcony of a block of flats. When the ambulance arrived to provide assistance, it was attacked with bricks and bottles and, in one instance, a home-made firebomb.
Media comparisons were made to the killing of PC Keith Blacklock on the Broadwater Farm Estate back in ’85. The Sun, Mirror, Sky News, all had a field day.
In a different situation, the spectacle of Mike Ramsden, blood running like a dark zigzag down his face from where a chunk of brick had torn his forehead, seizing the microphone from some hapless young reporter and telling her to stick it up her scrawny arse, might have been one to cherish. As it was, for Ramsden a sore head and a serious reprimand were in order, with Karen, as his senior officer, not exempt from the latter.
And what proliferated were accusations of black mob rule.
No, not a great time.
‘I’m sorry,’ Karen said, ‘and it’s great, you’re right.’ Leaning across, she gave Carla a hug. ‘And I am really pleased for you, okay?’
‘You better be. ’Cause once this show gets rolling, it’s you I’ll be relying on for on-the-spot research. You realise that? In fact, why don’t I see about getting you taken on as some kind of special adviser? You’d be perfect.’
‘Thanks, Carla.’ Karen held up both hands. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘We’ll see.’
Leaning back, Carla sampled one from a nicely overpriced dish of salted anchovies. Karen looked around for the waiter, refills needed.
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘if you’re the black in this, who’s the white?’
‘The guy?’
‘Yeah, the guy.’
‘They’re not sure. A lot of names, but nothing yet nailed down.’
‘Names, like who?’
‘Oh, Damian Lewis, that was one. And that guy from The Wire, the cop, you know?’
‘McNulty?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘The Irish one?’
‘Yes, but he’s not Irish. Well, his mother was, I think. But he’s English. Went to Eton. How much more English can you get?’
‘You’d never know it.’
Carla smiled. ‘Nothing’s what it seems, girlfriend. You should know that by now.’
Karen thought she was probably right. After one more round, the sound around them rising up to the high ceilings and reverberating back down, they decided to call it a night. Go their separate ways.
Her head less than clear and nursing the beginnings of what might be a hangover, halfway towards Holborn station Karen hailed a cab. When she alighted outside her flat some fifteen minutes later, there was a car she didn’t recognise parked a little way down, someone in shadow behind the wheel.
Karen hesitated, thought for a moment about going over, banging on the car window, showing her warrant card, but why bother? Just someone sleeping it off.
Fishing her keys from her bag, she went, without hurrying, up the steps towards the front door. As the key turned in the lock she heard the sound of a car door closing, steps approaching.
‘Thought you were never coming home. Thought I’d be stuck there all night.’
Alex. Alex Williams. Holding what looked suspiciously like a bottle of single malt.
53
‘Auchentoshan.’
‘What?’
‘How you say it, apparently. Aw-ken-tosh-an. At least, that’s what the guy in Oddbins told me.’
‘And he’d know.’
‘Doubt if he’s been north of Luton in his life.’
Karen had fetched two glasses; tumblers, but heavy bottomed enough to be close to the real thing.
There was a standard lamp with a shade in an odd colour of lime green in one corner; a small anglepoise on one of the shelves near the stereo. The curtains were drawn across, shutting out the London night.