Page 34 of Copper Script
“Dealing with protection rackets really isn’t as easy as it might seem, largely because the perpetrators tend to be good at intimidating witnesses,” Aaron said.“It takes a brave man to give evidence and stick to his story.As to bribery and corruption...”He paused, organising his thoughts, or perhaps his feelings.“It does happen.I don’t know of it happening in King’s Cross, or with the Sabini gang, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t.If the word on the street includes a name you can tell me—in strict confidence—I’ll act on it.”
“Really?”Wildsmith said, and then, “Yes.I dare say you would.”
“I—we—would have to.Policing is a contract.The public agrees to give people like me the power to ask impertinent questions, give orders, or even deprive people of their liberty, under a strict set of laws and circumstances and restrictions that govern our behaviour.If we don’t respect our part of the contract, the public can’t be expected to respect theirs.And if the public decides that the police don’t deserve to be obeyed, or that we don’t serve a useful purpose—well, you considerably outnumber us.Corrupt police officers don’t just harm individuals, they strike at the rule of law and the structure of society.”
Wildsmith was looking at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.Aaron felt suddenly self-conscious.“You don’t agree?”
“I agree entirely.I didn’t think that was the Met’s view.Don’t you get dismissed for calling attention to your colleagues’ wrongdoing?”
Aaron sent a malevolent thought in the direction of Sir William Horwood.“Our current Commissioner thinks he’s defending the Force by refusing to hear a bad word against it, still less act on what he hears.It’s not just morally wrong but tactically stupid.Look at my trial, the one I mentioned.If the man on the street believes that King’s Cross is in the pay of the Sabinis, then so will the man in the jury box.So Dapper Melkin’s brief felt it was a reasonable tactic to suggest undue influence, so that got reported in the papers, and now my reputation is stained, the newspaper-reading public has seen that idea floated about, and everyone’s trust in the police is eroded a little more.It’s a damn fool way to go on.Far better to cut out rot before it spreads.”
“You feel passionately about this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It suits you,” Wildsmith said with a little, genuine smile, and Aaron felt the breath rush out of him at that.“They do all sorts of cakes and puddings here if you have a sweet tooth, but there’s a pub on the corner.Can I buy you a pint?Tribute to an honest copper?”
There were a thousand reasons to say no.“Maybe just a quick one.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JOEL BROUGHT THE THIRDround back from the bar.Fowler had offered to help, which was nice, Joel supposed, except that as a self-respecting Englishman he would need a lot fewer arms before he admitted he couldn’t carry two pints.
It might have been a bit rash to suggest a third round.Or the first drink.Or, in fact, the meal.Possibly, and he wasn’t going to rush to a decision on this one butpossiblyhe was being a little reckless by behaving in a way that might be interpreted as flagrantly pursuing a Detective Sergeant.Some people might even call it near-suicidal stupidity.
On the other hand, Fowler had those liquid eyes, and when his mouth relaxed it was truly something special, and Joel had read his hand.
He responded differently to different hands, for reasons he couldn’t even identify, still less explain.Sometimes he got a vague, surface sense of a few traits, sometimes a deeper feeling of understanding.Sometimes, even, it was a powerful emotional response, or a bone-deep certainty, as if he could taste or smell the person.He’d never been hit with a wave of desire until Fowler.
It was absurd.You couldn’t get hot for handwriting.And yet he had, a response deep in the flesh, squeezing his lungs and tightening his groin.He’d sunk into the hand and felt all that discomfort and self-control to the point of pain and those bottled-up longings, and he’d wanted nothing more than to pop the writer’s cork.
It had been a bit of a bitch to realise that the writer was the aforesaid Detective Sergeant but, Joel felt with the confidence of a man two pints in, nothing was insuperable.
He made his way through the groups of drinkers and talkers, and deposited Fowler’s pint of bitter before taking his own from where his left arm clamped it to his side.
“Thanks,” Fowler said.“This is the last one, though.I’ve work tomorrow.”
