Dead or Alive Read Free

mean I might have another nervous breakdown? Only an insane man could withstand these conditions which are clearly designed to make us sane guys crack, but I won’t because I’m ready for you.’
    â€˜I could give you medication for it.’
    â€˜I wasn’t ordered any medication by the court.’
    â€˜It might help.’
    Sep held out both hands which were as steady as rocks. ‘I’m the only one in this place who can do this without shaking, and as far as I can see I’m the only one in this place not on medication. Professor, with respect, you can stick your medication where the monkey shoves his nuts. I don’t want to ever rely on medication. I don’t want to end up like that guy in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
.’
    â€˜You mean McMurphy?’
    â€˜That’s him.’
    â€˜And I suppose I’m Nurse Ratched.’
    â€˜I hope not. But if I do have another breakdown, I don’t want to blame it on my medication – or lack of it. I want to blame it on you.’

THREE
3 March, 6 weeks earlier

7.30 p.m. Allerton Police Station, Leeds
    â€˜T he BFB’s arrived, sir.’
    â€˜Any problems?’
    â€˜Well, he’s a bit overexcited.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜And he’s a big bugger, sir.’
    â€˜Yes, I do know that, John. OK, I’m coming through.’
    Sep pushed his chair back and got to his feet. The detective constable was speaking to him through the partially open door to his boss’s office. He opened it wider so the detective inspector could hear the noise of raised voices. Reception was often unruly on a Friday night, but not this early. This noise wasn’t the usual late-night drunks, they’d be along later. This noise came from one man – a man of self-importance who didn’t want to be there. Despite his loathing of this man of self-importance, Detective Inspector Septimus Black knew it was his job to make sure he was properly dealt with and not unduly roughed up, as sometimes happened to suspected paedophiles, especially one with such a conclusive and sickening weight of evidence against him. The suspect, Cyril Seymour-Johnstone, aka the Big Fat Bastard, was not only a twenty-five-stone man-mountain but he was also a high-profile member of parliament who assumed that his position in society would afford him respectful treatment. But he’d never been in the care of the West Yorkshire Police before.
    â€˜Get your fucking hands off me you shower of shitheads or I’ll have your jobs, the lot of you!’
    â€˜I think he’s had a bit to drink, sir.’
    â€˜Well spotted, John.’
    Sep had no time at all for the BFB, but it was his job to treat him in a manner that would give the man’s lawyers no cause whatsoever to question the legality of his arrest. Johnstone himself had been some sort of legal executive before he’d decided that politics was an easier and surer way to acquire the authority that had always desired. He had a large presence and large mouth with which he made a pretence of defending the working class – or the “lower orders” as he called them behind their backs. Of course when referring to them in public they became the “hard-working voters of this fine city.” People whose votes were easy to pick up because they didn’t grumble much when all his ridiculous shouting on their behalf came to naught, as it invariably did. They felt themselves lucky to have such a high profile character on their side, and failed to see him as an incompetent, pompous, self-serving fool.
    â€˜Calm down, Mr Johnstone. They’re only doing their jobs.’
    â€˜They should be out on the streets chasing real criminals and my name’s
Seymour-
Johnstone.’
    Sep ignored this because he wasn’t in the habit of pandering to pretentious paedophiles.
    â€˜We have good reason to believe you’ve committed many serious crimes, Mr