Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two Read Free Page B

not, don’t care who knows, but I don’t want Louise to know and now I can’t keep little Bobby’s face out of my mind.
I turn and say, ‘Tonight’s not the night. Save it for later.’
For once he takes my advice and I go back to the window, him to the road, steeling ourselves.
Millgarth Police Station.
Ten o’clock going on the Middle Ages.
Live from my own Dark Ages:
Down the stairs into the dungeons, keys and locks turning, chains and cuffs rattling, dogs and men barking.
Let the Witch Trials begin:
DI Rudkin’s in his shirtsleeves and crop at the end of the white heat/white light corridor.
‘Good of you to join us,’ he smirks.
Ellis, pinched face and itching palms, nods in apology.
‘Bob Craven all right, is he?’
‘Yeah, cuts and bruises,’ gabbles Ellis.
I say, ‘Got anything?’
‘Full house tonight.’
‘Anything concrete?’
‘Maybe,’ he winks. ‘And you?’
‘Same as before: the Irish, the taxi driver, and Mr Dave Cortina.’
‘Right then,’ says Rudkin. ‘In here.’
He opens a cell door and it’s, aw fuck .
‘One of yours yeah, Bob?’
‘Yeah,’ I mouth, stomach gone.
They’ve got Kenny D, Spencer Boy, in his cheap checked underpants bent back over the table in the Black Christ Hold: head and back pinned down against the wood, arms outstretched, feet splayed, cock’n’balls open to the world.
Rudkin shuts the door.
The whites of Kenny’s eyes are on their stalks, straining to see who’s come into his upside-down hell.
He sees me and takes it in: five white coppers and him: Rudkin, Ellis, and me, plus the two uniforms holding him down.
‘Spot of routine questioning was all it was,’ laughs Rudkin. ‘Only Sambo here, he’s got a bit of a guilty conscience and decides to be the black Roger fucking Bannister.’
Kenny is staring up at me, teeth locked in pain.
The door opens behind me, then closes. I glance round. Noble’s got his back against the door, watching.
Rudkin smiles at me and says, ‘Been asking for you, Bob.’
My mouth’s dry and cracks when I ask, ‘Has he said anything else?’
‘That’s just it, isn’t it lads,’ Rudkin laughs along with the two uniforms. ‘You want to tell DS Fraser here, why it was you wanted to have a word with Sambo in first place?’
One of the uniforms, champing for his leg up, gushes, ‘Found some of his gear round number 3 Francis Street.’
He pauses, letting it sink in:
Mrs Marie Watts of 3 Francis Street, Leeds 7 .
‘And then he denies even knowing the late Mrs Marie Watts,’ crows Rudkin.
I’m standing in the cell, walls closing in, the heat and stink rising, thinking, aw fuck Kenny .
‘I’ve told him,’ says Rudkin, ‘I’m going to add some blue to that black skin of his if he doesn’t start giving us some answers.’
Down on the table, Kenny closes his eyes.
I bend down, my mouth to his ear. ‘Tell them,’ I hiss.
He keeps his eyes closed.
‘Kenny,’ I say, ‘these men will fuck you up and no-one will give a shit.’
He opens his eyes, straining to stare into mine.
‘Stand him up,’ I say.
I go over to the far wall opposite the door; there’s a newspaper cutting taped to the grey gloss paint.
‘Bring him closer.’
They bring him in, eyeball to the wall.
‘Read it, Kenny,’ I whisper.
There’s blood on his teeth as he reads aloud the headline: ‘No action against policemen over detainee’s death.’
‘You want be the next fucking Liddle Towers?’
He swallows.
‘Answer me.’
‘NO!’ he screams.
‘So sit down and start talking,’ I yell, pushing him down into the chair.
Noble and Rudkin are smiling, Ellis watching me closely.
I say, ‘Now Kenny, we know you knew Marie Watts. All we want to know first is how come your fucking stuff was at her place?’
His face is puffed up, his eyes red, and I hope he’s fucking smart enough to know I’m his only friend here tonight.
At last he says, ‘I’d lost me key, hadn’t I?’
‘Come on, Kenny. It’s not fucking Jackanory.’
‘I’m telling you. I’d taken some stuff from my cousins and I lost my key and Marie says it was all right to dump it at