He sighed. “I’ve got five witnesses saying he came at them like a madman, pushing them and shoving them, and that he punched
I caught my breath. “What happened?”
“Just a split lip. He says one of the photographers swung his camera at him; the photographer says Mr. Carmichael tried to head butt him and the camera got in the way.”
I shook my head incredulously. “This is outrageous. Some scummy paparazzo smacks Donovan in the face with a camera then turns round and says he started on them? And Don’s the one facing charges? What has Gloria got to say about all this?”
The sergeant’s lips compressed in a thin line. “We’ve not been able to contact her yet.”
“I bet she’ll have plenty to say. Not least about the fact that this whole thing happened because one of your colleagues decided to leak confidential evidence in a murder inquiry to the press. Evidence which has already been totally discredited,” I said bitterly.
Ruth leaned forward. “There is, of course, one way to make all of this go away. You can let my client go without charge. Give him police bail if you must. He’s not going anywhere. He’s a student at Manchester University, he lives at home with his mother and sister, he has no criminal record and he has a part-time job with Ms. Brannigan. I’m certain that once Ms. Kendal has outlined the real course of events you’ll realize the only charge that should be brought is one of wasting police time, and not against my client. What do you say, Sergeant? Shall we all have an early night?”
He rubbed a hand over his chin and cocked his head on one side. “And if I do what you suggest, it’ll be all over the papers that we let a black mugger walk free.”
“Probably,” Ruth agreed. “But that’s a story that will be history by the weekend, whereas a racial harassment action will rumble on for a very long time. Especially one that’s supported by Gloria Kendal.”
“And the Manchester Evening Chronicle,” I added. “Donovan’s mother is a very close friend of the Chronicle’s crime correspondent, Alexis Lee. They love a good campaign at the Chron.”
He smiled, a genuine look of relief in his eyes. “You talked me into it, ladies. Between ourselves, I never saw it the way the journalists were telling it. For one thing, a lad built like your client would have done a hell of a lot more damage if he’d had a serious go. But what can you do? You’ve got witnesses saying one thing and not much evidence pointing the other way. At least now I can let you take Mr. Carmichael home secure in the knowledge that I’ve got good reasons to put in front of my inspector.” He got to his feet. “If you’d just wait there a minute, I’ll get it sorted.”
He left us alone to exchange gobsmacked looks. “I’d always heard the police out here were a law unto themselves, but I didn’t think that’d ever work in my favor,” I said faintly.
“I know,” Ruth said, sounding somewhat baffled. “I must tell all my clients to make a point of getting arrested in Oldham.”
“I can’t believe that scumbag Jackson,” I said.
“You’ll never nail him on it. He’ll have got one of his minions to do the dirty work. Go after Jackson and you’ll probably end up with Linda Shaw’s head on a stick.” Ruth leaned back in her seat and lit one of her long slim cigarettes. “By the way, I made those inquiries you suggested about Pit Bull Kelly’s dog. Dennis has no marks anywhere on his body that correspond to dog bites. And the dog himself showed no signs of having been in a fight. Care to tell me where this is going?”
“I’ve got Gizmo working on something. An idea I had. It came from a case I read about on the Internet a while back. An American case. I’d rather wait till I’ve got something concrete to show you, because it sounds so totally off the wall.”
Ruth gave me the hard stare, but she could see I wasn’t going to budge. “How long?”
“Probably tomorrow? I’ll need you to set up a meeting with DI Tucker. Preferably at my office. I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Is that OK?”
“The sooner the better,” Ruth said. “Normally, Dennis takes custody in his stride, but this time he’s not handling it well. Probably because he’s genuinely innocent,” she added drily.
The door opened and Sergeant Mumby stuck his head into the
I left Donovan climbing reverently into the Bentley, Ruth promising to drop him at his girlfriend’s so we could avoid letting his mother know about his latest brush with the law. I looked at the dashboard clock and realized there was no point in going home. Richard would have eaten the Chinese; it takes more than irritation at being stood up to disturb his appetite. Then, if habit held, he’d have decided to show me how little he needed me by jumping a taxi back into town and partying the night away. I couldn’t honestly blame him.
I sat in my car and rang the number Gloria had given me for her daughter’s house. The voice that answered was familiar in its inflexions, but twenty years younger in its tones. “I’m looking for Gloria,” I said. “Can you tell her it’s Kate?”
“Hang on, love, I’ll just get her.”
Moments later, I heard the real thing. “All right, chuck?”
“I am now,” I said severely. “Now I’ve got Donovan out of jail.”
She chuckled. “That poor lad’s having a proper education, working for you. I knew you’d have it sorted in no time. Whereas if I’d hung around, it would just have got more and more complicated.”
“He got a smack in the mouth from a journalist’s camera,” I said coldly.
There was a short pause, then, serious, she said, “I’m really sorry about that. Is the lad OK?”
“He’ll live. But the police need a statement from you, otherwise they’re going to have to believe that bunch of scumbag hacks claiming Donovan set about them without any provocation.”
She gasped. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“What else do you expect paparazzi to be saying, Gloria? The truth?” I demanded sarcastically. “They’ve got bosses on the newsdesk who aren’t going to be well impressed if they tell them they didn’t get a story or pictures because a teenage lad told them to bugger off. If they don’t get a proper story, they make one up.”
“Aye well, at least you got it sorted,” she said, sounding chastened for once.
“It’ll be sorted once you’ve given Sergeant Mumby a statement and half his colleagues an autograph. Now, are you staying at your daughter’s tonight?”
“I better had, I suppose. And I’m not filming tomorrow, so I’ll probably take her shopping.”
“Not in town,” I said firmly.
“Harvey Nicks, chuck,” she said. “In Leeds. I’ll bell you in the morning once we’ve decided what’s what. Thanks for sorting it all out, Kate.”
The line went dead. Nothing like a grateful client. Given that the wheels were well and truly off my evening, I figured I might as well go for broke and see what Dorothea Dawson’s child had to say about her murder. It was, after all, what I was being paid for. I drove through the virtually deserted streets of Oldham, south through Ashton, Audenshaw and Denton, past rows of local shops with peeling paint, sagging strings of dirty Christmas lights, sad window displays and desperate signs trying to lure customers inside; past the narrow mouths of terraced streets where people sprawled in front of gas fires denying the winter by watching movies filled with California sunshine; past down-at-heel pubs advertising karaoke and quiz nights; past artificial Christmas trees defiant in old people’s homes; past churches promising something better than all of this next time round in exchange for the abandonment of logic.