'Hey, Banksy.' It was Delta 6, the sergeant, leaning forward from the back.
'Yes.' He didn't turn, kept his eyes on the pavements they sped past: might be an outsider but didn't think his commitment to his work could be faulted.
'Just a little problem. We like to look the part in this team. It's your shoes, they've got mud on them. That's not good, Banksy — don't let it happen again.'
He could have said he'd been to a family funeral, and that the mud had come from a crematorium garden where he and his mother had laid flowers, but he held his peace.
Chapter 3
'They are not before the court, Mr Curtis, but the case for the prosecution is that you were aided in this robbery by friends.'
'I don't have those sort of friends, sir.'
Maybe it was because the air-circulation plant was on the blink or switched off, but warmth seemed to have invaded court eighteen. Jools Wright had noticed that a bead of sweat had formed on the defence barrister's forehead. He'd followed it, watched the tiny rivulet it made from the forehead down between the shaggy eyebrows, then its passage under the bridge of the spectacles and along the nose. By the nostrils a drip had formed, had gathered in size and weight, and fallen — wow! — right on to the barrister's papers. Jools lifted his gaze back to the man's forehead and waited for the next rivulet to flow.
'Do you deny that among your friends, Mr Curtis, there is what we would call an "armourer"?'
'Never heard of anyone called that.'
The word he would have used to his students to describe the atmosphere in court was soporific: dictionary definition, 'inducing sleep'. He'd lost track of the growing size of the latest drip accumulating on the barrister's nose because his eyes had closed. Jools felt his head droop. His chin banged against his chest, then rested on his open-necked purple shirt. So hard to stay awake…and why should he bother? The damn man in the box was lying through his teeth.
'The weapons carried, allegedly, by you and your brother when — as the prosecution says — you were involved in this violent theft, were identified from witness reports as a military Browning 9mm automatic pistol and a Smith & Wesson revolver, a Magnum…Do you have, Mr Curtis, among your friends, an armourer, someone who could have supplied such fiendish weapons?'
'No, sir.'
'Have you ever touched, handled, aimed, threatened with a Browning 9mm pistol or a Smith & Wesson revolver?'
'Absolutely not, sir. God's truth, I have not.'
Head down again, not bothering to lift it. They'd been shown, four weeks before — it might have been five — photographs of the pistol and the revolver; a detective, with a litany of firearms experience behind him, had described the killing power of such weapons.
Not going to think about the weapons because that area of the case, in Jools's mind, was closed. He was going to think about Hannah.
'And you can state categorically that you have no friends who hire out such weapons, Mr Curtis?'
'I've a lot of friends…People seem to adopt me, like I'm an uncle to them — but I don't know nobody who supplies shooters. Personally, sir, I wouldn't touch nothing like that.'
'And, Mr Curtis, at the time of the robbery — as we established last week in your evidence under oath — you were with your mother who has a serious diabetic condition.'
Lovely Hannah. Sweet, delicious, sweaty Hannah. Brilliant, gorgeous Hannah–
There was a sharp, grating cough beside him. Jools's head jerked up. He blinked. Corenza coughed again, and gave him a savage glance. Should he concentrate? To shake off the desire to sleep, he locked his fingers together and cracked the joints, then wriggled his toes, looked down and saw the movement in his striped socks below the straps of his sandals. For the trial's first week he'd worn a suit and black shoes, for the second week he'd dressed in an open shirt, sports jacket and brogues. Now, as if to stamp his individuality, he'd reverted to work gear, and that, at the comprehensive, was jeans and sandals. He rather relished the individuality…No, nothing to be gained from earnest concentration Hannah was what he coveted.
'That's right.'
'I think we've nailed that little point down. You know of no individual who is paid to hire out deadly weapons, nor have you ever handled such weapons, in particular a Browning automatic pistol or a Smith & Wesson revolver. You confirm that?'
'Never, sir, that's correct.'
He'd heard it said in the staff common room, with the inevitable accompanying snigger, that men usually chose a mistress who was the spitting image of the wife back home. Barbara, the wife, had short-cut fair hair and so did Hannah, the mistress. Both had good hips, and both were endowed with breasts that could be snuggled in the palms of his hands…so similar. But — big but — one slept with her back to him and the other — God was kind — didn't expect to sleep at all in a long night. He had not been able to get to Hannah last weekend: Kathy's school concert, back row of the recorders, had denied him the well-worn excuse utilized to get him eight hours in Hannah's bed.
'Thank you. Now we're going to move on. Right, Mr Curtis, do you know what a "bag man" is?'
'I believe I've heard that expression.'
'What does a "bag man" do? What's his speciality? I doubt the members of the jury know.'
'Well, he's a money guy, isn't he? He takes care of the money.'
Sheets pulled back, the light left on as Hannah liked it. Hannah crouched beside him and the carpet covered with her scattered blouse and skirt, bra, tights and knickers. Hannah stroking him so gently. God, she was bloody marvellous…Babs didn't do sex except on his damn birthday or if he'd managed to lower half a bottle down her, and that was rare. He squeezed his eyes shut.
'Most members of the jury, I assume, use a bank to take care of their money, so where does a bag man enter the equation?'
'Criminal money. A bag man looks after thieved money, money from drugs deals, that sort of money.'
'Mr Curtis, among your circle, is there a bag man? A man who handles and launders the monies gained from criminal enterprises?'
'Not that I know of, sir. As a reputable businessman, I wouldn't associate with such persons, sir.'
He felt spent, exhausted, as he did when Hannah slid off him.
'It's a big ask, Nat. You could say that it's a very big ask.'
'Yes, Benny, but it has the potential of being rather a well-paid big ask.'
Nathaniel Wilson saw a quick smirk cross Benny Edwards's lips. They were in a café's annexe; the main area was nearly empty so they had the overspill to themselves. A colleague of the Nobbler's lounged in the doorway, blocking entry. Friday had gone by, and the weekend, and this week's Monday, but the Nobbler had been at his pad in a village outside Fuengirola and he had a tan that shouted he went there often.
'And the trial's near run its time?'
'The jury will be out within two weeks, and I don't reckon they'll be taking long.'
'Open and shut?'
'More shut than open. They're going down. There's no time to be wasted.'
'Not an easy one'
'They're looking at big stretches, but not looking forward to them. I can't see there's a cat in hell's chance of getting an acquittal, but with the jury down to ten I reckon that nine to one against means a retrial. Only bit of luck we've had is two jurors dropping down the tube. A retrial could be a year away, or a year and a half, and all that time I'd be yapping for bail and might just get it. What's more important is the chief prosecution witness, just a bit of a girl, up for it now but might not be in eighteen months. She's had a witness liaison officer assigned and been moved to a safe-house — she's had a witness protection scheme team. For another eighteen months, with the cost of that, I reckon they'd cut her adrift because the cost'll hurt them. She might just go off the boil if she didn't have liaison and protection in tow, might find her enthusiasm dwindling — and, not my business of course, she might show up where she's spotted or her family might be induced to lean on her…That's all in the future. What's for now is to ensure the jury's hung this time round, can't reach a guilty verdict. What do you think, Benny? Are you up for it or not?'