She said, and didn't shift the hand, 'Our aim is to defend the realm, and that is by the maintenance of civilized standards, and civilized standards involve the gathering of evidence to set before a court. We don't go down into a gutter.'
Naylor said, 'I believe the points you've made, Joe, are understood.'
He thought that age seemed then to catch him, not as the waft of a breeze on his face but as the surge of a gale into his midriff, as if it could have felled him…and he seemed to hear the call of those gulls from far away, and the rumble of the Atlantic's waves on rocks and the whine of wind in overhead wires…and she'd moved the hand, had dumped it back in Hegner's lap. On a grey London morning, with the rain spitting on the road, Naylor appreciated his dependence on the American, and where it would take him — and he had three more working days of service. And the words clamoured in his mind: Look where ordinary people go about their daily business, where your citizens think they're safe.
The group trailed after him. The town's self-appointed historian, Steve Vickers, had one inalienable rule: he never cancelled for inclement weather. He was in good voice as he led the Townswomen's Guild party through High Town; a little forest of dripping umbrellas followed him.
'More than anywhere else in Britain, indeed in the empire, Luton was the greatest centre of hat- and bonnet-making. In the 1851 census, eighty-eight per cent of High Town's females were involved in making headwear to be worn by women in Great Britain and exported — even girls as young as six were described in the returns as "sewers". Any woman in London's Mayfair or Edinburgh's Princes Street or in Dublin, Sydney, New Delhi or Toronto, when dressed at her best would most likely be wearing a hat or bonnet made in these humble streets.'
On a better day, he might have held the attention of the ladies from the Townswomen's Guild.
'Obviously, the annual boom in the trade was-from December to May. The customers wanted new models for the summer, and then thousands more women came to High Town from the surrounding villages to boost the numbers of sewers and stitchers, and most popular of all were the straw hats — not that they would have been in great demand on a day such as this.'
He laughed, smiled, and was rewarded with a sullen response. He knew that a coach where they would be warm was parked by the station and would take them on to Woburn Abbey, the next leg of their outing. The ladies were drenched and only ingrained politeness kept them from abandoning him. He had done the prehistory bit, and the Roman bit. It irked him that his tour of what he called 'The Hat Trail' could be so poorly received.
'The manufacturing lasted through the thirties up to the outbreak of the Second World War. Then habits changed. Women no longer regarded it as essential to wear headgear when they were out and—'
A voice piped up, 'Fascinating, Mr Vickers, and we're very grateful to you. But, as the Guild secretary and speaking for all of us, I really think we've had enough. Please would you be so kind as to lead us back to our coach before we drown?'
He did. If he had ignored the plea and continued with the Trail, his audience would have gone. But Steve Vickers was seldom deflated. His next booking was for Saturday morning, again an early start, and the tour of the town centre — the clock that chimed like Parliament's, the story of the Peace Riot, and he'd heard on the radio that the forecast for the weekend was good. He would not show disappointment at the curtailment: to have done so would reduce the volume of tips as they scrambled on to the coach.
'Yes, I think we have to acknowledge defeat, but you have been wonderful and it has been my privilege to share a little of the town's rich heritage with you. Thank you so much for your interest.'
There was a desultory clapping from under the umbrellas. He led them away. He took some comfort from Saturday's forecast, when he would be in St George's Square, under the town hall's clock, across the open space from the shopping centre; he hoped then for a good attendance and a better purse of tips.
He realized he hated the man.
David Banks sat in the public gallery. His Glock was on his hip and gouged awkwardly into it; it was with Wally's agreement that he had been allowed to wear it into court eighteen — too much palaver to check it into the police booth at the main door, then get it back when he followed the jurors to their sealed room and stood outside at an adjournment, and he'd sensed that the chief inspector had a distaste for firearms but he'd promised — and smiled drily — that the safety catch would be firmly on. He wore the loaded pistol at his belt and had given his guarantee that the weapon could not accidentally discharge a bullet. If the holster, and the Glock's handle, had not pushed into him, Banks might have dozed: nothing to hold his attention as the prosecution's barrister droned through the minutiae of the evidence that the court had heard, that would convict the lowlife brothers. Banks did not close his eyes, let his head sag.
The public gallery was divided into two sections by an aisle. The case detectives, men and women from the Crime Directorate, were in the other section, and among them were uniformed constables of the beefed-up security detail. On the row in front of Banks, two women had gold at their throats, real fur on the collars of their coats and highlights in their hair; he thought them cousins of the lowlife or mistresses. Beyond the court door were more uniforms and some of them had Heckler & Kochs slung from black webbing straps, but Banks's was the only firearms officer inside — and the damn thing hurt him.
Nothing of the Victorian history of the building seeped into court eighteen. It was, he thought bitterly, 'customer friendly', designed to put men and women at their ease, to make them lose sight — with the soft pastel paint on the walls, and the beechwood furnishings — of the real world of crude violence, that of the Curtis brothers. The judge, didn't seem a bad sort, was on a shallow raised dais to his right, and the brothers were at the far end to his left; there were only low panels hiding their legs, no armoured glass screen or a cage's bars to keep them in place. Between the judge and the prisoners there were layers of lawyers, then the court staff, and the prosecution's man ploughed his way through his prepared notes. About the only damn action was from the stenographer who rattled away at her keyboard. Opposite Banks was the jury.
His Principal was in the second row. The guy lounged easily in his seat and was one of the few who took no notes of the barrister's address. Didn't have on a clean shirt, as the other men did. Hadn't combed his hair, and the other men's was tidily brushed. Banks knew the first names of the jury, and his Principal was close, too close, to the woman on his right, Vicky. She wore a cheesecloth-type blouse and a loose-fitting cotton skirt of bright print colours, both of which showed off her body's contours, and his Principal was too bloody close to her. The chests, shoulders and heads of the front rank of jurors cut off his view of the hips and knees of the one called Vicky and his Principal, but he fancied they would be touching, which was too damn close.
The hatred gnawed in him. He could have stood up then, pushed himself to his feet, interrupted the calm and quiet of the barrister's words — could have yelled, full volume, from the depths of his throat, a torrent of obscenities.
David Banks loathed Cecil Darke, the man whose notebook was in his jacket pocket with the pebbles and coins, resting on the Glock's holster.
He had no photograph of Cecil Darke, his great-uncle, only imagined images. Probably small, probably slight, probably anonymous in a crowd, probably had a squeaky voice, probably had no distinguishing marks…His ignorance consumed Banks Probably had courage, determination…The man overwhelmed him, had destroyed already the delicate equilibrium of his life. Cecil Darke had pitchforked his way, uninvited, into the life of his great-nephew. Each hour of the day, and most of those at night when he slept and dreamed, Banks now walked alongside the volunteer in the British battalion — and had been with him when the vitality of hope was lost on the sodden, frozen or parched fields of battle. Had learned to love and admire Cecil Darke. Had learned of his own life's destruction by association. Had learned to curse. Had learned to hate, loathe, detest. The words from a canteen lark played in his mind, and a senior man's, and the caution of an armourer: his defence of Cecil Darke had imploded on him. David Banks was, and could recognize it — as a price for that defence — rejected by his team and cast out, alone…He was with a bloody jury, was reckoned unreliable by the Delta crowd, unable to hack the big-time. They wanted, in Delta, 'steady' men, 'team' men, and they thought his defence of his great-uncle left him short of the qualities they demanded. He had no one to confide in — felt naked, vulnerable, a failure.