were packing away their equipment, deprived of their target.
Tuning to the local radio bulletin as I drove from the Metro-Centre, I heard the news confirmed. I drummed my fists on the steering wheel, certain that the law had tripped over itself. I had seen Christie close enough to punch him, and his lolling head and wandering eyes, a visible attempt to escape from himself, convinced me that he was guilty. Somehow I had to overturn this misguided and ludicrous decision. The large vacuum left in my life by my father’s murder had now been invaded by another vacuum.
I left the Jensen on a double yellow line, waving to the policeman who studiously said nothing when I walked past him. I was climbing the courthouse steps when I saw Sergeant Falconer emerging through the doors. She recognized me and began to turn away, pretending to adjust her hair. Unable to escape, she rallied herself and took my arm in a firm grip.
‘Mr Pearson . . . ?’ Her mind seemed miles away, but she steered me into the lobby, past three uniformed constables rocking on their heels. ‘You’ve heard? It’s quieter in here. The public . . .’
‘Don’t worry, they’ve all gone shopping. No one seems upset, or surprised.’
‘Believe me, it’s a complete surprise.’ Sergeant Falconer studied my face, relieved to find me on the edge of anger, an emotion with which her training had taught her to cope. She led me to a bench. ‘Let’s sit here. I’ll do my best to give you any details.’
‘Can’t we go in? Civic awareness, and all that. Everyone should observe a miscarriage of justice.’
‘The court is closed.’ She smiled in a sisterly way and touched my arm. ‘Mr Christie may be coming out soon. Is that all right . . . ?’
‘Fine. He’s innocent, isn’t he?’ I watched the constables sauntering about the steps, truncheons reluctantly sheathed, like salesmen deprived of their customers. Without thinking, I said: ‘The police sell violence.’
‘What?’
‘The idea of violence.’ I laughed to myself. ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘You’re upset. It’s understandable.’
‘Well . . .’ I calmed myself, touched by her close interest. ‘Half an hour ago I was sure who had killed my father, and why. A mental patient with a grudge against a shopping mall. Now, suddenly, it’s a mystery again. Brooklands, the M25, these motorway towns. They’re damned strange places. Nothing is what it seems.’
‘That’s why people move here. The suburbs are the last great mystery.’
‘Is that the reason you’re leaving?’ I took her hand, surprised by its almost feverish warmth. There was an operation scar on the knuckle of her ring finger, the trace of an old tendon injury left by some hooligan with a beer bottle. Or had a tenacious engagement ring been surgically removed, her body holding on to a passion that her quirky mind repressed? Sergeant Falconer was wary and defensive, and not only about the confused police investigation into my father’s death. I knew that she wanted me out, safely back in central London, but I sensed that she wanted herself out, free from whatever web was spinning itself around her.
‘Mr Pearson? You fell asleep for a moment.’
‘Right. I’m sorry. These witnesses who came forward—who are they? Greens, hunt saboteurs, pot-smoking hippies? I take it they’re friends of Christie’s. How reliable are they?’
‘Totally. No greens or hippies. They’re all people of good standing. Respectable local professionals—a doctor at Brooklands Hospital, a head teacher, the psychiatrist at the secure unit who treated Christie.’
‘His own psychiatrist?’
‘All of them saw him in the South Gate entrance hall when they heard the shooting. He was only a few feet away.’
‘They recognized Christie? What about the earlier witnesses?’
‘Unreliable. One or two people saw him running across the car park, but by then everybody was running away.’
‘So . . .’ I leaned back in sheer
Tuning to the local radio bulletin as I drove from the Metro-Centre, I heard the news confirmed. I drummed my fists on the steering wheel, certain that the law had tripped over itself. I had seen Christie close enough to punch him, and his lolling head and wandering eyes, a visible attempt to escape from himself, convinced me that he was guilty. Somehow I had to overturn this misguided and ludicrous decision. The large vacuum left in my life by my father’s murder had now been invaded by another vacuum.
I left the Jensen on a double yellow line, waving to the policeman who studiously said nothing when I walked past him. I was climbing the courthouse steps when I saw Sergeant Falconer emerging through the doors. She recognized me and began to turn away, pretending to adjust her hair. Unable to escape, she rallied herself and took my arm in a firm grip.
‘Mr Pearson . . . ?’ Her mind seemed miles away, but she steered me into the lobby, past three uniformed constables rocking on their heels. ‘You’ve heard? It’s quieter in here. The public . . .’
‘Don’t worry, they’ve all gone shopping. No one seems upset, or surprised.’
‘Believe me, it’s a complete surprise.’ Sergeant Falconer studied my face, relieved to find me on the edge of anger, an emotion with which her training had taught her to cope. She led me to a bench. ‘Let’s sit here. I’ll do my best to give you any details.’
‘Can’t we go in? Civic awareness, and all that. Everyone should observe a miscarriage of justice.’
‘The court is closed.’ She smiled in a sisterly way and touched my arm. ‘Mr Christie may be coming out soon. Is that all right . . . ?’
‘Fine. He’s innocent, isn’t he?’ I watched the constables sauntering about the steps, truncheons reluctantly sheathed, like salesmen deprived of their customers. Without thinking, I said: ‘The police sell violence.’
‘What?’
‘The idea of violence.’ I laughed to myself. ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘You’re upset. It’s understandable.’
‘Well . . .’ I calmed myself, touched by her close interest. ‘Half an hour ago I was sure who had killed my father, and why. A mental patient with a grudge against a shopping mall. Now, suddenly, it’s a mystery again. Brooklands, the M25, these motorway towns. They’re damned strange places. Nothing is what it seems.’
‘That’s why people move here. The suburbs are the last great mystery.’
‘Is that the reason you’re leaving?’ I took her hand, surprised by its almost feverish warmth. There was an operation scar on the knuckle of her ring finger, the trace of an old tendon injury left by some hooligan with a beer bottle. Or had a tenacious engagement ring been surgically removed, her body holding on to a passion that her quirky mind repressed? Sergeant Falconer was wary and defensive, and not only about the confused police investigation into my father’s death. I knew that she wanted me out, safely back in central London, but I sensed that she wanted herself out, free from whatever web was spinning itself around her.
‘Mr Pearson? You fell asleep for a moment.’
‘Right. I’m sorry. These witnesses who came forward—who are they? Greens, hunt saboteurs, pot-smoking hippies? I take it they’re friends of Christie’s. How reliable are they?’
‘Totally. No greens or hippies. They’re all people of good standing. Respectable local professionals—a doctor at Brooklands Hospital, a head teacher, the psychiatrist at the secure unit who treated Christie.’
‘His own psychiatrist?’
‘All of them saw him in the South Gate entrance hall when they heard the shooting. He was only a few feet away.’
‘They recognized Christie? What about the earlier witnesses?’
‘Unreliable. One or two people saw him running across the car park, but by then everybody was running away.’
‘So . . .’ I leaned back in sheer
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