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Authors: Patricia Hall
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sharply.
‘I don’t know,’ Razia said. ‘I went up there and saw all the children and the mother, who denied that there was anything wrong. In fact the children seemed well cared for, no signs of ill-treatment, happy, I thought. You have to understand that I have more than forty families on my casebook and with most of them there’s no contest; they have serious problems, the kids are at risk, they’re neglected or they’re playing up, or there are all the signs of abuse of one sort or another. But I couldn’t pick up any signs with the Christies except that the father was volatile, irascible – he came back in the Land Rover as I was leaving, demanded to know who I was and threatened me with violence if I ever came back. I can hear him now. “I’ll effing kill you, you interfering cow,” he said. “Paki cow,” actually, though that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called. We get a lot of abuse.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Not all of it racist.’
‘I’m sure,’ Val said, as Razia twisted her hands in her lap. ‘But you never went back?’
‘I told them I would be back, as a deterrent in case there was anything in it. I didn’t like the father, obviously. But I never did go back. I put it on the back-burner, something to keep an eye on perhaps if I ever got the time. But I never found the time. There never is enough time in this job. And now…’ She looked at Emma Christie, whose shallow breathing never faltered beneath the white bedding. Val swallowed down her initial anger.
‘You couldn’t have predicted this,’ she said briskly. ‘I don’t see how anyone could.’
Razia shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘If the newspapers get hold of it they’ll pillory us, as usual.’
* * *
PC Gavin Hewitt shuffled uncomfortably in his canteen chair and gazed down at his industrial strength cup of tea.
‘It’s not always so easy to get out there as often as I should,’ he mumbled at DS Kevin Mower. ‘Omar’ Sharif was on the opposite side of the table, listening to the conversation with a sceptical look in his dark intelligent eyes.
‘But if there were problems with Christie’s shotgun, surely that would be a high priority?’ Mower insisted, holding the young uniformed constable in an icy glare. ‘That’s not kids in the bus shelter stuff, is it? That’s serious?’
‘Yeah, well, I did talk to him about it when the woman from social services complained, but he said she just panicked. He’d come in from doing a bit of rabbiting, the gun wasn’t even loaded, he said. He reckoned she’d never seen a shotgun before and thought he was going to blow her head off with a high powered rifle.’
‘That’s what he said?’ Mower asked, even more sharply. ‘That’s an odd way to put it, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Hewitt admitted grudgingly. ‘He obviously didn’t like her snooping round, but I just thought it was the way he thought. Nothing significant.’ He glanced at Sharif. ‘I don’t think he liked her being a Paki, either. He was obviously a bit of a racist. You know how it is? I reckon he could have deliberately tried to put the wind up her by waving the gun about, as a joke, like.’
‘Not much of a joke,’ Sharif said sharply. Hewitt looked at him without enthusiasm.
‘Just what I thought at the time,’ he said. ‘No offence.’
‘And you didn’t think it was serious enough to take any further action on his shotgun certificate?’
‘He was bloody meticulous about that gun,’ Hewittsaid, annoyed now. ‘I inspected his gun cupboard, and it was all in order. If I was looking for people being sloppy with shotguns up there, it wouldn’t be Gordon Christie I’d be looking at. He never said, but I reckon he’d been in the army. He knew about guns and took good care of them.’
‘And if the gun used in the shooting – an automatic pistol, by all accounts – if that was his, you’d no idea he had it.’
‘Of course not,’ Hewitt said angrily.
‘I don’t know,’ Razia said. ‘I went up there and saw all the children and the mother, who denied that there was anything wrong. In fact the children seemed well cared for, no signs of ill-treatment, happy, I thought. You have to understand that I have more than forty families on my casebook and with most of them there’s no contest; they have serious problems, the kids are at risk, they’re neglected or they’re playing up, or there are all the signs of abuse of one sort or another. But I couldn’t pick up any signs with the Christies except that the father was volatile, irascible – he came back in the Land Rover as I was leaving, demanded to know who I was and threatened me with violence if I ever came back. I can hear him now. “I’ll effing kill you, you interfering cow,” he said. “Paki cow,” actually, though that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever been called. We get a lot of abuse.’ She smiled faintly. ‘Not all of it racist.’
‘I’m sure,’ Val said, as Razia twisted her hands in her lap. ‘But you never went back?’
‘I told them I would be back, as a deterrent in case there was anything in it. I didn’t like the father, obviously. But I never did go back. I put it on the back-burner, something to keep an eye on perhaps if I ever got the time. But I never found the time. There never is enough time in this job. And now…’ She looked at Emma Christie, whose shallow breathing never faltered beneath the white bedding. Val swallowed down her initial anger.
‘You couldn’t have predicted this,’ she said briskly. ‘I don’t see how anyone could.’
Razia shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘If the newspapers get hold of it they’ll pillory us, as usual.’
* * *
PC Gavin Hewitt shuffled uncomfortably in his canteen chair and gazed down at his industrial strength cup of tea.
‘It’s not always so easy to get out there as often as I should,’ he mumbled at DS Kevin Mower. ‘Omar’ Sharif was on the opposite side of the table, listening to the conversation with a sceptical look in his dark intelligent eyes.
‘But if there were problems with Christie’s shotgun, surely that would be a high priority?’ Mower insisted, holding the young uniformed constable in an icy glare. ‘That’s not kids in the bus shelter stuff, is it? That’s serious?’
‘Yeah, well, I did talk to him about it when the woman from social services complained, but he said she just panicked. He’d come in from doing a bit of rabbiting, the gun wasn’t even loaded, he said. He reckoned she’d never seen a shotgun before and thought he was going to blow her head off with a high powered rifle.’
‘That’s what he said?’ Mower asked, even more sharply. ‘That’s an odd way to put it, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ Hewitt admitted grudgingly. ‘He obviously didn’t like her snooping round, but I just thought it was the way he thought. Nothing significant.’ He glanced at Sharif. ‘I don’t think he liked her being a Paki, either. He was obviously a bit of a racist. You know how it is? I reckon he could have deliberately tried to put the wind up her by waving the gun about, as a joke, like.’
‘Not much of a joke,’ Sharif said sharply. Hewitt looked at him without enthusiasm.
‘Just what I thought at the time,’ he said. ‘No offence.’
‘And you didn’t think it was serious enough to take any further action on his shotgun certificate?’
‘He was bloody meticulous about that gun,’ Hewittsaid, annoyed now. ‘I inspected his gun cupboard, and it was all in order. If I was looking for people being sloppy with shotguns up there, it wouldn’t be Gordon Christie I’d be looking at. He never said, but I reckon he’d been in the army. He knew about guns and took good care of them.’
‘And if the gun used in the shooting – an automatic pistol, by all accounts – if that was his, you’d no idea he had it.’
‘Of course not,’ Hewitt said angrily.
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