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Authors: Susan Wilkins
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picture of boyish incredulity. ‘Not for myself. No.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘For
us
. I done it for us. My part of the deal,
like the old man said. Half the business is yours babes. You served the time for both of us, so you’ve earned it. We’re partners.’
9
Helen Warner told the taxi driver to drop her in Birdcage Walk at the edge of the park. From there she walked round the corner to the conference centre giving herself time to
calm any nerves and focus. She was used to meeting people from all walks of life, getting up and speaking, she did enough of that in court. But this was a new departure for her, the first tentative
steps in what she hoped would lead to a parliamentary career. She was thirty-two, a successful lawyer, she had all the right credentials, it was time to get moving.
She entered the QEII conference centre by the main entrance, passed through security and saw that the event she was attending was in the Churchill Auditorium, an interesting choice, she thought,
given the subject matter.
The room was about half full, maybe a hundred or so people. She was handed a glossy brochure at the door emblazoned with the title ‘Broken Britain – A Way Forward’. Taking it
she reflected that if they spent the money laid out on this shindig in some of the daggy neighbourhoods that had been the tinderbox for the riots, that might be a step in the right direction. She
glanced round the room, saw a couple of Labour Party policy wonks she recognized; they gave her a friendly nod, and she took a seat towards the back.
On her feet at the podium Assistant Commissioner Fiona Calder was presenting her opening remarks. It was all pretty standard stuff: alienation, gangs, poor role models, bad parenting, exclusion
from consumer culture. Calder was a small woman, but made up for that fact with a large presence. She also looked good in the uniform, not all women did. Helen tried to listen, but she’d
heard it all before, read it, regurgitated it herself. Since the August riots of the previous year she’d acquired a roster of new clients. The crackdown on criminality promised by the
government had brought her firm a twenty per cent upturn in business and a slew of juicy appeals.
Helen leafed through the brochure, admired the spectacular photos of London burning. Then she let her eyes range around the room, checking out who she recognized, who was on her networking list.
It took her a few moments to become aware of the man sitting close to the podium on the Assistant Commissioner’s right-hand side. She realized with a start that he was staring straight at
her. It was Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Turnbull and as soon as he caught her eye he smiled.
Helen spent the coffee break on the fringes of a group she vaguely knew; some lads from Labour HQ were baiting a fat Lib-Dem, who was unfortunate enough to have a very junior
role at the Home Office. She saw Turnbull bearing down on her, but there was nowhere to run. As usual he was immaculately turned out: a tailored suit, silk tie with platinum tiepin. As he held out
his hand to shake, Helen reflected he dressed more like a high-priced corporate lawyer than a policeman.
‘Ms Warner! I thought it was you.’
It was impossible to ignore him. His handshake was a grip, a subtle demonstration of his hidden physical power.
‘I see the Feds are out in force today Superintendent.’
He smiled, crinkling the flesh round his eyes as if her quip had really amused him.
‘I’m only here to give the Assistant Commissioner some moral support. But I’m glad I ran into you.’
‘Isn’t that what these things are for, running into people?’
He smiled again, Helen found him hard to dislike. He was certainly a cut above the average senior cop. As a lawyer Helen had dealt with quite a few, mostly they were snotty and arrogant. But
Turnbull had an easy manner.
‘How’s your client?’
‘Which one? I’ve got over fifty.’
‘I was thinking
us
. I done it for us. My part of the deal,
like the old man said. Half the business is yours babes. You served the time for both of us, so you’ve earned it. We’re partners.’
9
Helen Warner told the taxi driver to drop her in Birdcage Walk at the edge of the park. From there she walked round the corner to the conference centre giving herself time to
calm any nerves and focus. She was used to meeting people from all walks of life, getting up and speaking, she did enough of that in court. But this was a new departure for her, the first tentative
steps in what she hoped would lead to a parliamentary career. She was thirty-two, a successful lawyer, she had all the right credentials, it was time to get moving.
She entered the QEII conference centre by the main entrance, passed through security and saw that the event she was attending was in the Churchill Auditorium, an interesting choice, she thought,
given the subject matter.
The room was about half full, maybe a hundred or so people. She was handed a glossy brochure at the door emblazoned with the title ‘Broken Britain – A Way Forward’. Taking it
she reflected that if they spent the money laid out on this shindig in some of the daggy neighbourhoods that had been the tinderbox for the riots, that might be a step in the right direction. She
glanced round the room, saw a couple of Labour Party policy wonks she recognized; they gave her a friendly nod, and she took a seat towards the back.
On her feet at the podium Assistant Commissioner Fiona Calder was presenting her opening remarks. It was all pretty standard stuff: alienation, gangs, poor role models, bad parenting, exclusion
from consumer culture. Calder was a small woman, but made up for that fact with a large presence. She also looked good in the uniform, not all women did. Helen tried to listen, but she’d
heard it all before, read it, regurgitated it herself. Since the August riots of the previous year she’d acquired a roster of new clients. The crackdown on criminality promised by the
government had brought her firm a twenty per cent upturn in business and a slew of juicy appeals.
Helen leafed through the brochure, admired the spectacular photos of London burning. Then she let her eyes range around the room, checking out who she recognized, who was on her networking list.
It took her a few moments to become aware of the man sitting close to the podium on the Assistant Commissioner’s right-hand side. She realized with a start that he was staring straight at
her. It was Detective Chief Superintendent Alan Turnbull and as soon as he caught her eye he smiled.
Helen spent the coffee break on the fringes of a group she vaguely knew; some lads from Labour HQ were baiting a fat Lib-Dem, who was unfortunate enough to have a very junior
role at the Home Office. She saw Turnbull bearing down on her, but there was nowhere to run. As usual he was immaculately turned out: a tailored suit, silk tie with platinum tiepin. As he held out
his hand to shake, Helen reflected he dressed more like a high-priced corporate lawyer than a policeman.
‘Ms Warner! I thought it was you.’
It was impossible to ignore him. His handshake was a grip, a subtle demonstration of his hidden physical power.
‘I see the Feds are out in force today Superintendent.’
He smiled, crinkling the flesh round his eyes as if her quip had really amused him.
‘I’m only here to give the Assistant Commissioner some moral support. But I’m glad I ran into you.’
‘Isn’t that what these things are for, running into people?’
He smiled again, Helen found him hard to dislike. He was certainly a cut above the average senior cop. As a lawyer Helen had dealt with quite a few, mostly they were snotty and arrogant. But
Turnbull had an easy manner.
‘How’s your client?’
‘Which one? I’ve got over fifty.’
‘I was thinking
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