breath to cool my porridge.’ He paused a moment, just long enough to allow the two barristers to emit token sycophantic chuckles.
On arriving at the court, Bob Tidey got the word from prosecuting barrister Mopey Dick. ‘The DPP’s doing a nolly.’
‘It figures.’
The case had formally resumed, just long enough for Mopey Dick to rise and inform the judge that the Director of Public Prosecution had reviewed the case overnight. ‘And he has, Judge, decided to take a certain course.’
The phone lines would have been burning, as the police and the lawyers for the two idiots negotiated a way out. The charges of assault were withdrawn – the lawyers for the two idiots would have told them that although the odds were now against a conviction, anything can go wrong in a criminal case and they ought to cut their losses. Nothing would be said in open court, but the lawyers would have privately agreed that the DPP’s nolle prosequi would be matched by the yobs’ parents dropping the civil suit.
‘I find it impossible to terminate these proceedings without a word about the police evidence.’ The judge favoured a languid delivery. ‘Of the two policemen who arrested the accused – perhaps it’s best to draw a veil, though I trust their superior officers will discuss the matter with them.’
He looked down at Bob Tidey, sitting in the well of the court.
‘Detective Sergeant Tidey, your evidence neither condemned nor exonerated the accused, yet it was clearly – how should I put this? – it was clearly lacking in frankness. Put simply – it flew in the face of the visual evidence we saw with our own eyes.’
Knowing he would probably appear in future cases before the same judge, Tidey kept his face expressionless. In the judge’s world, all the lines between right and wrong are clear, all the choices are made on the basis of legal scripture.
‘I can easily imagine circumstances in which I might feel moved to take this matter further. In the event, a public reprimand seems sufficient penance. Count your blessings, Detective Sergeant Tidey.’
When his phone rang, Assistant Commissioner Colin O’Keefe ignored the dagger glances from across the table. He took his time checking and saw the call was from Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg.
‘Yeah?’
O’Keefe was seated towards the bottom of a long, highly polished table, on the second floor of the Department of Justice. Of the seven others at the table, two were from his staff, there to take notes and provide backup. Three were senior departmental place-fillers and one was a harmless old relic working out the last months to his pension. The only one that mattered was the department’s Director General of Strategic Provision, Robertson Wynn.
‘You got my email?’ Hogg asked.
‘I’m in a meeting – Mr Wynn has some suggestions.’
Every two weeks, O’Keefe found himself in this room, reporting on and demanding approval of the detailed consequences of the budget cuts the Department of Justice required. It was a process he insisted on, and he preferred to drag it out, on the theory that if he made it insufferable for the buggers they might shift some cuts elsewhere next year.
Hogg said, ‘The email’s got the Ballistics report on the Sweetman murder. It changes things.’
‘Ring you back shortly.’
O’Keefe found the email on his HTC, opened it and opened the two-page attachment. As expected, the handgun round that went through Sweetman’s head and flattened against the marble floor was beyond matching. The other bullet had entered Sweetman’s cheek and was found nestled inside his neck. There were some rifling marks on the bullet, but it hit a bone somewhere on its travels, the slug was distorted, killing any chance of a match. Ballistics got nothing useful from the shotgun pellets – nothing a blind man couldn’t see from glancing at the body.
It took O’Keefe a moment to see the significance of the two-sentence paragraph second
On arriving at the court, Bob Tidey got the word from prosecuting barrister Mopey Dick. ‘The DPP’s doing a nolly.’
‘It figures.’
The case had formally resumed, just long enough for Mopey Dick to rise and inform the judge that the Director of Public Prosecution had reviewed the case overnight. ‘And he has, Judge, decided to take a certain course.’
The phone lines would have been burning, as the police and the lawyers for the two idiots negotiated a way out. The charges of assault were withdrawn – the lawyers for the two idiots would have told them that although the odds were now against a conviction, anything can go wrong in a criminal case and they ought to cut their losses. Nothing would be said in open court, but the lawyers would have privately agreed that the DPP’s nolle prosequi would be matched by the yobs’ parents dropping the civil suit.
‘I find it impossible to terminate these proceedings without a word about the police evidence.’ The judge favoured a languid delivery. ‘Of the two policemen who arrested the accused – perhaps it’s best to draw a veil, though I trust their superior officers will discuss the matter with them.’
He looked down at Bob Tidey, sitting in the well of the court.
‘Detective Sergeant Tidey, your evidence neither condemned nor exonerated the accused, yet it was clearly – how should I put this? – it was clearly lacking in frankness. Put simply – it flew in the face of the visual evidence we saw with our own eyes.’
Knowing he would probably appear in future cases before the same judge, Tidey kept his face expressionless. In the judge’s world, all the lines between right and wrong are clear, all the choices are made on the basis of legal scripture.
‘I can easily imagine circumstances in which I might feel moved to take this matter further. In the event, a public reprimand seems sufficient penance. Count your blessings, Detective Sergeant Tidey.’
When his phone rang, Assistant Commissioner Colin O’Keefe ignored the dagger glances from across the table. He took his time checking and saw the call was from Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg.
‘Yeah?’
O’Keefe was seated towards the bottom of a long, highly polished table, on the second floor of the Department of Justice. Of the seven others at the table, two were from his staff, there to take notes and provide backup. Three were senior departmental place-fillers and one was a harmless old relic working out the last months to his pension. The only one that mattered was the department’s Director General of Strategic Provision, Robertson Wynn.
‘You got my email?’ Hogg asked.
‘I’m in a meeting – Mr Wynn has some suggestions.’
Every two weeks, O’Keefe found himself in this room, reporting on and demanding approval of the detailed consequences of the budget cuts the Department of Justice required. It was a process he insisted on, and he preferred to drag it out, on the theory that if he made it insufferable for the buggers they might shift some cuts elsewhere next year.
Hogg said, ‘The email’s got the Ballistics report on the Sweetman murder. It changes things.’
‘Ring you back shortly.’
O’Keefe found the email on his HTC, opened it and opened the two-page attachment. As expected, the handgun round that went through Sweetman’s head and flattened against the marble floor was beyond matching. The other bullet had entered Sweetman’s cheek and was found nestled inside his neck. There were some rifling marks on the bullet, but it hit a bone somewhere on its travels, the slug was distorted, killing any chance of a match. Ballistics got nothing useful from the shotgun pellets – nothing a blind man couldn’t see from glancing at the body.
It took O’Keefe a moment to see the significance of the two-sentence paragraph second
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