Goodfellowe MP (20 page)

‘And the second?’

‘Find Betty Ewing and see if she can break bread with me in the Tea Room this afternoon.’

‘Don’t you want somewhere a little more discreet if you’re going to sup with the Opposition?’

‘Discretion isn’t likely to feature prominently in this campaign.’

‘Perhaps it should.’ Mickey picked up the photograph lying on her desk.

‘I take your point,’ Goodfellowe acknowledged a
little bashfully. ‘What do you think I should do about that?’

‘She’s not even a constituent. Stop seeing her, for your own sake.’

‘Trouble is, old duck, I can’t.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got to surrender to bail in a couple of hours.’

The Charge Room resembled an out-take from the latter stages of a Rocky movie. A fight had burst into life in the far corner between two motorcycle couriers and was continuing well beyond the point of futility. In spite of the presence of three police constables who were attempting to smother their enthusiasm by lying on top of them, the leather-clad pair were still managing to exchange punches and insults. Jya-Yu blanched. How could she be here, with such animals?

She had arrived at Charing Cross police station to be met by the sight of Goodfellowe attempting to shake the creases from his trousers and, after a wait of ten minutes, a representative from the firm of Crabbie & Gill, Solicitors. Mr Gill himself had been expected but had been detained on some more pressing issue, and in his stead had sent a junior colleague who attempted to conceal his lustreless youth and inexperience behind an air of profound superiority. He offered no apology for his lateness and could barely muster a handshake for Goodfellowe, while his client seemed scarcely to exist for him beyond the pages of a slim blue file. His smile was tight, like a piece of plucked elastic, with leaky
eyes and an unfortunate case of acne which reminded Goodfellowe of a discarded oyster shell, an impression of emptiness which was reinforced every time the youth opened his mouth.

Jya-Yu, by contrast, appeared incapable of speech. The toll of sleepness nights had swollen her eyelids so that they had all but closed, her head was held low and her hands clenched tightly together, knuckles showing white, as if at any moment she expected to be thrust into handcuffs and was resigned to her fate. Throughout the preliminary interview with the arresting constable she maintained a rigid silence, speaking only to acknowledge her name, even when he told her of the damning lab report. Her fear was evident – fear which only increased as she was led into the Charge Room to be confronted by the heaving mass of bodies and abuse. Not until a fourth constable had added his substantial weight to the pile did the fight slowly subside, the motorcyclists flapping like fish on a river bank until there was no air left in their lungs for incitement. They were dragged away nose-down in the direction of the cells.

‘Sorry about that, miss,’ the custody sergeant offered jovially from behind his desk, attempting to defuse the atmosphere. ‘Not our usual service, I assure you. I don’t normally allow fighting before my second cup of tea.’

The mild humour had no effect on Jya-Yu.

‘Now, what have we got here?’ The sergeant straightened his glasses as he examined the Charge Sheet.

‘She’s not having any of it, Sergeant,’ the arresting
constable volunteered. ‘Not a word, in spite of the forensic. She’s keeping schtum.’

‘Nothing more to add. Is that correct?’ the sergeant enquired.

Jya-Yu didn’t move a muscle, seeming scarcely to be breathing.

‘It doesn’t help, miss, staying silent. It may be used against you in court. The lab report confirms that the substance was the bone of a large cat which we believe was tiger bone, yet you’re offering no explanation for it.’

Still she would say nothing.

The solicitor decided it was time to intervene, rising on his toes. ‘You sure now? Nothing you want to add by way of elaboration or elucidation, Miss … er?’ Oyster Man began to rifle through his file, he didn’t even know her name. ‘Miss Yu?’

‘Your client’s name is Pan Jya-Yu,’ the sergeant rebuked, pronouncing the name perfectly and making it clear he considered the solicitor to be a waste of public funds and, still more exasperating, a waste of space in his crowded Charge Room. He returned his attentions to Jya-Yu who stood before his desk, doll-like. ‘Well, miss, you’ve got no previous and you’re not an illegal immigrant. There’s no hard evidence to support the allegation of soliciting. And the constable’s nose we can consider an accident.’ For a moment, Goodfellowe’s heart began to rise in optimism. And in vain. ‘But although this is a first offence, it’s a very serious offence,’ the sergeant continued, ‘dealing in an endangered species. So I must tell you that you will be reported for being in
possession of a restricted substance which we believe to be tiger bone, for the question of prosecution to be considered. Have you still got nothing to say?’

‘What does this reporting mean?’ Jya-Yu uttered her first words in a voice which sounded as softly as a sparrow’s.

‘It means they will formally charge you and may prosecute. Bring you to trial,’ the solicitor replied. At least he’d got that bit right. Jya-Yu fell silent once more.

‘Very well,’ the sergeant sounded resigned. ‘Wait over there on the bench, miss, and you gentlemen, please.’ He began to prepare his papers and summoned the inspector who had managed to free himself from mayhem further down the long custody desk. Rapidly, Goodfellowe intercepted him.

‘Inspector, what’s going to happen? To Miss Pan?’

‘Mr Goodfellowe,’ the policeman greeted, but with no more than adequate enthusiasm. ‘I did warn you on your last visit. This is a serious matter.’

‘All the more reason for me to try to help then, Inspector. What’s going to happen?’ he repeated.

‘Depends very much upon the young lady. What she decides to do.’

‘But if you’re charging her, what choice does she have?’

The inspector hesitated. He was a busy man, little time to spare for unnecessary complications, let alone public figures who got themselves wrapped up in this part of town with girls half their age. Yet at the first whiff of gunsmoke most such figures disappeared behind the protective fire of their lawyers and PR
advisers. Not this one. Something in the mettle of the man encouraged him. ‘What about a quiet word, sir? Off the record? Just the two of us?’ He led Goodfellowe to the quietest corner of the Charge Room, away from the bodies and their bustle. ‘Mr Goodfellowe, your young friend has been found in possession of an illegal substance. No question about it. And she refuses to offer any explanation. She’s been no help whatsoever. Leaves me with little choice. We’ll recommend that she be prosecuted and she will have to take her chances in front of a jury.’

‘Chances, Inspector? Is that what justice has become?’

Goodfellowe’s tone was concerned, sharp. And ill-advised. The inspector was well armed. ‘You should know that better than me, sir. It’s politicians who are always pressing us to take a stronger stand against the smuggling of rare animals. Some ordinary people might argue that we’d be better off targeting burglars and muggers, but animal rights are the flavour of the month. That’s where the pressure is. The political pressure, Mr Goodfellowe, to secure convictions. Even outside the court you get political pressure. Banners, demonstrations, picket lines – that’s what happens to those sort of trials once the activists get their hands on them. Don’t care for that myself, not at all. Trial by pressure group. But that’s what Miss Pan is facing.’

‘I apologize, Inspector. Moralizing is a trap politicians fall into at their peril. I don’t often do it. Not even on Sundays.’

‘No need for apologies, sir. I think we both understand
each other. And the pressures of public life.’ The ripple of tension subsided. ‘There’s another practical point which the lady ought to consider if it goes to trial. We’d probably have to raid her uncle’s premises in order to show we’ve taken the matter seriously. Who knows what we’d find? It all becomes very messy, even if she’s not found guilty.’

‘Is there no alternative? Even you appear to accept that a trial may not be fair.’

‘This is the difficult bit, Mr Goodfellowe. I’m not applying pressure, not suggesting anything, you understand. Not my job. Could get me into trouble, even the slightest hint that I was applying pressure. I’m merely outlining the options.’

‘Please go on.’

‘Since this is her first offence, I could give her a formal caution instead of pushing for prosecution. If she accepted the caution it would be the end of the matter after three years so long as nothing else came up. It wouldn’t even count as a criminal record.’

‘Then why not caution her?’

‘Because in order for me to do that she has to accept the offence. Admit her guilt.’

‘You’re suggesting that accepting a caution is the easy way out?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. Merely outlining the alternative. As you asked. Man to man.’

‘And I’m grateful.’

‘A caution isn’t even declarable on employment forms. No fine, no fuss. How can I put it tactfully? Yes, I’ve known of more difficult solutions.’

‘Even though it’s a formal admission of guilt.’

‘That’s the bacon in the butty.’

Goodfellowe pondered. Her only guilt was that of loyalty to her uncle. Her devotion had deprived her of her innocence yet nevertheless he knew she would remain loyal. Not compromise him. ‘She doesn’t deserve this, Inspector. I think she’s a victim. But the Chinese have a saying. Never set to sea in a borrowed junk. I’m afraid that’s what Miss Pan did and ran straight into a storm.’

‘If she were able to accept the caution, I think the waters may grow a little calmer for her.’

‘The quiet life? Or justice?’

The inspector offered no response.

‘She doesn’t deserve this,’ Goodfellowe repeated. ‘But I’ll put it to her.’

‘It might save everyone a great deal of time. And torment.’

Thoughtfully Goodfellowe returned to the bench on which Jya-Yu was sitting. Oyster Man sat sulking beside her, complaining that she had refused to say anything to him, but as Goodfellowe drew near she sat up. ‘What must I do now, Mr Goodfellowe?’

While the solicitor snorted in frustration, Goodfellowe began to explain. About prosecution. And the alternative. Admission of guilt and acceptance of a caution.

‘If I accept, will there be any more … procedures?’

‘You will be photographed and fingerprinted,’ the solicitor interrupted, trying to get his own back.

‘Like a criminal?’

‘It’s a serious crime you are charged with,’ he admonished, as though trying to justify his fee.

She sat very still for a few moments, concentrating, forcing out from her mind the distractions which filled every corner of the Charge Room. Her nails dug deep into the flesh of her hand. But to Goodfellowe’s surprise there were no tears. She was putting up a fight, struggling hard for her dignity. Then her features softened. The taut muscles around the mouth seemed to relax and an expression of acceptance took control, wiping away the dread. She turned to Goodfellowe. ‘For Uncle Zhu,’ she whispered, and forced the smallest of smiles. ‘The best way, I think. The easy way out.’

He shook his head in wonderment as, moments later in the company of the solicitor and the constable, she returned to the Interview Room to record her admission of guilt on tape.

As he watched her tiny back disappear, something rattled at Goodfellowe’s bones. Perhaps he was becoming a natural pessimist, maybe his own experience had taught him that life rarely provided an easy way out. Not where he was concerned. In spite of the inspector’s reassurance, instinct told him that the only plain sailing to be found was usually in the eye of the storm, at the moment before the skies were about to darken and the hurricane to hit. And Goodfellowe’s instincts were usually remarkably accurate.

The late-afternoon sun spread sheets of amber across the market square of Wooton Minster. All day it had blazed upon the ham-stone shops and painted doorways that huddled around the rim of the square, and now the shadows of the lichen-clad steeple of
St Maud’s began to spread out, pointing like an elegant finger across the cobbles and almost to the doorstep of the coffee shop. Around the table that stood in the window the conversation was ebullient. Talk of summer holidays, the boys they might meet, the boys they had already met, and of indiscretions both planned and performed. The senior girls of Werringham were on town time, enjoying their cappuccino.

The door opened and a light breeze entered bearing on its back a young woman. She was in her early twenties with a tomboyish face and cropped hair, and wore a red AIDS ribbon. She was alone, seating herself at a small table near the window to catch the last of the sun. For a few moments her presence inhibited the conversation of the five schoolgirls but by the time the newcomer had started on her pot of coffee the ripple of gossip had once more grown to a bubbling cascade, only to be interrupted for a second time as the young woman stood up and approached.

‘Hi. My name’s Jani. I’m involved with Oxfam. And I couldn’t help noticing you were from Werringham. Were any of you by chance involved in the recent fashion show?’

Three of the girls indicated that they were.

‘Great. That’s a stroke of luck,’ the woman enthused. ‘Look, I need your advice. Please, may I join you? Perhaps order some more cappuccino all round? A bit of cake?’