Chapter 1

He was halfway to his feet before he even knew why.

The older man behind the desk was still talking. Others still listening. He adjusted his focus, retuning the world.

Shouting. Men shouting. Below. Outside the office window.

Now the older man looked up from his report, mouth loose. They’d heard it too.

Shouting. But wrong. The wrong sort. This wasn’t jocular or jovial. Wasn’t boisterous barrack banter. It was flat and loud like exploding shells. The sound of escalating panic.

Easy. Easy there. Drop it. Let him go. Let him go now.

Two men. Then a third, voices overlapping.

Let him go NOW.

A scream.

He was up, sucking splashes of scalding coffee from his thumb. Through the door, he could feel the panic swell, rising, sweeping through the station, knocking over chairs, tearing open doors. The corridor was alive with the thump of boots and the crackle of jackets. Shoulders, elbows, yelling.

She’s got him. It’s her! Move. Outside. MOVE!

The older man moved to his window and joined his curious colleagues. They clattered his blinds apart, squinting out into the wet winter sunshine at the courtyard at the station rear.

“Good God,” the older man gasped. “Good God, Sergeant? Sergeant?”

The clanging internal stairway he took three at a time, hand squeaking on the plastic banister. Joining the jostle in the lower corridor he took charge, calling for order, quelling the youthful panic, pushing through towards the rear, heart thumping.

Outside. Cold.

Hand raised, squinting against the dying sunlight, he saw the officers first. Two of them. No, three. Spreading out, backs to him, separating in a wide half circle across the wet tarmac. Two had hands out, trying to slow the world down. Easy. Easy. C’mon now. The third had different ideas, wind chapped knuckles on a black baton. Their boots crunched as they parted, voices echoing flat against the damp brick.

Let him go. Let him go NOW.

In the centre, by the parked cars, he saw a fourth officer. A tall lad, even now, bent backwards, knees buckling. Still in civvies, his eyes were wide and wet, rolling and blinking, his fingers grasping at a thin pink leather strap biting his throat.

The belt belonged to the handbag that belonged to the woman.

“He’s gone! He’s fucking gone!”

She was behind him, screaming, the handbag strap like a garrotte. How she’d got the constable into this position, he didn’t know. Quickly, he supposed, in one surprise move as he’d entered the courtyard from his car to begin his shift. Around the neck fast, twist and pull. How long she’d had him, he could only guess. Not more than a few seconds, given the colour of the constable’s face and the still numb impotence of his colleagues.

“It’s ALL RIGHT!” he commanded loudly. He felt the officers turn to see him, felt them relax the tiniest amount as responsibility shifted. But he didn’t shift his gaze from the woman. He knew the woman. From somewhere he knew this woman. “It’s all right. Just . . . just let him go. It’s all –

“He’s gone!” the woman shrieked, yellow teeth bared, spittle exploding messily. “You’re not listening to me!” She twisted the strap again. Eyes swelling, arms flailing, the constable fell to his knees, reaching around, trying to find hold.

He took a moment. A breath, licking his lips. It was very cold. December cold. The wind bit pins into his cheeks and fingers. “I’m here,” he said loudly, clearly. “And I’m listening,”

“Oh, oh you’re listening now!” she snarled, eyes flashing. “Now I’ve got your fucking attention!”

He knew her. The face. The voice. He –

“Let him GO!” the officer to his right said, words cracking like an adolescent. The officer raised his baton and took an edgy step forward. “Let him go now. You’re just making things –

“Mrs Hayes?” he interrupted firmly, palm aloft, looking for recognition. “It’s Mrs Hayes, isn’t it?”

“Worse? Make things worse?” she shrieked, oblivious. “That what you were gonna say? How could they be worse? Answer me that? Eh? EH? Answer me that! He’s gone!”

“Mrs HAYES,” he said again more forcefully. He was sweating, hot backed, heart hammering. The tall constable on the floor was blinking hard, tongue lolling, nails clawing at the air. “Mrs Hayes, I’m here and I’m listening to you. Talk to me. Talk to me.”

“You don’t care though, do you? Eh? You don’t care. You looks at me and you thinks you know me. You thinks you know my family. Well you don’t,” she snapped, yanking the bag like a choke chain. The constable coughed and gagged.

Above him, he sensed dark shapes at the station windows, parting second floor blinds, wrenching the plastic handles. Then some idiot started the yelling.

Get off of him! Oi! Hands off him! Let him GO!

The yelling redoubled, deep, aggressive like trapped dogs. The woman looked up, scared, angry. A stronger resolve gripped her and she gritted her crooked teeth, yanking the constable again.

“Mrs Hayes. Please.” He held up a hand, high, hard. The yelling stopped. “Please listen to me –

“You thinks you know my family. Thinks you can ignore us. Come back tomorrow? Just coz of my clothes. Coz of the way I talks. Well you don’t know me. Oh but you will. You will,” and in a sharp move the woman yanked hard on the bag, the constable’s head jerking up and back in a gurgle, revealing something in her hand. White. A shoe. Her shoe. Grubby and bent, it had a long spiked heel. Greasy hair falling in her eyes, stockinged foot splashing in the grey puddles, she slashed violently at the constable’s face with the heel, once, twice. Hard.

Drop it! Sarge? Sarge? Let him go! Sarge!

“On my signal. Mrs Hayes –

The heel finally found the constable’s mouth and she drove it in up to the hilt, fingers clawing the toe, pulling it away, tight, tearing the edges of his mouth, forcing it open, holding him frozen.

“Thinks you know me?!” she shrieked, stumbling on her one foot.

“I know you’re going down for this if you don’t drop it and let the officer go right now!” a constable bellowed.” Confidence rising. Adrenalin flooding. A second baton was out. A third. They were moving closer. Moving in.

“You’re RIGHT!” he hollered loudly, trying to keep it together, trying to control the panicked escalation. “You’re absolutely right Mrs Hayes. They all think they know you. They do. You’re right.”

“Stay back!” she shrieked, pulling harder against her shoe, the terrified constable screaming silently, eyes tight.

“And hell, you’re . . . you’re right about the why’s, too,” he went on, palm lowering oh so slightly to soften the threat, to hide the shakes. The officers around him were shooting each other edgy glances, shooting him glances. But he just kept looking at the woman. “It’s the clothes. Your clothes, your hair, your voice. The whole bit. They’re just the same with me. Aren’t you fellahs? Eh? Eh? C’mon?”

They were looking at him now, the world slowing down, growing quiet.

“My name’s Prophet,” he said, clearing his throat. “Detective Sergeant. Rhys. We’ve met before. At the Morgan Davies inquest? And I think you’ve been what we call the appropriate adult for your son here once or twice? Ryan, is it?”

The woman said nothing, just narrowing her eyes a little and adjusting her trembling grip on her stiletto. Prophet noticed her toenails were painted gold beneath her tan tights, her foot curling in the cold, wind-whipped puddle. The constable in her grip wasn’t moving. Breathing, but not moving. Good lad, good lad.

“And take it from me,” Prophet went on quickly, swallowing his nerves. “These youngsters are as stuck-up about blokes like me as they are about you.”

“Sarge!” A shout. Movement. Arms up. Batons up. Something was about to happen. It would only take one. “Sarge!” Elbows raised. “I think we can –

“Oh don’t sarge me,” Prophet snapped loudly with a theatrical sigh, shaking his head. Heart in his throat, he took a casual step forward, shifting the balance. “What? You think I don’t know? Look at me,” and he turned a slow circle. “Nearly forty. Same short back and sides I’ve had since I was a student. Same denim jacket on my chair upstairs. These tired old Doc Martens. Gasping away at the gym with my walkman. Staring at the WPCs when I think no-one’s looking. You all think I’m just a sad old git refusing to grow up. Don’t you, boys? Huh?”

Prophet met the officers’ gaze for the first time, widening his eyes, sending them his thoughts. The officers exchanged looks, swallowing hard, edging backwards a few inches, batons lowering the tiniest fraction.

“Like with you, Mrs Hayes,” Prophet continued, focusing back at the woman. He moved forward an inch again. There was blood on the constable’s lips, on his chin, dripping fat spots on the tarmac. She stared at him, trembling. “They add up what they can see and slot you into a pigeon hole, right? Hair up, tracksuit top, bit of gold. Think you’re all the same. They don’t know.”

“They don’t know shit!” she writhed, knuckles white.

Forward some more. Just a little.

“Right right,” Prophet said, nodding, soothing.

Close the gap. Shift the balance.

“They see market clothes and painted toes and think you’re shit.”

The woman bristled, chin up. Constables around him froze.

“We both know it,” Prophet went on. “The way they look down on you. The way they treat your kids. Hauling them in, ticking them off in front of the rest of the flats. They don’t see a mother doing her best. Trying to raise a family.”

He was six or seven feet from her now. Hand out. Just talking, voice soft and even. The three officers were behind him, falling back. Shifting the balance.

“That officer you’ve got there? He’s just the same. And he’s a Hayes too as a matter of fact. Constable Hayes. Dribbling all over your good shoes there . . .”

Breathing fast, short and fast, Mrs Hayes flinched, eyes flicking down. Her grip softened on the stiletto the tiniest amount, the bloodied heel sliding out an inch for inspection. The constable blinked up at her woozily, sniffing, scared.

“He’s got a family. A son, like you,” Prophet said, almost whispering now. “He’s doing his best too. But he still doesn’t see you as an equal does he? Far from it. He thinks he’s better than you. They all do.”

“All . . . all of ‘em. They all . . .” Mrs Hayes began, teeth grinding.

Prophet tugged out a fresh white hanky and held it out for her.

“For your mascara? You’ve got a little . . .”

Mrs Hayes blinked, trembling. Dozens of faces watched silently behind the surrounding windows, breath held. Prophet knew she’d want to look good. Want to look her best for when whatever happened next eventually happened. The painted nails, the hair. She’d want to clean up. Which meant taking the hanky.

Which needed a free hand.

The shoe slid out and fell with a clatter to the wet ground, but her other hand wrapped the handbag strap around her knuckles once more, pulling tight. The constable wretched, head heavy, lolling.

She took the hanky and smeared her mascara across her face.

“They don’t see a mother worried sick,” Prophet whispered. “Helpless with grief. Willing to do anything.”

Their eyes met. Her’s saggy and purple with lack of sleep.

“Is it Ryan?” he said.

Mrs Hayes began to tremble hard, face bunching, sniffing. Strap slipping from her knuckles, the constable pitched forward, hands out.

“It’s all right. I’m listening,” Prophet said and Mrs Hayes collapsed. Like that, bang, she dropped dead weight, legs disappearing from under her. The bag fell, the constable slumped, head cracking the tarmac.

Suddenly the courtyard was alive. Boots and bodies. Doors slammed, yelling, clumping, splashing.

“Stay back,” Prophet barked, arm out. “BACK!” The courtyard stood silent, still for a moment, heavy bodies poised. “Right, get him up. Someone get an ambulance over here. Move. Get her bag.” He was clicking his fingers, positioning men, all the time watching the sobbing mass of grubby velour and greasy hair knelt at his feet. “Mrs Hayes?”

She covered her face, shaking, a rusty keening moan escaping.

Blinking hard, he looked up at the dozens of faces above. “Show’s over. Back to work,” he hollered, his eyes finally meeting the older man, still at the first floor office window, flanked by his peers. The older man jabbed a stubby finger at him and then jerked a thumb back. He waited for Prophet to give him a nod before the Detective Inspector moved away from the window and slammed it shut.

“On your feet,” an officer snarled as he and some colleagues rounded the weeping woman, lips curled, cuffs out. “Move.”

“Leave her,” Prophet barked. They looked up contemptuously. “Cool off.”

“Sir, she –

“Look after him.”

After a surly beat, the constables helped gather their groaning colleague up by the shoulders and led him, bloody and breathless into the station to await the paramedics. A trim WPC approached the slumped soft sobbing of Mrs Hayes.

“Get her inside,” Prophet murmured, chin low, voice dark. “Clean her up.” He noted the WPC’s anxious hesitation. “She’s all right,” he said. “She’s made her point.”

“Yes Sarge. We arresting her?”

“I want her in the custody suite. Just for now ‘til we sort this thing out.”

The WPC nodded, kneeling at the woman’s side, hand on her bony shoulder.

“That . . . that was PC Lucas, sarge’,” a voice said. Prophet turned. One of the constables stood there, replacing his baton. His hands were shaking. “The constable that . . .” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that bitch had by the neck.”

Prophet blinked at him. He went on.

“We don’t have a PC Hayes. And Lucas doesn’t have a family. He’s not even –

“I know, constable,” Prophet sighed. “And watch your mouth.”

“You’re defending her, sarge? After what she done to –

“Watch your mouth,” Prophet repeated through gritted teeth. He sighed, chest leaden. “Tch, and you wonder . . ? I mean, with everything that’s gone on in the last fortnight? Don’t you read the papers?”

“Nothing but the papers,” the constable said flatly. “Sir.”

Prophet knew what the young man was getting at but he let it go, moving on. It had begun to rain, sky blackening, fat spots rolling across his scalp to his bare neck.

“Who spoke to her when she arrived, any idea?”

“Sarge?”

“When she first got here?”

“She just jumped Lucas as he got out of his car, Sarge. She went nuts. We heard him shout. Slung her bag over his –

“She said ‘Come back tomorrow. You thinks you know my family. Thinks you can ignore us. Come back tomorrow?’ Who told her to come back tomorrow? Who’s on the front desk?”

“I-I don’t . . . I mean I’m not –

“Find out. Then check on Lucas. Make sure the ambulance is on his way. And get a message upstairs to the first floor I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

The constable looked blank.

“I know the Hayes family,” Prophet said, “and the Hayes family know the law. Better than most of the coppers here most days. She knows better than to assault an officer. Which means she must have a damned good reason. And if that infamous son of hers is involved, it’s probably a good idea to find out what it is, don’t you think? Let’s go.”

They both moved back into the station, gathering thunder sending them hurrying.

Darkness rolled deep across the city sky.

An aborted attempt to become one of the “Rankin” family.

I was living with a girlfriend in Wimbledon, when she had read an extract of GAGGED – a particularly spine-chilling bit of psycho mayhem set on the streets of Piccadilly if memory serves – to which she responded (I’m paraphrasing, but you’ll get the idea): “This is really good. You should write a proper book.”

Now this stung like a nettle-clad confidence-tricking wasp at a Police concert, but I of course knew what she meant.

And it was this thought that returned to me at the end of 2004 when the thought of spending another 2 years writing a comic novel seemed an enormous amount of effort.

Why not, I thought, knock out a “straight novel” – no jokes, banter, punning, wordplay or amusing incidents with a banana – in 6 months? Remove all the pressure to be funny and create a “regular” story? Could get it done in a tenth of the time, surely? Plus – ooh, cool, it could be a bit sort’a kind’a like whassisname, Iain Banks? Do a proper book, then a funny book, then a proper book – the straight ones paying for the self-indulgent ones? Ooooh, I could be Richard M. Asplin for the proper books?

Which is as much explanation as you need for this, which is the first chapter of my only “straight” novel – a Rankin-esque urban crime thriller – the start of a bestselling series of detective novels that I lost interest in almost immediately when it became apparent it was more time consuming to take jokes out than to write them in.

A few words on...

Prophet.

The collected

ill-informed drivel

of

Richard Asplin

A few words on the subject

A few words on the subject