Harry was quiet. He knew that was his motto. Control. It was all about control. The lawyer had to be in charge, because the line between lawyer and criminal can be a thin one. If the criminal is in charge, he can pull the lawyer over the line with him. No client is worth your career. That had been Harry’s mantra throughout Sam’s training. Don’t run errands, don’t pass on messages, don’t take anything to them. Stay professional and distant.
And parents were the worst of all, because they controlled the client as well. It didn’t matter how old they were, children didn’t tell the truth in front of their parents.
Harry turned away to look out of the window. ‘At least be polite. For your own sake.’
Sam nodded and then turned to leave the room.
Blackley police station was next to the court, so Sam had to run the gauntlet of courthouse drunks and crooks to get there, Luke King tucked in behind him. Sam tried to make conversation, asked him what he did with his life, but Luke didn’t answer.
Sam shrugged and gave up. He had just to advise him, not like him. And the day was getting weird. The old man had been outside the office again, staring at him as he left. If he was still there later, Sam would call the police.
They reached the entrance to the police station. It was an old stone building, with roman window arches and block-effect stone on the corners. Steps went up to double-glazed doors and a bright sign, the old wooden doors and blue lamp long gone. Reinforced glass windows lined the building at pavement level, a faint glow giving the only hint that anyone occupied the rooms below. They were the cells, a line of damp, tiled rooms, with an aluminium toilet and a PVC mattress for furniture.
As they were about to climb the steps, Sam turned to Luke. ‘Are you okay about this? We don’t have to do it.’
Luke didn’t respond.
‘It’s your call, not your father’s. If there’s something you want to keep from the police, then leave.’
Luke looked towards the police station, and then back towards Sam’s office. He saw the group of drunks outside the court.
He turned back towards Sam, and Sam sensed more determination than before. Luke seemed suddenly confident, his eyes less scared.
‘There’s something you ought to know,’ he said.
Sam smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re here as a witness. I’m not going to change anything you’re going to say. I’m here just in case the police think that you’re more than that.’
He shook his head. ‘No, you’ve got to know this.’ He moved closer to Sam and grabbed his wrist. Sam could smell the office coffee on his breath, could see the gloss of sweat on his top lip.
‘I did it.’
I watched Sam Nixon walk by, and I was curious.
I was on the steps of the court, just passing the time between cases, when I saw him, the brightness of his shirt loud in the shadows beneath the old grey buildings. Then I noticed the young man walking alongside him, nervous in a grey suit, the pads hanging off his skinny shoulders. Sam was walking quickly and the young man was struggling to keep up.
As they walked past, I saw Sam glance at me and then walk on. The police station was next door to the court, and I watched them slow down as they got near to the steps.
I was interested. Not many people go to the police station in a suit, and I knew that solicitors didn’t go to the police station as much as they used to do. Police-station runners do most of it now, cheaper versions of the real thing.
I had read the reports, that for lawyers crime no longer pays. It is all about volume, so police-station runners handle most of the police-station work, giving the lawyers the time to go to court. The runners only have one choice to make: whether to advise clients to answer questions or stay silent. The suits are cheaper, shinier, the faces younger, but they are prepared to put in the hours, and they are all billable hours.
‘Look at the cunt.’
I whirled around. It was the drunk from before, Terry McKay.
‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Sam Nixon?’ As a journalist I had learned a long time ago that it was good to listen to anyone who was prepared to talk.
Terry swayed on the steps, and turned to me slowly, his eyelids barely open.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m the person you’re talking to,’ I said, ‘so tell me, who’s the cunt?’
Terry turned back to the street.
‘Him,’ he said. ‘With fucking Nixon. Cunt. And Parsons.’ His head bobbed as he talked.
I nodded towards Sam and the young man in the suit, who were now by the bottom of the police-station steps.
‘Who is he?’
Terry turned to face me. I saw that his denim jacket was covered in stains, and the sides of his shoes were splitting where his feet were forcing their way out.
‘Don’t you fucking know, arsehole?’ He launched spittle onto his chin when he said this, as his head bobbed and shook.
I grinned. Drunks like him didn’t bother me. He wanted to talk. The booze had just made him forget how. ‘You tell me, arsehole,’ I said.
Terry stared at me, in that way that drunks always do, concentrating too hard. He swayed and his feet shuffled slightly on the steps as he tried to steady himself.
‘Fucking King’s boy.’ He said it with a snarl. ‘That cunt owes me.’
‘King?’
Terry turned back, his teeth bared in anger. ‘Aye, fucking King. Jimmy King, whatever, bullshit fucker.’ He clenched his fist, looked like he was going to punch something. ‘He owes me, fucking owes me.’
I became alert. I knew of Jimmy King. Local businessman with a bad reputation turned into a pillar of society. Respectable. And his son was being escorted to the police station. Now, there was a story.
‘What’s his name? The son?’
Terry grinned at me. ‘Luke,’ he said slowly, relishing the sound. ‘Remember that name.’
I smiled at Terry and went for a walk, just to see where they were going.
Sam paused for a moment, surprised, not sure he’d heard Luke right. It sounded cold, like they were just words. ‘Don’t tell me any more.’
Luke shook his head, his eyes wide now, staring into Sam’s. ‘No, you’ve got to know. I did it. I killed the girl. And do you know what? I enjoyed it.’
Sam tried to pull away, but Luke’s grip was surprisingly tight, strong.
‘And do you know what else?’
‘Enough,’ said Sam, his irritation coming out in a hiss. ‘I don’t need to know this. Not yet.’
‘I’m going to do it again.’
Sam gave his wrist a yank and pulled it away.
Luke stepped in closer. ‘I’m going to keep on until someone catches me,’ he said, his mouth curled in a grin. ‘How will that make you sleep?’
Sam was stunned, quiet, not knowing what to say, when Luke walked away from him. He was heading for the steps, then he turned around.
‘C’mon, Mr Nixon. It is Mr Nixon, isn’t it? Not Sam?’ He smiled. ‘Catch up. The police want to speak to me.’
And