I can’t let everything else go to pot while IPCC tries to make sense of a few chaotic minutes in our cells. I should have had you in here before this.”
Hazel felt her heart turn over and begin to sink. “Yes, sir?”
Fountain smiled. He was still a good-looking man, tall and broad, with a leonine presence that rendered the whiteness of his hair and mustache entirely irrelevant. “Cheer up,” he said, “I haven’t pulled you in here to sack you. I wanted to ask how it’s going for you—if you’re getting the support you need.”
She was taken aback. “Yes—indeed, sir. People have been great. Helpful, and welcoming. Up to two days ago, I was really enjoying the job.”
He nodded grimly. “And then you met Robert Barclay. I’m afraid the Barclays of this world are part of the job. No one joins for the privilege of dealing with them, but deal with them we must.”
She sucked in a deep breath and asked the question that had been racking her. At least one of them. “Was it my fault, sir? If I’d handled it better—kept my distance, waited for back-up as Constable Budgen wanted to do—would things have worked out better?”
Johnny Fountain gazed at her with compassion. His voice was a soft growl. “You mean, would Jerome Cardy be alive today?”
Silent, Hazel nodded.
Fountain shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t. That’s not where it went wrong. There were two points where events could have taken a different path, and you weren’t involved in either of them. Whatever got Barclay spitting tacks, that was one of them. We don’t know what set him off and we probably never will. But once he was out of control, somebody was always going to call us, we were always going to have to arrest him, and he was always going to end up in the cells. If he’d come with you quietly, he’d have ended up there; if we’d gone in mob-handed, he’d still have ended up there.
“The other thing that went wrong was that Jerome Cardy was kipping in a cell where he wasn’t supposed to be. That wasn’t your fault, either. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. Donald Murchison thinks it was his, because he was custody officer and should have known where his prisoners were, but what are you going to do—crucify him for not locking the door on a quiet law student and a sleeping tramp? It was a reasonable thing to do. That’s what I expect IPCC to conclude: that nobody did anything wrong. Except Barclay, and what can you expect of a man known to one and all as Barking Mad?”
When he put it that way, Hazel found herself mentally backpedaling. He was right. What happened wasn’t Sergeant Murchison’s fault—the man risked serious injury to get Cardy away from his attacker, and was almost quick enough to save him. If he’d succeeded, he’d have been a hero to one and all, herself included. The fact that it took him just a few seconds too long to reach the cells didn’t make him a villain. And if the sergeant had done nothing wrong, he had nothing to hide. In all probability the CCTV just crashed, as it had done before and probably would again.
“Gabriel Ash…” she began uncertainly.
“Ah yes. Rambles With Dogs.” Fountain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers contemplatively. “Another deeply unfortunate case. He was quite a highflier at one time, you know. Worked for the government. Then he had a breakdown, and these days it’s as much as he can manage to get his shoes on the right feet. Lives in a little world all his own. About all we can do for Rambles is try to keep the kids from tormenting him.”
And that was it in a nutshell. The reason Hazel had felt uneasy about what happened when no one else did was that she’d listened to what Gabriel Ash had said about that night, when everyone else had had more sense. Nothing Ash said, nothing he thought he remembered, could be trusted. He was concussed, he’d been sleeping, but even wide awake he couldn’t be considered a reliable witness.
Hazel felt her heart turn over and begin to sink. “Yes, sir?”
Fountain smiled. He was still a good-looking man, tall and broad, with a leonine presence that rendered the whiteness of his hair and mustache entirely irrelevant. “Cheer up,” he said, “I haven’t pulled you in here to sack you. I wanted to ask how it’s going for you—if you’re getting the support you need.”
She was taken aback. “Yes—indeed, sir. People have been great. Helpful, and welcoming. Up to two days ago, I was really enjoying the job.”
He nodded grimly. “And then you met Robert Barclay. I’m afraid the Barclays of this world are part of the job. No one joins for the privilege of dealing with them, but deal with them we must.”
She sucked in a deep breath and asked the question that had been racking her. At least one of them. “Was it my fault, sir? If I’d handled it better—kept my distance, waited for back-up as Constable Budgen wanted to do—would things have worked out better?”
Johnny Fountain gazed at her with compassion. His voice was a soft growl. “You mean, would Jerome Cardy be alive today?”
Silent, Hazel nodded.
Fountain shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t. That’s not where it went wrong. There were two points where events could have taken a different path, and you weren’t involved in either of them. Whatever got Barclay spitting tacks, that was one of them. We don’t know what set him off and we probably never will. But once he was out of control, somebody was always going to call us, we were always going to have to arrest him, and he was always going to end up in the cells. If he’d come with you quietly, he’d have ended up there; if we’d gone in mob-handed, he’d still have ended up there.
“The other thing that went wrong was that Jerome Cardy was kipping in a cell where he wasn’t supposed to be. That wasn’t your fault, either. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. Donald Murchison thinks it was his, because he was custody officer and should have known where his prisoners were, but what are you going to do—crucify him for not locking the door on a quiet law student and a sleeping tramp? It was a reasonable thing to do. That’s what I expect IPCC to conclude: that nobody did anything wrong. Except Barclay, and what can you expect of a man known to one and all as Barking Mad?”
When he put it that way, Hazel found herself mentally backpedaling. He was right. What happened wasn’t Sergeant Murchison’s fault—the man risked serious injury to get Cardy away from his attacker, and was almost quick enough to save him. If he’d succeeded, he’d have been a hero to one and all, herself included. The fact that it took him just a few seconds too long to reach the cells didn’t make him a villain. And if the sergeant had done nothing wrong, he had nothing to hide. In all probability the CCTV just crashed, as it had done before and probably would again.
“Gabriel Ash…” she began uncertainly.
“Ah yes. Rambles With Dogs.” Fountain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers contemplatively. “Another deeply unfortunate case. He was quite a highflier at one time, you know. Worked for the government. Then he had a breakdown, and these days it’s as much as he can manage to get his shoes on the right feet. Lives in a little world all his own. About all we can do for Rambles is try to keep the kids from tormenting him.”
And that was it in a nutshell. The reason Hazel had felt uneasy about what happened when no one else did was that she’d listened to what Gabriel Ash had said about that night, when everyone else had had more sense. Nothing Ash said, nothing he thought he remembered, could be trusted. He was concussed, he’d been sleeping, but even wide awake he couldn’t be considered a reliable witness.
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