Civvies

'What about the office?' he asked, nodding towards the partitioned glass-panelled enclosure.

'Follow me!' Newman beckoned, the good citizen only too happy to co-operate with the law. 'Watch your footing, I've had problems with the sprinklers.' As they walked along he pointed up to the cables running along the walls. 'Alarm system. Anyone trying to get in here and this baby would go off like a time-bomb.' With an indulgent wave of the hand, Newman called across, 'Any of you lads got kids, take what you want. Business is bad, I can't give this gear away.'

A few paces behind, Jenkins said casually, 'Your boy was a Para, wasn't he? A soldier…'

And noted the stiffening of Newman's spine. Newman stopped to face him, but he wasn't angry or defensive, the inspector saw, he was proud, even a little defiant.

'Yes. I got a medal to prove it! He was killed in a club, he wasn't even on duty. Nineteen years old.' Newman looked away, and in profile the hollow cheeks and scrawny neck made him look old and haggard, a distinguished roué long past his sell-by date. 'His mother never got over it… his name was Billy.'

'So you know Dillon then?'

Newman walked on. 'He was his sergeant! I met up with him when he first came to civvies, while back now.'

'Meet some of his pals too, did you?'

Newman paused at the office door. He turned slowly, gave Jenkins his full dead-eyed stare. Touched a spot there, Jenkins thought, half-expecting a flat denial, but didn't expect what he got, an acid, withering bitterness, a raw open wound that had never healed and never would.

'Look, this Dillon. I tried to give him a leg-up, know what I mean? The thanks was, he borrowed my motor and totalled it, an' that's been my only interaction with him. Maybe I should've tried to do somethin' for him, but that was thirty grand's worth! I reckoned whatever he'd done for my boy, we were quits – an' I'm not a charity.' Newman held up his thin hand, pointed a long skeletal finger. 'I'll tell you who should watch out for these lunatics, the ruddy government. Most of them need rehabilitation, they're all screwed up.'

Whatever lies he might tell, whatever descriptions he might perpetrate, Newman was on the level with this, Jenkins thought. It came straight from the heart, no question. Newman gestured brusquely. 'Here's my office, come on through.' Jenkins followed him inside.

She wouldn't cry. Susie had made this promise to herself. She had to keep Frank's spirits up. The last thing he wanted to see was a red-eyed bawling wife. But it took every ounce of self-control as the woman police officer led her into the interview room not to let the calm outer surface crack wide open. It was the sight of him sitting hunched in the chair, hands clasped on the bare table, shackled by handcuffs. He looked so lost and helpless. From somewhere Susie summoned up a pallid smile. She sat down opposite him, while the WPC took up a position behind her and a male officer stood with arms folded at the door, like a bouncer itching to sort out the troublemakers.

'I've been here every day but they wouldn't let me see you. Mr Crook arranged it in the end.' Susie wore a plain dark skirt and a pale yellow blouse under her coat that she knew Frank liked, but he hadn't even looked at her. She reached out, not quite touching the bunched hands, fingers squeezed tight. 'Are you all right?'

'This is all a mistake.' Dillon stared sullenly at the table. His cheeks were smooth and pale, freshly shaved, dark rings under his eyes. 'I haven't done anythin' wrong. They can't keep me here without chargin' me.' His lips thinned. 'I haven't done anythin'.'

'Mr Crook's tried for bail, Frank, but it was turned down at the Magistrates Court. He said he'll have to wait a few more weeks before he can apply again -'

'You think I don't know?' He raised his head sharply. His mouth twisted as the anger spilled out. 'He's a useless twat!'

Susie hesitated. 'He says you're not helping.'

T didn't do anything wrong!' said Dillon hoarsely.

'You know Cliff told them about Newman?' Dillon glared at her. 'What are you protecting him for?' Susie asked, genuinely puzzled.

'You don't understand.' Dillon was nodding to himself, an ugly smile smearing his features. Tm gonna give you some names, friends, if that bastard shows his face-'

'Frank!' Susie leaned towards him. 'He said you never worked for him, he says his place was never broken into… that it was lies, all lies.'

'Marvellous innit – they believe that villain, but not me? I told Cliff to keep his bloody mouth shut. Typical. But what can you expect, he was only on transport, he's never seen any action. They won't get Harry to -'

Susie's fist drummed impotently on the table. 'I can't believe I'm hearing you right! Cliff was going to be married, don't you care? He's in a terrible state… Shirley's pregnant.'

'You think I'm allowed to see him? See Harry?' Dillon didn't hear, didn't care. His eyes were a bit wild, his brain locked on the single track it had been on, ceaselessly, every waking moment. 'Bastards have segregated us. Four lineups they had me in – I been in four line-ups, for what? They're tryin' to pin every robbery pulled in England on us. It's crazy, it's all crazy…'

He calmed his breathing and looked at her from under his brows. 'They not said anythin' about anythin' else?' he asked uneasily. 'Have they… Susie?'

A fist rapped on the door. The officer unfolded his arms. He waved to Dillon to stand. Susie pleaded, 'Ah, not yet! Please, not yet…!'

The officer got Dillon on his feet. He opened the door. Dillon said desperately, 'Are the kids all right?'

'Yes…' And the promise she had made herself was broken as a sob came up, nearly choking her. Still she struggled to hold on. Dillon tried to turn back. The officer would have none of it. He had Dillon under the armpit, and the officer outside grabbed the other arm and he was bodily hauled away.

Susie laid her head on her arms and had to let it all come out, promise or no promise.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three…

Sweat dripping off his nose, Dillon pushed himself up from the cell floor. Susie had brought in some of his gear, and he wore a singlet, track-suit bottoms, and his faithful old Pumas. If he shut his mind to everything, it was like doing Basic again. He was back at The Depot.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six…

Do eighty of the bastards and he'd be ready for a pint with the lads in the NAAFI. Have a sing-song, good old Taff booming out in his big Welsh voice, the prat. Get Steve up on a table, doing his Tom Jones with a baton down his inside leg. Jimmy fiddling the one-armed bandit. Harry remembering that long day's tab up to Wireless Ridge, when Wally's frostbitten toes dropped off.

A bell rang out and the caged wall light went out, plunging the cell into darkness.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two…

Susie moved silently into the boys' room, careful not to disturb them. She left the door slightly ajar so that she could see by the landing light. There were one or two gaps on the walls where Dillon had taken down the photographs. And what Dillon had started, Susie now finished, dropping them one by one in the cardboard box. His face looked out from nearly all of them. Sometimes clean and shiny, sometimes streaked with brown camouflage cream and dirt. Mostly unsmiling, but in a couple there was that rare Frank Dillon grin. It was there, broader than usual, in a photograph of him and his lads, grouped round a table in a bar, brimming pints of Guinness and Murphy's in front of them. Six young Toms, just kids, sitting at the table, with Dillon standing behind, flanked by Jimmy Hammond, Taffy Davies, Steve Harris, Harry Travers. They looked to be having a great time, and probably were. The very best of times.

Susie took it down and looked at it. Then she dropped it in the box with all the rest and shut the lid. She went to the door and paused, gazing round. The little room seemed empty and desolate, the walls naked. Just pale rectangles and pin-holes to indicate where the gallery of memories had once been. The boys would miss them, no doubt, but it was time to move on, to grow up. You couldn't live in the past for ever. Susie went out, closed the door on it.