If it went according to plan, she would be able to arrest one of North London’s most notorious drug dealers. David Anderson, to anyone who lived in his manor, was a household name. Hanlon and Whiteside had nearly had him two years ago when they were both working for the Serious and Organized Crime unit of Specialist Crimes and Operations and liaising with the drug squads in various boroughs. The case had collapsed because of witness intimidation. It was par for the course with anything involving Anderson. Hanlon wanted him badly. She’d taken his acquittal as a personal affront. As Whiteside knew, there was an obsessive streak to her and there was no such thing in her world that equated to drawing a line under something. She was out to get the man and she would, even if it meant the destruction of her career.
Hanlon was sure that Cunningham knew a great deal about Anderson’s business. Cunningham had boasted as much to one of Hanlon’s informants while the two of them had been involved in a marathon coke session round at the informant’s house. Cunningham had bragged about how much he’d learnt about Anderson, about how much information he had on deliveries and prices. If what the man said was true, and if Cunningham decided to share the information, they could arrest Anderson with a sizeable drug delivery on his property. This time there would be no witnesses to retract stories, no coercion, just simple, undeniable possession.
‘I couldn’t help but notice you leaving that pub over there, sir,’ said the sergeant, who was accompanied by a young PC who looked about twelve to Cunningham. ‘You were nearly struck by a car as you crossed the road. Have you been drinking, sir?’
Cunningham took a deep breath. Although they had no reason to search him, the five hundred pounds’ worth of coke in his inside pocket felt the size and weight of a breeze block. The police hate lawyers. If they nicked him, he would be disbarred from the legal profession and they’d be turning cartwheels of joy at whichever station these two operated out of. Cunningham was widely known and disliked by the police.
‘I’ve had a drink, yes, but only a half of lager.’ The lawyer’s nose ran a little and he gave a loud involuntary sniff. He noticed the sergeant’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
‘Well, I’ll have to ask you to take a breathalyser test, sir,’ he said, producing the small, transparent plastic bag and fitting it with a tube. Cunningham followed his instructions and blew into it. The sergeant studied it carefully and said, to his huge relief, ‘Well, sir. The test indicates the presence of alcohol but within the permitted limits.’
Yes! thought Cunningham. Thank God for that.
Then, ‘However, sir, your general behaviour and inability to focus would indicate to me that you may be under the influence of drugs, which is an offence under the 1988 Road Traffic Act. I am afraid this means I must ask you to accompany me to the local police station where we can establish whether or not you have been driving under the influence of a controlled substance.’
A few times in his career, Cunningham had seen clients found guilty who had been expecting an acquittal and now he knew very much how they felt, running confidently forward off a cliff, legs pumping furiously on thin air, like a cartoon character, like Wile E. Coyote or Road Runner, only to look down and realize that the ground beneath their feet no longer existed, before plummeting to the earth. It was more or less how he felt now.
‘Could I have your car keys, sir?’ Cunningham opened the door and got out. He locked the car behind him. When he returned to it, he knew it would be clamped or towed. He might as well sell it anyway. He wouldn’t be able to afford it in the future. He wouldn’t have a future. He wouldn’t have a job.
He knew what would happen at the police station. ‘Would you mind emptying your pockets, sir.’ If they believed they had reasonable suspicion that he possessed drugs, which they did, he couldn’t refuse. The discovery of the coke would follow, as would a mandatory mouth swab or blood test to see if he’d been under the influence of drugs whilst intending to drive. The crazy thing was, what he cared about even more than losing his driving licence, or losing his job, his career, was losing the coke in his pocket. He even found himself mentally working out how long they’d hold him for, so he could give Toby a call and get some more. It was the end of the road for his legal career, that much was for sure.
He followed the sergeant, the constable at his side. At least they hadn’t cuffed him. They’d spared him that embarrassment. Their police car was parked round the corner. The sergeant opened the door and put Cunningham in the back, then sat in the passenger seat. The younger policeman got in behind the wheel. He started the engine and then Cunningham, staring at his knees to avoid eye contact with curious pedestrians, hoping to God no one he knew would walk past and recognize him, and wondering which nick they’d take him to, was aware of the window being wound down and a woman’s voice.
The engine stopped. The other rear door opened and a dark-haired, unsmiling woman stepped in and sat next to him. The uniforms got out and walked away from the car. Cunningham looked at her in surprise. He didn’t recognize her. She had a hard, pale face and there were dark patches under her eyes as if she had trouble sleeping. She looked like trouble on legs.
He wondered who she was and what she wanted. It couldn’t be anything good. Not with a face like that.
The coke euphoria was beginning to wear off and he was feeling a growing sense of agonized doom. He just wanted the day to end.
She looked at him and said, ‘My name’s DI Hanlon. I’m liaising with the sergeant from Serious Crimes and I think you’re Patrick Cunningham, the lawyer, and you are in very serious trouble.’ She paused to let the concept of serious trouble sink into the lawyer’s mind. He stared at her blankly. She repeated the phrase. ‘Very serious trouble.’
Hanlon wondered if maybe he’d gone into shock at the prospect of being arrested. She’d seen it happen before with people who had never been in trouble before with the police, had never dreamed it would be possible, and found themselves way out of their depth. Or maybe he was about to spring some devastating legal objection she hadn’t foreseen. Some procedural lapse that they’d committed. He was a lawyer after all. His mind had to be working like crazy to find a way out of the mess he was in. They’d nicked a judge for speeding a while back and he’d turned up for his court appearance with eight ring binders full of paperwork to try to get the charge quashed on a technicality. God knows what Cunningham might try. He was facing a lot more than three points on his licence.
She shrugged mentally and carried on. ‘Now, if you give me the information I want, you can go free; if not, well, it’s up to you. So far, nothing is yet official. You haven’t actually been charged. You can walk away from all this mess. It’s up to you whether it stays that way, but if you’d rather, you can accompany us to the police station and we’ll allow the due process of the law to take over, with all that implies.’ Hanlon waited for the man’s reply. It was more or less the line she had used with Toby, but Toby was a sad failure of a man, in way above his head, and Cunningham was a top-flight lawyer.
Momentarily she wondered if he really was all there mentally. He did look remarkably stoned. She never tried to predict reactions or outcomes but she had been expecting some form of protest, not this silence.