DETECTIVE-SERGEANT BAKER was big. Not tall; broad. Wide.
Not fat, either, though there was the hint of a beer paunch pushing out against the buttons of his shirt where it was cinched in by his belt.
His eyes were small, but then again not piggy-eyed small, just small for his rather round Alfred Hitchcock face, the jowls heavy, the nose spreading a little as if someone had pounded it sometime, or perhaps he just liked his beer. Small veins cracked open the skin over his cheekbones.
He had his jacket off, but the tie at his neck was firmly up against the collar. The white shirt was spotless.
He’d got me a paper cup of watery coffee-machine coffee and himself drank orange-coloured tea from a big pint mug like something you might find under a Victorian brass bedstead.
“I hope you’re feeling a little bit calmer now, sir.”
I was, and a bit ashamed at the way I’d blown my top. It certainly hadn’t improved my relationship with my son.
I hadn’t been charged or anything. We’d been down at the Station for what seemed like days, crawling our way through the usual police bureaucratic sludge, statements, questions, cross-questions, address check, more questions, then the signature at the bottom of what we were supposed to have said.
I’d admitted it was all my fault, though whenever I could I talked about drugs, in the hopes that the police would get the hint and go down and tear the place apart, looking for evidence. They never seemed to get the hint.
“What’s going to happen, then?”
“Well, we’ve asked them if they want to make a complaint and they say no.”
“Damn right they don’t want to make a complaint. I’d see the shit hit the fan good and proper.”
“Yes, well sir, what I really want to ask you is not to go down there making trouble again. Can you promise us that?”
“But my son lives there. You telling me I can’t call on my own son?”
“He tells us you’re not actually his legal guardian, so to speak, that you and his mother were divorced, and his current stepfather is” – he referred to his notes – “a Mr Robert Jones, a lawyer by profession, I understand.”
“Yes, that’s true, but he’s still my son and it was his mother brought me into it, told me my son had been messing around with heroin.”
“So you said in your statement, sir.”
“Well that’s right. And I only had to take a look at his arms to see that it’s true. Did you see those trackmarks?”
“No, sir, but then he had his sleeves rolled down. Since he wasn’t actually here for committing any offence, we had no real occasion to examine or search him.”
“So what does it take, for God’s sake, do you have to see him mainlining in the police bog before you start to take notice?”
“Not at all, sir. As a matter of fact, we’ve had that house under surveillance for quite a while, which is how we got there rather sharpish when they dialled 999. But vague suspicions aren’t evidence.”
“But you do realise that my son is a junkie and he’s a minor?”
“He’s certainly a minor, but we’d have to do various tests before we could confirm your other allegation, sir. And we can’t really do them until we have more evidence than is forthcoming at present, like seeing him come out of a known dealer’s residence, being found in possession, etcetera, etcetera.”
“OK, OK.”
Suddenly I was very tired. I looked at my watch and groaned: past 2pm with no work accomplished, and a deadline to meet. I’d been up for 11 hours and the whole thing had been emotionally draining like nothing else I’d experienced since my break-up with Kay. Matter of fact, it had been worse. Both events had plumbed depths of mixed guilt and hate that I was startled to discover in myself, not to mention violence.
I’d always prided myself on being the guy who could walk away from any brawl and face down violence in others without taking my hands out of my pockets. And yet here I was, being questioned about a possible charge of assault and criminal damage, and all because of a son I saw barely once a year if then.
“You’re free to go now, sir. We’ll keep an eye on that house, don’t you worry. You might like to try telling the council there’s a minor at possible risk there. They might take action.
“But please don’t try to take the law into your own hands again, sir. We will act as soon as we have the necessary evidence, don’t you worry. We want to catch the drug pushers as badly as you do. More so, probably. But one problem is that most users are pushers, too.”
“Could I see my son?”
“I’m afraid he’s gone home, sir.”
“You mean you questioned him without me present? Are you allowed to do that? I thought a parent had to be there with a minor.”
“With due respect, sir, he wasn’t the subject of the complaint, you were. In fact, if we’d known he was a minor, we wouldn’t have brought him here. We’d have sent the Juvenile Bureau round to see him.”
“So you’ve let him go back to live with the other junkies, just like that. Charming!”
“Yes, well sir, we’ll do what we can about that situation. Meanwhile, I’d suggest you stay clear. We may not be able to contain any future incidents.”
“You mean I’m barred from seeing my own son?”
“I expect you have some sort of access. Perhaps you could contact your wife and get her to arrange something. Of course, we can’t forbid you from going there, unless someone goes to court for some kind of an injunction, and I don’t imagine they’ll be that organised. But we do advise you to stay away. For everyone’s good.”
November 29, 1988. Maggie Thatcher's on the throne, George Bush Snr’s in the White House, our hero’s trying to make a crust writing about rock'n'roll. He wakes up with a hangover and someone whose name he can't remember in bed beside him. And his ex-wife's on the phone with some bad news about their son. He’s about to descend into the madness that is the drugs trade, involving comedy, sex and murder. Situation normal, that is: all fucked up.
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