Free Nineteen Eighty by David Peace

one.’
‘Upset was he?’
‘Yeah, but I reckon he’s feeling even more upset right this minute.’
‘You heard then?’
‘His wife called mine first thing. He call you?’
‘No, but I reckoned it’d be this morning.’
I take a sip of my tea and wait to see if he’s going to say any more –
He takes a sip of his and says nothing.
I say: ‘What’s going on, Bob?’
‘What did he tell you?’
I put my tea down on one of his coasters, one of an etching of a famous golf course, and I say: ‘Sod what he told me. I’m asking you.’
He’s sat forward now, his hands on his knees, looking nervous.
‘Spit it out,’ I say.
‘All I know is Roger Hook, he’s heading up some operation into Richard Dawson. Been on the cards a while like, but someone…’
‘What kind of operation?’
‘He’s bent isn’t he? Everyone knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? It was just going to be taxman, but then they heard Brass might be in for it, so Smith stuck Hooky on it. Dead hush-hush. Get it sorted out.’
‘They heard? Heard from who?’
The front door opens –
Child’s feet, a woman’s voice following –
The lounge door bursts open –
I stand up.
The girl freezes, thin and skinny as a tiny toy rake.
‘Hello, love,’ I say.
The girl looks at her Daddy –
Her Dad smiles: ‘Come say hello, Karen.’
But the girl goes back behind the chair.
Bob Douglas’s wife comes in, rain in her hair, and then stops dead.
Her husband says: ‘Sharon love, this is Peter Hunter. The Assistant Chief Constable.’
‘Yeah?’ she says, shaking my hand but looking at him.
‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Douglas as casually as he can.
I nod and smile.
His wife takes the girl by the hand, her face anxious. ‘Come on, Karen. Let’s get the dinner on,’ she says, closing the door on us.
I sit back down.
Douglas is white.
‘Who?’ I smile.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Fuck off,’ I hiss. ‘You do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Another copper?’
He’s looking down at the carpet, the big flowers and birds, shaking his head: ‘I don’t know.’
‘But they’re saying it’s me. I’m dirty.’
He looks up and nods.
‘Saying this started because of me?’
‘Someone tipped them …’
‘Who tipped them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’d tell me if you did, right Bob?’
He smiles –
I don’t –
I say: ‘OK, so who the fuck was it told you all this?’
‘Ronnie Allen,’ he whispers, glancing at the door.
‘There’s a fucking surprise.’
Douglas shrugs.
‘And you’re sure Ronnie didn’t give you any other names?’
‘I swear.’
‘He never said who told him?’
‘No.’
‘Never said who tipped them?’
‘No.’
‘Not the Ronnie Allen I know.’
Douglas shrugs again.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, according to Ronnie fucking Allen, how is it that I’m supposed to be dirty?’
He’s back looking down at the carpet. ‘Mr Douglas?’
‘No specifics,’ he says. ‘Just business.’
‘Just business?’
He doesn’t look up.
‘And this is just me and Dawson?’
He nods.
‘To put me in my place?’
‘That’s what Ronnie said.’
‘Why? Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who hates me that much, Bob?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’
‘You?’
He looks up: ‘Me? I don’t know you.’
‘Right. So don’t be talking about people you don’t know.’
He looks right at me, but says nothing.
I stand up. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Douglas.’
He’s still sitting in his chair.
I walk over to the lounge door and then I stop and I say: ‘And if I was you Mr Douglas, I’d be careful.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘You don’t want to be going about giving folk the impression you know more than you do.’
He stands up: ‘Is that a threat, Mr Hunter?’
‘Just a bit of advice, that’s all,’ I say and open the door.
His wife and daughter are in the hall, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her holding the tiny little lass tight around her waist.
No-one says anything.
I open the front door and step outside, turning to say goodbye –
But Douglas strides out into the hall and slams the front door.
I stand in their drive, the rain and their door in my face,