Free Nineteen Eighty by David Peace Page A

everything bad, everything sad, everything dead –
Raised voices inside.
I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the place empty and deserted on a wet and bloody Sunday before Christmas, the lights out.
I turn into the car park at Headquarters and that car’s back, there in my space –
Two men inside.
I pull in next to it, get out and tap on the glass.
The driver winds down his window –
I tell him: ‘This space is reserved.’
‘Sorry,’ he says and winds the window back up –
I start to knock on the glass again, saying: ‘Can I ask you …’
But the car reverses and pulls away –
I take down the license plate:
PHD 666K .
Upstairs, I dial the Chief Constable –
He’s back home:
‘What the bloody hell happened to you last night,’ he’s saying. ‘One minute you were there, next minute …’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.’
‘Is this bloody work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘I won’t be here, I have to go back to Leeds.’
‘You’re at the office now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Talk.’
‘Not on the phone, sir.’
A pause, then: ‘What’s this about?’
‘I think you know.’
He’s angry: ‘No I don’t or I wouldn’t ask you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s about Roger Hook’s investigation into Richard Dawson.’
Silence, then: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I hang up and look at my watch:
It’s gone noon, but already night outside.
At one-thirty Chief Constable Clement Smith telephones and asks me to step across the hall to his office.
I knock once and am told to come.
Clement Smith is behind his desk in a sports jacket, writing; Roger Hook across from him with his back to the door, waiting.
‘Afternoon,’ I say.
Roger turns and smiles: ‘Afternoon, Pete.’
I sit down in the chair next to him, facing Smith –
Smith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, continuing to write –
Roger Hook sat there, just waiting –
Until, after two minutes of this, Smith looks up and says: ‘Go on then.’
I swallow, angry: ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation that would seem to be involving me on a personal level,’
‘So go on.’
I glance at Detective Chief Inspector Hook and back to Smith: ‘Now?’
‘That’s why you dragged us all the way in, wasn’t it?’
I say: ‘I would prefer to have the conversation in private.’
‘Stuff what you’d prefer Pete; it’s Sunday bloody afternoon.’
Hook stands up.
‘Sit down,’ says Smith.
‘Sir, I don’t mind …’ says Hook.
Smith has his hand raised: ‘I mind.’
Hook stops and sits back down.
Smith is staring at me, eyes black and waiting –
‘OK,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Dawson, who I believe we all know?’
Smith and Hook nod.
‘Well last night, at the Midland Hotel, he tells me that yesterday morning police officers visited his bank and took away records relating to him. He said that a former Yorkshire police officer, Bob Douglas?’
Smith and Hook nod again.
‘He said that Douglas had told him that the reason for this investigation was because of his friendship with me. To put me in my place. Richard Dawson then asked me for help and I declined to assist him, as he was under investigation. This morning, however, I learnt that his house had been raided and, following a meeting I’ve just had with Bob Douglas, I would very much appreciate being told to what extent this investigation is concerned in any way with my friendship with Richard Dawson, or with me personally.’
I pause, then add: ‘I realise this is irregular and against procedure and I would like to stress that I’m not asking for, nor do I expect, any information about the investigation into Richard Dawson, other than whether or not it relates to me.’
Then I stop, waiting –
Smith sighs and turns his gaze to Hook, nodding –
Hook shrugs and says: ‘It doesn’t.’
Smith turns back to me, eyes black and twinkling.
‘That’s it?’ I say.
‘Dawson is under investigation,’ continues Hook. ‘But, for the moment, it doesn’t have anything to do with you or any