Free Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) by Kerry Wilkinson Page B

group then that would be really helpful. And if you could do it by yourself, it would be even
    better because we need all the officers we can get, plus we want to do things softly so he doesn’t get
    edgy. Oh, and when you’re done with that, if you could get your arse back here because we’re all
    snowed under – literally and figuratively – then that would be great too. Any questions? No? Good.’
    Jessica wondered if she should get a pair of Velcro shoes for herself.
    Under strict instructions not to blow the Serious Crime Division’s monitoring of Thomas McKinney
    and his Anarky group, Jessica did one of the things she had specifically been instructed not to: she
    wound him up. As she sat in McKinney’s living room, deliberately disobeying strict commands,
    Jessica already had her reasoning laid out. It was the exact one she’d used when she got sent to the
    headmaster’s office in primary school for punching a boy in the face: he started it. Back then, little
    seven-year-old Jimmy Francis had pinched her bottom. In this instance, McKinney started it by
    generally being a cocky so-and-so.
    He was in his late thirties, with oiled hair parted down the centre. After inviting her in, he sat in his reclining armchair, feet up, wearing sparkling, chunky gold jewellery, designer jeans, designer T-shirt
    and designer stubble, ranting about the fact that society was too commercial. He had an orange glow
    about him that either came from a bottle or a sunbed and a fake-sounding cockney accent.
    And he used to be an estate agent.
    What was there to like?
    Jessica was interviewing McKinney under the pretence that they’d had an anonymous but credible
    threat made against him and that she had to find out certain details to see what action to take. It was
    what they called in the trade ‘trying it on’.
    She was attempting to keep her voice level but there was a natural level of annoyance she couldn’t
    hide. ‘So, Mr McKintey,’ she said, deliberately getting his name wrong, ‘you used to be an estate
    agent but what do you do now?’
    ‘This is a full-time job, sweetheart, we’re looking to go national.’
    ‘Isn’t “going national” a bit organised for a group whose overall aim is a society without
    government or law?’
    ‘It’s a means to an end, innit? You only get that end goal if you can get yourself into that position in the first place? Plus, we’re in favour of the more up-to-date definition of what you might call
    “anarchy”.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘We believe modern governments are in the control of bankers and corporations. That makes the
    rest of us sheep and democracy a sham. We don’t want to do away with all government, we just want
    to get rid of this setup and abolish capitalism so we can start again.’
    Well, there’s a long weekend planned, what was he going to do after that?
    Jessica pulled a printout from her jacket and began to read. ‘Did you believe that when you were
    given sixty hours community service for dealing speed four years ago? How about when you got a
    conditional discharge for selling stolen packets of Temazepam? Or the supervision order for dealing
    mephedrone? Then there’s a caution for threatening behaviour?’
    ‘Hey! I thought you were here because I was in danger? What have those got to do with anything?’
    ‘I’m covering all bases, Mr McKinley. Perhaps there could be someone in your past who has it in
    for you? Drug-dealing friend? A supplier? Punter? Is there anyone you can think of?’
    Stony face: ‘It’s McKinney – and no, I left all of that behind.’
    ‘Okay, what about your organisation? I gather from the Anarky website that you’re the founder and
    chairman but there’s also a secretary, a spokesman, a few people you call “officers”, there’s a bank
    account . . . could it be that there’s any friction there? It sounds like it’s a very organised setup but obviously that can create tensions.’
    McKinney shuffled awkwardly in the