Free Impure Blood by Peter Morfoot

comprehensive.’
    ‘Well, look – get the thing going and I’ll see what I can do resources-wise.’
    ‘Okay.’
    Darac gave Lartigue a pat on his bulky shoulder as he rose. ‘Now I’m going to have another chat with our friendly neighbourhood Muslims.’
    Once in his office, he made straight for the filing cabinets lining the side wall. His beloved Gaggia espresso machine lived on the corner stack. Before the desk sat a man wearing a long white agbada.
    ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long?’
    Metal rattled against metal as the man angrily shook an arm. His chaperone needed elsewhere, Monsieur Hamid Toulé had been left handcuffed to Darac’s radiator.
    ‘It was either that or the cells. And it’s nicer here.’ For a couple of beats, the air-con made a sound like lead pellets hitting an oil drum. ‘Marginally.’ Darac unlocked the filing cabinet and took out a packet of coffee beans. ‘And they did leave you one hand free.’
    ‘I was promised water. You people have no undestanding. None!’
    ‘You should have been left some.’ Darac turned to see that a cup had been set down next to Toulé’s chair. But it was untouched. ‘Ah. That’s your unclean hand, isn’t it? Sorry, Monsieur. That was thoughtless of us.’ He went over to him. ‘I don’t think we need these any more.’ A suspicious look was his reward for releasing Toulé’s right hand. ‘I’ll just put them away, and then what would you say to a coffee?’
    The man took three sips of water.
    ‘Where is the lawyer?’
    On Darac’s battle-scarred old desk, a framed photo of Angeline shuddered as he jerked open a drawer. He dropped in the cuffs and rammed it shut.
    ‘Take two,’ he said, repositioning the photo. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
    ‘No. What I would like is a lawyer.’
    ‘You’re being questioned under caution, monsieur – you’re not under arrest, as such.’
    Darac measured out the beans into the grinder and hit the power button. Toulé waited for it to stop before going on.
    ‘Then arrest me. I want a lawyer. Here. Now.’
    Darac couldn’t blame Toulé for mistrusting the police. But a lawyer wouldn’t help him in the way he probably envisaged. He needed a lesson in French law.
    ‘Let’s say I do put you under arrest, monsieur – here’s what that would mean.’ As Darac began to outline one arcane procedure, he carried on with another – the making of a perfect espresso. ‘This case was initiated by a public prosecutor rather than by an examining magistrate. In that circumstance, anyone placed under arrest is entitled to see a lawyer for thirty minutes. The purpose of that meeting is to acquaint detainees with their rights and to outline the legal situation in which they find themselves. The lawyer is entitled neither to read their case dossier nor to be present during questioning, which is conducted anywhere the investigating officer sees fit and without the use of recording devices. Detainees may be held initially without charge for forty-eight hours. This may be extended to ninety-six on the authority of the public prosecutor. Clear, Monsieur Toulé?’
    ‘I am clear that as a system, it is utterly barbaric.’
    ‘It is by no means perfect but let me tell you something about our barbaric system. In certain other countries, guilty parties get away with serious crimes every day precisely because a lawyer is allowed to sit next to them during questioning.’
    Toulé seemed unconvinced.
    ‘And think of this – the more money a client has, the smarter the lawyer he can hire. What that means in practice is that if you’re rich, you stand a far better chance of cheating justice. You think that’s a better system?’
    Drawing wisps of beard through his long fingers, Toulé fell into a contemplative silence.
    ‘Neither system is satisfactory,’ he said at length.
    Darac continued, with the man for another five minutes before he reached the conclusion that there was no compelling reason to hold