Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [33]
Pat sat on the end of the bed and, while he waited, read Wesley’s Sun from cover to cover in four minutes. Only an article by their political editor Trevor Kavanagh—he must surely be an Irishman, thought Pat—was worthy of his attention. Pat’s thoughts were interrupted when the heavy metal door was pulled open once again.
“Let’s be ‘avin you, Pat,” said Sergeant Webster. “You’re first on this morning.”
Pat accompanied the officer back up the stairs, and when he saw the desk sergeant, asked, “Could I have my valuables back, Mr. Baker? You’ll find them in the safe.”
“Like what?” said the desk sergeant, looking up.
“My pearl cufflinks, the Cartier Tank watch and a silver-topped cane engraved with my family crest.”
“I flogged ‘em all off last night, Pat,” said the desk sergeant.
“Probably for the best,” remarked Pat. “I won’t be needing them where I’m going,” he added, before following Sergeant Webster out of the front door and onto the pavement.
“Jump in the front,” said the sergeant, as he climbed behind the wheel of a panda car.
“But I’m entitled to two officers to escort me to court,” insisted Pat. “It’s a Home Office regulation.”
“It may well be a Home Office regulation,” the sergeant replied, “but we’re short-staffed this morning, two off sick, and one away on a training course.”
“But what if I tried to escape?”
“A blessed release,” said Sergeant Webster, as he pulled away from the curb, “because that would save us all a lot of trouble.”
“And what would you do if I decided to punch you?”
“I’d punch you back,” said an exasperated sergeant.
“That’s not very friendly,” suggested Pat.
“Sorry, Pat,” said the sergeant. “It’s just that I promised my wife that I’d be off duty by ten this morning, so we could go shopping.” He paused. “So she won’t be best pleased with me—or you for that matter.”
“I apologize, Sergeant Webster,” said Pat. “Next October I’ll try to find out which shift you’re on, so I can be sure to avoid it. Perhaps you’d pass on my apologies to Mrs. Webster.”
The sergeant would have laughed, if it had been anyone else, but he knew Pat meant it.
“Any idea who I’ll be up in front of this morning?” asked Pat as the car came to a halt at a set of traffic lights.
“Thursday,” said the sergeant, as the lights turned green and he pushed the gear lever back into first. “It must be Perkins.”
“Councillor Arnold Perkins OBE, oh good,” said Pat. “He’s got a very short fuse. So if he doesn’t give me a long enough sentence, I’ll just have to light it,” he added as the car swung into the private carpark at the back of Marylebone Road Magistrates’ Court. A court officer was heading toward the police car just as Pat stepped out.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams,” said Pat.
“When I looked at the list of defendants this morning, Pat, and saw your name,” said Mr. Adams, “I assumed it must be that time of the year when you make your annual appearance. Follow me, Pat, and let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.”
Pat accompanied Mr. Adams through the back door of the courthouse and on down the long corridor to a holding cell.
“Thank you, Mr. Adams,” said Pat as he took a seat on a thin wooden bench that was cemented to a wall along one side of the large oblong room. “If you’d be kind enough to just leave me for a few moments,” Pat added, “so that I can compose myself before the curtain goes up.”
Mr. Adams smiled, and turned to leave.
“By the way,” said Pat, as Mr. Adams touched the handle of the door, “did I tell you about the time I tried to get a laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me—”
“Sorry, Pat, some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last October.” He paused. “And, come to think of it, the October before.”
Pat sat silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the graffiti on the wall. Perkins is a prat. He felt able to agree with that sentiment. Man U are the champions. Someone had crossed