The phone rang. “Sal, it’s Mandy. Thank you for the tape.”
“Can you use it?”
“They’re dithering. I’m not going to have an answer till later this week. I get the impression there’s some uncertainty between the two solicitors who’ve seen it and they want to discuss it with the boss.”
“But it’s clear enough isn’t it? You can make out who’s involved and…”
“Yes. That’s not the issue. They won’t go to court unless they’re ninety-nine percent certain of winning. It’s out of my hands now until I get word from them, so hang onto the camera in the meantime.”
“What is it that they’re not sure about?” I demanded. “It’s obviously harassment, you can hear most of what they’re shouting, all the racist abuse. And they attack the property, too – all the kicking the door…”
“Yes, it’s awful,” she agreed, “but sometimes they need to prove the violence is sustained, that it’s an ongoing problem.”
“There’s all the police call-outs.”
“Sal, it’s not up to me. I wish it were.”
“I’m sorry, I know.”
“I’ll get back to you, as soon as I hear one way or the other. I hope it’ll be later in the week but I can’t promise.”
I paced about a bit after that, seriously pissed off. I couldn’t settle to my report for Roger Pickering or any other paperwork. It was just after two. I locked up and went home. The house was a mess after the weekend. I tidied and hoovered the lounge and swept the stairs and the kitchen floor. I’d worked up a sweat by the time I’d done and created a bit of order to make up for the fact that out there everything was crazy and out of control.
At nine thirty that evening Mr Poole rang me. “Can you come,” he said urgently, “there’s trouble brewing.”
My stomach tightened. I told him I’d be there as soon as possible. I slapped on the wig and glasses and the long mac, got the sports bag from my room and told Ray where I was going. He looked at me for a while and for an awful moment I thought he was going to ask me if I’d changed anything but he finally figured it out.
“Is it fancy dress?”
“Undercover, reduces the risk of any dodgy types coming after me,” I tried to make it sound jokey.
“Good,” he said. His face closed down. There wasn’t any warmth in the comment. I knew he was thinking about previous occasions when my work had come far too close to home. It was an area we skirted round now. I had a rush of irritation with him. The past was over and done with. How long was he going to cradle his disapproval? We needed to talk about it, but not then. I was in a hurry.
