Shooting in the Dark

All that stood between the terror and her death was Sam Turner, the man she had just told to keep his distance.
    ‘Sam,’ she said. She felt him approach the bed, but at the same time two sets of footsteps entered the room. Heavy footsteps, walking in unison. The kind of footsteps that one associates with authority.
    ‘Sam Turner?’ The voice was masculine, a voice that lived in a barrel chest. It gave rise to a vision of a shave that was unnaturally close.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ Geordie said.
    ‘There’s no need for this,’ Sam said. But his comment was followed by a crash, the sound of some item of National Health Service equipment coming to the end of a long life.
    Geordie again, his voice incredulous: ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
    ‘Go and stand by the wall, and be quiet,’ said the voice from the barrel chest. ‘Mr Turner, if you continue to resist, you’ll leave me no alternative
    Angeles heard herself scream at the top of her voice as the two policemen frog-marched Sam Turner along the corridor and out through the swing doors.
    Her scream hung in the air for some time. She convinced herself that she could hear it vibrating long after it had disappeared. Every sound made her heart beat faster.
    She was alone again. Under observation, they would say when people enquired.
     

25
     
    George Forester did all the talking. Marie listened, but occasionally she couldn’t hold back and forced herself into the picture. The policemen at the various stations they had visited were, without exception, rude and patronizing.
    Forester was the first solicitor to have retained Sam when he began making a name for himself. At first glance he was not someone you would associate with Sam Turner; he couldn’t hang loose, always looked as though he was suppressing a fart.
    He wore a dogtooth Burberry overcoat, knee-length, with striped trousers and shoes that shone like mirrors. If his hair had been cut any shorter, his barber would have to qualify as a brain surgeon.
    The desk sergeant said: ‘Turner?’ He ran his finger down a list of admissions. ‘Nope. Sorry, nobody name of Turner.’
    ‘Look again, would you, officer?’ said George Forester. ‘We were told by the desk sergeant at Fulford that he was brought here.’
    The policeman took his time. His finger traced the list again, stopping every now and then at the long names, the ones with more than two syllables. When he’d finished he looked at them both and shook his head. ‘Where did you say he was arrested?’
    ‘He wasn’t arrested,’ said Forester, ‘he was forcibly taken from the District Hospital.’
    ‘Wouldn’t’ve come here, then. If he were arrested at the District, they’d’ve taken him to Fulford. Who was the arresting officer?’
    ‘We don’t know. There were two uniformed officers, both of whom are going to be charged with the use of excessive force.’ Forester glanced at Marie and took a breath. His voice was high-pitched and carried camp overtones but there was no doubting its authority. ‘Listen, Sergeant, I have been given the run-around by you and your colleagues for nearly five hours. I am warning you now that I have had enough. If I am not given access to Sam Turner in the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to make it my business to see you personally bounced around the courts.’
    The officer looked him square in the eyes, and found not a grain of compassion. The man swallowed and his Adam’s apple squirmed under the slack skin of his throat. He forced a fleeting smile across his face. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll give Fulford a ring, see if we can sort this one out for you. It’s not my job to go upsetting the public.’ Forester glanced at his watch. ‘Fourteen minutes,’ he said. He led Marie towards a bench seat by the wall, and they sat there together. Forester took his watch from his wrist and balanced it on his crossed knee.
    Marie was ill at ease in a police station. It always brought back the experience when Gus, her late husband and Sam’s first partner, was killed. The police had suspected Marie of the murder, though she was working at the time on the other side of town. It had taken her a long time to recognize that she was bereaved and at the same time suspected of being the author of that bereavement.
    She had come to terms with it largely due to the comfort and friendship of Sam, and for that she would always be grateful. Sam was impetuous and landed himself in trouble because he