2. The Racist Rep.

THE ACCUSED Part 1

Detective Inspector Rosie Baun’s union rep Desmond Grundyson looked at her with bristling eyebrows asking a thousand unspoken questions. For instance, why had she killed the woman? He was the sort of man who, despite his job, made up his mind rather hastily based on no real clues. He was also of an unpleasantly racist disposition, and Rosie Baur had mixed heritage.

He wasn’t going to believe her, then, even though the question remained silent, in his own head.

They were in an interview room in the women’s wing of Brumpton Gaol and it was his job to defend the D,I with the last breath in his body, if need be. That was unlikely, though. She’d plead guilty, he was sure of it, and if things didn’t go her way she’d play the race card. It never once crossed his mind that was precisely what he was doing

“I see from the notes they’ve seen fit to give me that the woman’s husband died in this prison,” he said, rustling the papers just enough to give the impression that he might actually be reading them. His problem was simple: experience had taught him that most of the coppers he’d been tasked with defending were guilty as hell. Not that they were necessarily bent but because they like to take short cuts leading to a truth that nay have been anything but true. It was just that they believed it.

She nodded. “And if it helps it was me who put him away. For killing a promising young constable. He was a petty thief who ventured too far out of his depth,” she said.

“And his wife blamed you for his death?”

Rosie nodded.

“Why should she do that? If you were nowhere near him when he fell ill?” asked Mr Grundyson, his eyebrows beetling.

Rosie sighed. “I was the arresting officer. If I felt anything it was anger that a promising young constable died. But the prisoner Mr Griffin, though he was as guilty as hell, he would probably only have had his wrist slapped in court if the officer merely tripped and recovered and just bruised his ego. If he’d gone to court that is.. But he lunged out at the constable, caught him, knocking him down onto the concrete forecourt of the petrol station and thus caused a brain injury that proved to be terminal, and that was murder.”

“Yes. Quite so. So in what way did that differ from your attack on Mrs Griffin, if you don’t mind me asking?” The eyebrows were beetling again

“How long have you got?” asked Rosie, struggling for politeness.

“Just explain, please.”

The eyebrows were most definitely twitching.

“Right,” frowned Rosie, “a woman had forced the door to my caravan and when I went to investigate she emerged through the door with a face like thunder, and all I registered was her lunging towards me with a sharp knife in her hand. I took an involuntary step back, tripped over what my late husband had considered to be a particularly attractive stone, and without thinking grasped for the nearest thing I could reach, which happened to be Mrs Griffin’s arm. That pulled her off her own balance and the two of us ended up on the driveway, me on top of her and she on top of the knife.”

“They’ll say you reached for her deliberately, knowing what may well happen.”

“Codswallop! I didn’t have time to think!”

“Maybe. Tell me, were you aware that her husband was dead?”

“Of course I was. We’d had a rather childish celebration in the station when the news reached us.”

“Celebrating the death of a prisoner?”

“He had been responsible for the death of one of our own.”

“Of course. Still rather childish, though?”

“As I said.”

“You aware of what he died of?”

“A heart attack, I believe.

“Might he have been a bit young to suffer from heart failure?”

“He was in gaol. Nobody could say, but it was possible that he was put under pressure from other prisoners. Scared to death, you might say.”

“If that’s what happened, What are your thoughts about it?”

Rosie shrugged. “I don’t know how come his heart gave way. It was probably a weakness he carried with him from birth. Who can tell? Certainly not a police officer.”

“And his death resulted in his wife losing her home?”

“Look, Mr Grundyson, you’re venturing on territory I neither have knowledge or control over. At the moment my only concern is myself, and I’ve committed no crime, unless grasping out blindly is a crime.”

“What about the way you were dressed? You had control over that and the evidence suggests you couldn’t have been more naked had you tried.”

“And you’re on my side? I was wearing a lightweight dressing gown, for goodness sake! What’s wrong with that?”

“The evidence suggests there’s a possibility you might have been having an affair with the deceased woman, let me see, Mrs Griffin, dressed like that, and being a widow yourself.”

Rosie stood up. “The evidence suggests nothing of the sort,” she said in a voice loud enough to make the officer tasked with observing take half a step forwards. “What it does, however, suggest is that I rushed out of my house to see who was stealing a rather expensive caravan!”

He smirked at her. At least, that was how she saw it. “We’ll leave it at that, and if there’s anything else you want to tell me then you can contact me at any time.” He handed her a card with his details on it.

“What do you mean, if there’s anything else? What do you mean by that?”

He smirked again and those eyebrows leapt up and down almost gymnastically.

“The truth, Mrs Baur, the truth,” he murmured.

© Peter Rogerson, 14.04. 21

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