Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson)
Read Crossing the Line (Kerry Wilkinson) Online
Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
Contents
1
The sights juddered slightly before centring on the politician’s chest as he straightened his tie. In a
line of people messing around with their expensive clothes, smoothing down patches of disobedient
hair, and generally trying to make it look as if they weren’t cold, his choice of bright pink neckwear
blazed brighter than anything.
It also made him an easier target to hit.
As he moved across the makeshift stage, one hand in the air acknowledging the smattering of
applause, the sights followed him, the thin black lines and red circle keeping him in their centre as he pulled an obviously fake smile and nodded towards his crowd. Another hand shot through his hair: a
sort of vaguely blond quiff but without the grease or height. It definitely involved a lot of back-
combing though.
Another nod and a smile. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
Meanwhile, the red circle of the sights shifted a few millimetres until directly over his forehead.
Jessica Daniel stifled a yawn. ‘You know, you really could just pop the guy’s head right off from
here.’
Esther Warren had one hand pressed to her ear, the other covering her eyes from the chilled spring
sun raging over the top of the bus station, casting an icy glow across Manchester’s Piccadilly
Gardens. She brushed away a non-existent crease from her suit and tightened her ponytail. ‘Yeah, the
blood spatter might even improve his suit. Light grey and bright pink? Anyway, it’s a bit hard to blow
anyone’s head off if all you’re holding is a pair of binoculars.’
Jessica put them down and squinted instead from where they were standing on the steps towards
where the Home Secretary was beginning his speech. ‘It’s always the little things with you, isn’t it?’
Esther snorted. ‘I’m an inspector, temporarily in charge of policing special events for the whole of
Greater Manchester. I’d hopefully notice a bloody great rifle if it was in front of me.’
‘I thought you said you were deputy?’
‘I said I was “technically” deputy. The chief’s off on the sick and nobody else fancies it.’
Jessica tried the binoculars again, running along the line of gormless-looking men in suits on the
stage standing around with their hands behind their backs, smiling on cue as the Home Secretary
banged on about something to do with the community. ‘I suppose it’s a step up from kidnap squad.’
Esther sighed. ‘That’s how the bastards sold it to me – it’s more like a step sideways off a cliff into
a giant pile of shite at the bottom.’
‘What counts as a special event? Are you managing a riot squad if the cathedral’s jumble sale gets
out of hand, or is there some fete I’ve not heard about?’
Esther failed to stifle a laugh. ‘I’m glad my fledgling career is so hilarious to you. I’ll have you
know we’re supervising a scout group tonight in case the ging-gang-goolies get out of hand and then
we’re keeping an eye on the market this weekend.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course not really. It’s mainly football but there’s also some outdoor concerts coming up. We
only got the call three days ago that the Home Secretary wanted to do something in the centre.’
‘Why’s he up here?’
‘Who knows? This Westminster lot reckon anywhere north of Watford is like a ghetto. They come
up here thinking it’s a day in the trenches to show they’re one of us. As soon as the cameras
disappear, it’s a first-class train back to London and a cheeky midnight handjob on Clapham
Common.’
Jessica took her phone out of her pocket and started fiddling with the screen. ‘You paint quite the
picture.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be helping?’
‘I
am
helping, I was just checking work emails – plus I’m here supporting you.’
‘Not just skiving off from Longsight then?’
Jessica looked up and re-pocketed the phone in her suit trousers. ‘You asked me to come, here I
am.’
Esther checked her watch. ‘I asked you to bring the gang actually. It’s all about numbers to this lot.
The Prime Minister gets three dozen officers, two personal handlers, guns on the roofs, a partridge in
a pear tree and his PA carries the lube. The Chancellor only gets half that, so the Home Sec’s pissed
off that he gets even less again. Suddenly his people are on to my people, the chief constable’s
involved and then the diktat comes down that we need a “presence”.’
‘I’m sorry it’s just me then. We’ve got some guy in the cells for hiring out his sister to someone he
owed drugs money, an off-licence was held up in Eccles last night, then there’s an entire family in
after a domestic led to one of their houses being burned down. The fumes have apparently caused
mass amnesia when it comes to answering questions.’
‘How’d you get out of dealing with all that?’
Jessica pretended to polish her nails. ‘Delegation.’
‘Aye, I heard about the promotion. It’s been—’ Before she could finish the sentence, Esther turned
half-around, pressing her finger to her ear. If Jessica hadn’t known she was talking into a radio mic, it would have seemed like she was having an argument with herself, her free hand flapping around
animatedly: ‘Well, why didn’t someone fill it up with petrol then?’ Pause, scowly face. ‘I don’t know;
we’re only the sodding police – perhaps we’ll manage with a herd of camels next time?’ Pause, more
frowning. ‘What? No, camels. You know, big, slow things that live in the desert?’ Pause, shake of the
head, eyebrows raised in disbelief. ‘What? No, I don’t need you to get me— Look, just forget it, fill
the bloody car up with petrol and get your arse over here pronto.’ She shook her head, sighing, and
turned back to Jessica. ‘I’m surrounded by morons!’
‘Whatever vehicle you’re talking about is definitely a petrol, isn’t it?’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Esther turned her back again, restarting her conversation with whoever was
on the other end, telling them to make sure it didn’t need diesel.
Jessica focused back on the stage across the concrete plaza. The Home Secretary was banging his
fist on a lectern, facing slightly off-centre towards a bank of cameras. She pulled her jacket tighter
around herself as the sun continued to lose its battle with the cold. She didn’t realise Esther was back by her side until the other woman spoke. ‘Either his top button is too tight or his head is too big for
the rest of his body. He’s like a human bobble head.’
‘What’s he even announcing? Free Kalashnikovs for eight-year-olds?’
‘Something like that. They come up here, cameras in tow, a mini army carrying their bags and think
it’s the Nuremburg rally. By the time you add up the PRs, journalists, hangers-on, TV types clinging
onto their skinny lattes for dear life and all us lot, we outnumber the crowd anyway. It’s supposed to
be a nice day – who wants to listen to this guy?’
‘Who are the other lot standing at the front of the stage in suits?’
‘Local councillors, party organisers, activists – basically anyone who fancies getting their face on
telly. I think Sky News are broadcasting live.’
Jessica looked from one side of the plaza to the other. Behind the Home Secretary, there was an
expanse of grass, recently trimmed and neatly framed for the cameras – enough to make anyone who
might happen to catch a snippet on the news think that Manchester was a green paradise, instead of a
pissed-upon traffic-jammed nightmare. In front of him, the rest of the area was paved, a busy tram
station on one side, hotels, restaurants and stores on the other. Shoppers hurried past, glancing briefly towards the man in a suit before deciding they’d somehow find a way to continue their lives without
stopping to listen. Just for good measure, the workmen refitting the giant clothes shop behind them
started with the pneumatic drill to add a background din of chuntering concrete to the mix.
‘They always show them to the decent bits,’ Jessica complained, continuing to scan the area. ‘Nice
bit of grass, some sun. If it was down to me, we’d wheel ’em out to a burned-out bingo hall in Eccles
in the pissing rain. That’d give ’em a wake-up call.’
Esther didn’t reply and when Jessica turned around, she was a few metres away, finger in ear,
having a conversation that sounded like it was about who they should call to get petrol drained from a
diesel engine.
As the Home Secretary said something about either empowerment or impairment, one of the
shoppers hurried across the back of the hundred-strong crowd and then stopped to chat to one of the
uniformed police officers.
‘I’ll bet he’s either asking what’s going on, or he’s trying to find out where he can get a dozen eggs,’
Esther said, rejoining Jessica.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Don’t ask. Your lot can’t be this bad, can they?’
‘We got called out to some disturbance at a bowling alley last week. Someone reported a bloke
waving a knife around and we sent a team in through the fire exit, not knowing it opened onto the alley
itself. Three uniforms went through just as little Jonny-it’s-my-twelfth-birthday lobs a ball down. He
ends up wiping out the lot of them and then some other kid thinks it’s planned entertainment for the
party and throws another. Before our boys know it everyone’s having a go. They ended up needing the
parents to protect them from the kids. One bloke lost his front teeth.’
‘Ha! You did well to keep that out of the papers.’
‘I think someone threatened to nick the lot of them for assault with a deadly bowling ball or
something.’
‘What happened to the guy with the knife?’
‘There wasn’t one – it was one of the chefs that someone had seen walking into the kitchen. You’d
have thought the oversized hat and white overalls might’ve given it away. I was on a day off so I can’t