man from the Chamber of Commerce.
‘Roma,’ said Julie, the exhausted-looking social worker.
‘Call them what you like,’ said Ella Mears. ‘They’re bloody taking over. And like the councillor says, they’re all on drugs.’
‘Levels of drug abuse among the Roma are on a par with other disadvantaged local communities,’ said Julie.
‘Don’t know why we waste our time at these meetings,’ said Ella Mears. ‘If we hadn’t let them in in the first place we wouldn’t have half the problems. Round my way the kids are up to all sorts.’
‘Order, order,’ said Councillor Sleight, who was supposed to be chairing. ‘We’re discussing obstructive parking outside schools. I’m not sure you can blame the gippos for that.’
‘Roma,’ said Julie, the social worker, again.
‘Just for the record,’ said South, ‘there is no evidence to suggest that the killer of Mr Rayner is from any of the immigrant communities.’
‘Well said,’ said Sleight. ‘Right. Can we continue? We have less than thirty minutes.’
Julie the social worker said, ‘There are issues with asylum-seeker children with poor language skills being placed in unsuitable schools, if you want to discuss that, Mrs Mears.’
‘Shouldn’t be here in the first place. Can’t get our own kids into decent schools.’
Sleight slammed his palm down so hard on the table that the water in their glasses trembled. ‘Enough!’ There was a shocked silence. ‘I will not stand for this. I’m a busy man. I’ve better things to do than listen to this kind of nonsense.’
Ella Mears looked like she’d swallowed a wasp. Sleight glared at her for a few seconds more, then his stern face melted into a smile. ‘I circulated an agenda before the meeting,’ he said, his voice calm again. ‘Can we save any further discussion for Other Business?’
At the end of the meeting, South was still writing up the actions he had agreed to in his notebook when Vincent Sleight said, ‘In a way, Ella’s right. I don’t know why we bother. None of this stuff about parking and litter is solving anything. And like it or not, a lot of it is immigrants. That’s the real pressure round here. Ask an eighteen-year-old lad who can only afford to take a job that pays enough to pay the kind of exorbitant rent people charge these days. Ask him what he thinks of all the Poles and Lithuanians who can afford to work for half the money.’
‘Even in your neighbourhood, Vincent?’ said South.
Sleight laughed. ‘Fair play, but I come from one of those places like Ella’s. Worse than that too.’ Sleight lived in one of the big white houses in the middle of the golf course behind Sandgate. A swimming pool, a guest house and a view south, over the Channel. South had been there only once, three or four years ago, to inspect Sleight’s gun safe after he’d applied for a shotgun licence.
Sleight laughed. ‘Come round for dinner, Bill, sometime,’ he said, as he stood, picking up his briefcase. ‘The wife does a smashing roast. You ever met her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come and meet my lad. Back at home now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good luck with the murder case, by the way. Are you going to make an arrest?’
‘I think we’re close.’
‘Good man.’ Sleight always invited him to dinner without naming a date; South recognised it as a form of politeness. South was just a low-ranking copper. And Sleight probably knew he wouldn’t have wanted to come, anyway.
Every neighbourhood had them; the big men. Sleight was by no means the worst of them, thought South.
The days after his dad died, it was like something was buzzing away inside his head, making it impossible to think straight.
‘What, Mum? Sorry. Didn’t hear you.’
‘Poor lad. What are we goin’ to do with you?’
He hadn’t dare go back to lift the manhole cover. The nights kept him awake, tying the sheets around his legs as he turned and turned.
‘He’s sleepwalking now,’ she
‘Roma,’ said Julie, the exhausted-looking social worker.
‘Call them what you like,’ said Ella Mears. ‘They’re bloody taking over. And like the councillor says, they’re all on drugs.’
‘Levels of drug abuse among the Roma are on a par with other disadvantaged local communities,’ said Julie.
‘Don’t know why we waste our time at these meetings,’ said Ella Mears. ‘If we hadn’t let them in in the first place we wouldn’t have half the problems. Round my way the kids are up to all sorts.’
‘Order, order,’ said Councillor Sleight, who was supposed to be chairing. ‘We’re discussing obstructive parking outside schools. I’m not sure you can blame the gippos for that.’
‘Roma,’ said Julie, the social worker, again.
‘Just for the record,’ said South, ‘there is no evidence to suggest that the killer of Mr Rayner is from any of the immigrant communities.’
‘Well said,’ said Sleight. ‘Right. Can we continue? We have less than thirty minutes.’
Julie the social worker said, ‘There are issues with asylum-seeker children with poor language skills being placed in unsuitable schools, if you want to discuss that, Mrs Mears.’
‘Shouldn’t be here in the first place. Can’t get our own kids into decent schools.’
Sleight slammed his palm down so hard on the table that the water in their glasses trembled. ‘Enough!’ There was a shocked silence. ‘I will not stand for this. I’m a busy man. I’ve better things to do than listen to this kind of nonsense.’
Ella Mears looked like she’d swallowed a wasp. Sleight glared at her for a few seconds more, then his stern face melted into a smile. ‘I circulated an agenda before the meeting,’ he said, his voice calm again. ‘Can we save any further discussion for Other Business?’
At the end of the meeting, South was still writing up the actions he had agreed to in his notebook when Vincent Sleight said, ‘In a way, Ella’s right. I don’t know why we bother. None of this stuff about parking and litter is solving anything. And like it or not, a lot of it is immigrants. That’s the real pressure round here. Ask an eighteen-year-old lad who can only afford to take a job that pays enough to pay the kind of exorbitant rent people charge these days. Ask him what he thinks of all the Poles and Lithuanians who can afford to work for half the money.’
‘Even in your neighbourhood, Vincent?’ said South.
Sleight laughed. ‘Fair play, but I come from one of those places like Ella’s. Worse than that too.’ Sleight lived in one of the big white houses in the middle of the golf course behind Sandgate. A swimming pool, a guest house and a view south, over the Channel. South had been there only once, three or four years ago, to inspect Sleight’s gun safe after he’d applied for a shotgun licence.
Sleight laughed. ‘Come round for dinner, Bill, sometime,’ he said, as he stood, picking up his briefcase. ‘The wife does a smashing roast. You ever met her?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come and meet my lad. Back at home now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good luck with the murder case, by the way. Are you going to make an arrest?’
‘I think we’re close.’
‘Good man.’ Sleight always invited him to dinner without naming a date; South recognised it as a form of politeness. South was just a low-ranking copper. And Sleight probably knew he wouldn’t have wanted to come, anyway.
Every neighbourhood had them; the big men. Sleight was by no means the worst of them, thought South.
The days after his dad died, it was like something was buzzing away inside his head, making it impossible to think straight.
‘What, Mum? Sorry. Didn’t hear you.’
‘Poor lad. What are we goin’ to do with you?’
He hadn’t dare go back to lift the manhole cover. The nights kept him awake, tying the sheets around his legs as he turned and turned.
‘He’s sleepwalking now,’ she
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