The Black Mile by Mark Dawson

was heavy, the kind of weight
that usually went with pricey bits of tom. “Nice. Must’ve set you back an arm
and a leg.”
      “Take it. Go
on––it’s yours.”
      “How much?
Forty notes? Fifty?”
      “It weren’t
cheap.”
      “Expensive
for a copper.”
      “Go on, take
it. It’d look good on you, I reckon.”
      “Another
bribe, George?”
      “No, course
not.”
      “How’d you
manage to put together that kind of dough? Get lucky on the pools or
something?”
      “You know I
didn’t.” He shifted in his chair.
      Charlie
opened up the folder he had in front of him and made a play of running his
finger down a list of numbers. All for show: everything he needed was in his
head. “You’re on four quid a week, aren’t you? I’m just wondering how you
manage to get the money for an expensive piece of kit like that when you’re
earning four quid a week. I mean, you’d have to take a couple a week out for
rent, six bob for housekeeping, another quid for you to have a few beers with
the lads––you see where I’m going with this, don’t you? You’re not left with
much at the end of the week.”
      Grimes
smiled pathetically. “Come on, old man. We can sort this out, can’t we? I’d do
the same for you, honestly I would, if you ever found yourself in a pickle.”
      “I’ve got a
list of questions for you as long as your arm and you need to answer them. Like
what were you doing today?”
      Grimes
started to say something, then stopped, thinking better of it. Confusion fell
across his face. His fists clenched.
      “Come on,
George. Think about it. It’ll be easier for you if you co-operate.”
      Grimes
looked down at the table and shook his head. He sniffled.
      “Why don’t
you talk to me––we’re both Masons, George. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve
been missing meetings.”
      More
snivels.
      “Baxter told
us what’s been going on.”
      “You needn’t
believe him.”
      “You’ve been
threatening to fit him up with stolen property unless he gave you this.” He
tapped the envelope on the table with his pen.
      Grimes put
his head in his hands and sobbed. Charlie stared at him, baffled: he’d expected
anger, aggression, the table thumped and violent threats. But George, who could
probably tear the telephone directory in hands as big as hams, was crying like
a baby. Charlie felt bad going on, twisting the knife. “I already know what’s
in the envelope. I gave it to Baxter. Marked a couple of the notes on the
bottom, too, just in case you were daft enough to take it.” He opened the
envelope and took out the money, pointing to the scrawls he had made. “Are you
sure you don’t have anything to say? Come on, George––come clean. It’ll help.”
      Tears fell
between his fingers.
      Charlie was
wrong-footed. “Baxter said you and another copper were on his case. Who is it?”
      Nothing.
      “There were
two of you. Tell me who your mate is. Get it off your chest. It’ll be a
relief.”
      “Please.
Please. I can’t have this happen to me. Not now. We’re so close. So bloody
close.”
      “Close to
what?”
      “You don’t
understand––it’ll be the end of me. I’m serious––I’m done for.”
      “George,
calm down. What is it, man?”
      “They’ll do
me in.” He reached across the table and grabbed Charlie by the wrist. “I’m
begging you.”
      Charlie
shook his arm free and stood up.
      “Begging me
isn’t going to help. But what happens to you isn’t my decision.”
      “What do you
mean? Whose is it?”
      “Alf.”
      “He knows?”
      “Yes.”
      “What did
you tell him?”
      “Everything.”
      “What did he
say?”
      “He wants to
talk to you. And you might want to think about coming clean to him. Give him
what he wants and he’ll look after you. If you don’t–– keeping your mouth shut
is just going to make things worse. You’ll go away, George. A year, maybe two.”