zoomed in on Jerome before focusing on the
Glock. ‘Go for it, man. Let’s make a movie!’
Jerome shrieked with delight. ‘This one’s for YouTube,’ he shouted at the tiny camera. ‘Comin’ to get ya, baby!’
‘You the man, Jerome,’ shouted one of the losers.
‘I’m a killer, man!’ Jerome stepped closer to the camera and put the gun to his head, grinning like a maniac. ‘This is how you muthafuckin’ kill someone!’ he
screamed, eyes blazing. ‘Just sqeeeeeze .’ His index finger jerked back the trigger. There was a muffled crack and his eyes rolled back into his head. For a second, time stood
still. Then, still holding the gun, he did a little sideways dance before stepping off the side of the building and disappearing from view.
Eric stood there, the background hum of the late-night traffic in his ears, trying to work out how his mate had done such a cool trick.
‘Wow!’ said a voice behind him. ‘Did you get all that?’
ELEVEN
T he number 25 bus travelled west along Oxford Street, bouncing past the clothes stores, mobile-phone booths, cafés and sex shops at an average speed of about three miles
an hour. It would probably have been quicker just to walk all the way, but he couldn’t be bothered. The top deck provided a dirty and depressing vista, an unappealing mix of third-world
squalor and first-world weather. It was one of the few parts of his home city that made Carlyle feel ashamed, so he always did his best to ignore it.
This morning, on his way to his breakfast meeting with Rosanna Snowdon, he sat at the very front of the bus, with his head stuck firmly in The Times . On page three, he contemplated a
story about a man in Wales who had spent thirty years in prison after having been wrongly convicted of the murder of a young woman. New DNA tests had shown that he could not have been the killer.
The Criminal Cases Review Commission was rushing to have the guy freed.
Reading the article, Carlyle began to feel a physical pain in his chest. The whole thing was so depressingly familiar. The ‘murderer’ was described as being mentally ill. That was no
big surprise – doubtless he had been an easy way of getting a serious case off someone’s desk and a grieving family off someone’s back. At the trial, the jury had returned a
unanimous guilty verdict in double-quick time. The trial judge had thrown in his tuppenceworth as well, proclaiming: ‘ I have no doubt whatsoever that you were guilty of this appalling,
horrible crime .’
No doubt whatsoever. They just couldn’t wait to throw away the key. How very satisfying. An appeal was refused. Only years later, when a new solicitor pushed for another look, did the
Forensic Science Service test the bodily fluids collected from the crime scene.
In short, the case had been a total fucking mess, a serving policeman’s worst nightmare. It also raised serious concerns about the integrity of dozens of other murder convictions which
would now have to be similarly reviewed. The man’s solicitor spelled it out for hopeful lags up and down the country: ‘ Anyone who believes that they’ve been wrongly convicted,
and thinks DNA tests would help, should contact a lawyer immediately. ’
Carlyle wondered morosely how many of his own past cases could be undone by modern technology. It didn’t bear thinking about. There but for the grace of God . . .
Slowly, slowly, slowly, the bus struggled another fifty yards up the road to stop at a red light. Carlyle closed the paper and stumbled out of his seat towards the stairs. The five-minute wait
while the bus crawled to the next stop and the driver condescended to open the doors, did nothing to improve his mood. Not for the first time, he pined for one of the old Routemaster-style buses,
where you could just jump on and off the open back platform whenever you liked. Finally back on the pavement, he got off Oxford Street as quickly as possible and headed north.
Ten minutes later, he
Glock. ‘Go for it, man. Let’s make a movie!’
Jerome shrieked with delight. ‘This one’s for YouTube,’ he shouted at the tiny camera. ‘Comin’ to get ya, baby!’
‘You the man, Jerome,’ shouted one of the losers.
‘I’m a killer, man!’ Jerome stepped closer to the camera and put the gun to his head, grinning like a maniac. ‘This is how you muthafuckin’ kill someone!’ he
screamed, eyes blazing. ‘Just sqeeeeeze .’ His index finger jerked back the trigger. There was a muffled crack and his eyes rolled back into his head. For a second, time stood
still. Then, still holding the gun, he did a little sideways dance before stepping off the side of the building and disappearing from view.
Eric stood there, the background hum of the late-night traffic in his ears, trying to work out how his mate had done such a cool trick.
‘Wow!’ said a voice behind him. ‘Did you get all that?’
ELEVEN
T he number 25 bus travelled west along Oxford Street, bouncing past the clothes stores, mobile-phone booths, cafés and sex shops at an average speed of about three miles
an hour. It would probably have been quicker just to walk all the way, but he couldn’t be bothered. The top deck provided a dirty and depressing vista, an unappealing mix of third-world
squalor and first-world weather. It was one of the few parts of his home city that made Carlyle feel ashamed, so he always did his best to ignore it.
This morning, on his way to his breakfast meeting with Rosanna Snowdon, he sat at the very front of the bus, with his head stuck firmly in The Times . On page three, he contemplated a
story about a man in Wales who had spent thirty years in prison after having been wrongly convicted of the murder of a young woman. New DNA tests had shown that he could not have been the killer.
The Criminal Cases Review Commission was rushing to have the guy freed.
Reading the article, Carlyle began to feel a physical pain in his chest. The whole thing was so depressingly familiar. The ‘murderer’ was described as being mentally ill. That was no
big surprise – doubtless he had been an easy way of getting a serious case off someone’s desk and a grieving family off someone’s back. At the trial, the jury had returned a
unanimous guilty verdict in double-quick time. The trial judge had thrown in his tuppenceworth as well, proclaiming: ‘ I have no doubt whatsoever that you were guilty of this appalling,
horrible crime .’
No doubt whatsoever. They just couldn’t wait to throw away the key. How very satisfying. An appeal was refused. Only years later, when a new solicitor pushed for another look, did the
Forensic Science Service test the bodily fluids collected from the crime scene.
In short, the case had been a total fucking mess, a serving policeman’s worst nightmare. It also raised serious concerns about the integrity of dozens of other murder convictions which
would now have to be similarly reviewed. The man’s solicitor spelled it out for hopeful lags up and down the country: ‘ Anyone who believes that they’ve been wrongly convicted,
and thinks DNA tests would help, should contact a lawyer immediately. ’
Carlyle wondered morosely how many of his own past cases could be undone by modern technology. It didn’t bear thinking about. There but for the grace of God . . .
Slowly, slowly, slowly, the bus struggled another fifty yards up the road to stop at a red light. Carlyle closed the paper and stumbled out of his seat towards the stairs. The five-minute wait
while the bus crawled to the next stop and the driver condescended to open the doors, did nothing to improve his mood. Not for the first time, he pined for one of the old Routemaster-style buses,
where you could just jump on and off the open back platform whenever you liked. Finally back on the pavement, he got off Oxford Street as quickly as possible and headed north.
Ten minutes later, he
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