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.’ He sighed.‘As if it wasn’t enough of a fiasco.’Nick felt a ripple of alarm.‘Oh?’The inspector’s mouth was a thin line of disgust.‘It could have been worse, but I can’t imagine how.’ He chucked a newspaper on to the bed.On the front page were two large photographs, one of a person being beaten by a member of the Special Patrol Group, the second of the same person propped against some railings, covered in blood and looking half dead.Wheatfield.On page three there was more: a sequence of six pictures, obviously taken with a motor-drive camera, which showed Wheatfield being hauled out of the crowd and cowering under a hail of blows from a truncheon.The photographs were excellent; the point of the story inescapable.And the journalists had made the most of it.Nick knew that he had been thoroughly outmanoeuvred.It made him feel slightly sick.‘All the other papers have got at least one picture,’ said Straughan wearily.‘On the front page, of course.’Nick tapped the pictures.‘This is why I asked to see you.’‘Yes, so they told me.’‘It was a put-up job.They set it up.This bloke – Wheatfield – was beaten by his friends, in the crowd, and after the SPG man had hauled him out.I saw them doing it.They kicked him in the face …’Straughan exhaled slowly.‘Let me understand this – you are telling me that this customer was injured by his friends to make things look bad for us?’‘Right.’The DCS paused, then shook his head.‘Well, they’ve bloody succeeded, haven’t they? I mean in making things look bad.’Nick argued.‘But I saw them do it.’‘Yes, so you did.’ He didn’t look happy about it.A suspicion began to harden in Nick’s mind.He asked, ‘This is going to be taken further, isn’t it?’‘Of course.’‘But?’‘But it’s your word against these pictures,’ said Straughan briskly.‘You’ll be believed in the Force – that goes without saying.But outside – they’ll think we’re making up stories to cover our thuggery, won’t they? And they’ll argue that the kick you claim to have seen was in all likelihood accidental, won’t they? They’ll say you were seeing what you wanted to see.Get my point?’Nick settled his pounding head back on the pillow.He got the point all right, and it was the one he’d suspected he would have to accept all along.‘Well, at least this sod Wheatfield’s not going to die on us,’ said Straughan, getting to his feet.‘Apart from a broken nose and an ugly face he’s not badly hurt.They say he’ll be out in three or four days.That’s something at least.’Nick said a little too quickly, ‘Where is he?’The DCS gave him a sidelong glance.‘Never mind that.The best thing you can do is to forget about the whole business for the moment, okay? I don’t want to see you back until you’re fully recovered.Two weeks, three weeks – whatever.You’re no use to me with a sore head.Right?’As soon as he’d gone Nick rang for a nurse.Eventually the disapproving girl arrived.He asked, ‘Is there someone called Max Wheatfield here?’She replied waspishly, ‘Did you bring me all the way here just to ask me that?’He gave her what he hoped was an open and appealing look.‘Yes.’‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said with half-hearted annoyance.‘Well – the answer’s yes.He’s in a room up the corridor.Your colleagues have been in there most of the morning.’Absorbing the information greedily, Nick muttered vaguely, ‘My colleagues?’‘You are a policeman, aren’t you?’He asked suddenly, ‘Does everyone know that?’She shrugged.‘I wouldn’t think so.I’ve only just found out this minute.’‘Well, keep it a secret, will you, love? There’s a good girl.’She winked at him.‘Mum’s the word, eh?’After she’d gone, Nick thought for a long time, until, irritatingly, his eyelids began to droop.But even as he fell asleep, the image of Wheatfield remained tantalizingly in his mind.Gabriele cut out the front page of the Sunday Times and taped it to the kitchen wall beside the other cuttings.The collection was impressive.Altogether, four newspapers had featured one or more of her pictures, and a fifth had published their own less spectacular pictures, showing Max against the railings.One far-right paper had published hardly anything, but then that was to be expected.Later there would be more, in weeklies, monthlies, and political publications.Inter-News expected good foreign sales.Stan Geddes had even mentioned the possibility of Newsweek and Time.It had gone remarkably well.But, best of all, there might be more.Max’s injuries had been awful, certainly.When she’d seen his face she’d almost forgotten to take any more pictures.But then, later, she’d begun to see the possibilities…With Max seriously hurt, the affair could become a major issue, a focus for student discontent, a cause celebre.All it needed was a long stay in hospital, some uncertainty about whether he would ever fully recover, a lost memory, an inability to concentrate.A ruined life.That should be easy enough to arrange.He could fake most of it.She regarded the cuttings again with satisfaction.The phone rang.She jumped slightly then relaxed.It would be Giorgio, of course.Announcing his intention of coming home.Pips sounded down the line.She waited for him to get the money in, then said a very cool ‘Hello’.The reply came back and she gulped.Max
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