The Enemy Within (8 page)

‘Don’t you think that MI5 guy might have killed her?’ Carlyle asked, trying to bring the conversation back down to a more practical level.

‘The only thing I think,’ Dom smiled, ‘is that I don’t know. And not only do I think I don’t know, I know I don’t know.’ He giggled. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘But,’ Carlyle said earnestly, ‘isn’t that our job, to find these things out?’

‘In this case it is most definitely not our job; you heard Charlie Ross. Just forget we were ever in those woods.’

‘Okay, but if it’s not our job, personally, it’s still the police’s job. Inspector Holt’s job.’

‘Johnny boy, Johnny boy.’ Dom shook his head sadly. ‘I think if you keep up with that kind of attitude you may well find life in the police force something of a struggle.’

‘The truth is important,’ Carlyle persisted.

‘Yes it is,’ Dom agreed. ‘The trouble is that there are just so many different bloody versions of it. As J. K. Galbraith said “we associate truth with convenience”.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Who’s J. K. Galbraith?’

Dom shook his head. ‘He was a famous economist. Look him up. Basically, he pointed out that people believe what they want to believe, what is in their self-interest, what makes them feel good or help them avoid difficult or uncomfortable choices.’

‘But truth is truth,’ Carlyle persisted, feeling like a dullard.

‘No it’s not. That’s the point. This guy Ian Williamson may or may not have killed the granny. The facts may or may not prove it. But his guilt is highly acceptable to the police, to MI5 and even to Mrs T. That’s the truth.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. Just don’t ever be a victim; that’s all I’m saying. Anyway, that’s enough philosophy for beginners for today.’ With the stub of his joint, he pointed at a small gaggle of uniforms that had just appeared round the corner of the kitchen. ‘I spy some customers. Dinner time is over. It’s time to get on with some business.’

Millicent Olyphant burst through the door, and plonked herself in the seat in front of the inspector’s desk before he had time to look up and acknowledge her arrival.

‘Let me guess,’ Holt grinned, blowing on his Earl Grey tea.

‘Ian Williamson.’ She dropped her satchel on the floor and crossed her legs. She was still a good-looking woman – for someone the wrong side of sixty – and her energy was just as impressive as her bone structure.

‘Of course, the unfortunate Mr Williamson.’ The inspector took a sip of his tea and scowled: still too hot.

‘Unfortunate has nothing to do with it,’ Olyphant snorted. ‘Murder? This has to be the worst miscarriage of justice I’ve ever seen.’

Since the last one, Holt thought. Millicent’s ability to work herself up into a frenzy of indignation in ten seconds or less was wearisome at the best of times. And these were not the best of times. He took a deep breath. ‘The wheels of justice have only just begun to turn, so you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.’

‘Oh?’ she scolded. ‘So you haven’t charged him yet?’

‘Is he your client?’

‘Yes. I have spoken with him this morning and he has dispensed with the services of that Legal Aid idiot that you foisted upon him.’

‘We haven’t foisted anyone on him,’ Holt replied, struggling to keep his irritation in check. There was a knock and the desk sergeant’s head appeared round the door.

‘Sir?’

Holt waved him away, waiting for the door to click shut before returning his gaze to the elderly lawyer. ‘Everything is being done by the book on this one, as you would expect.’

‘By the book involves an interrogation, without a lawyer, in the middle of the night, does it?’ Olyphant shook her head. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that the boy wasn’t tortured.’

‘Is this a private case?’ Holt asked through gritted teeth. ‘Or have you been sent by the union?’

The lawyer shot him a sharp look. Despite being a strident supporter of the strikers, or perhaps because of it, Ms Olyphant was invariably irritated by any discussion of her apparently boundless willingness to take the NUM shilling. ‘Does it matter?’ she huffed.

‘No,’ Holt smiled, ‘not really. I”m just curious about who will be footing what will doubtless be a very large bill.’

‘It’s none of your business.’

He shifted in his seat, wondering if she actually wanted anything, beyond the satisfaction of baiting him. ‘Remind me, how many times have you been through my door in the last few months?’

‘Too many,’ was her heartfelt response.

‘Approximately.’

‘I don’t know, six or seven – something like that.’

Holt couldn’t resist turning the knife. ‘In every case, we’ve started out having the same conversation about miscarriages of justice. And, in the end, how many of your totally innocent clients have been convicted as charged?’

A stony look settled on the lawyer’s face.

‘You know the answer just as well as I do: one hundred per cent.’ He gestured towards the window. ‘And we’re hardly unique here; it’s the same story up and down the county. The police are doing a hell of a job under almost impossible circumstances.’ It was true, after a fashion. Along with all the extra overtime, the great thing about the dispute was that local magistrates were falling over themselves to convict anyone hauled in front of them on strike-related charges in double-quick time. The conviction rate in Holt’s police station had never been higher.

Millicent Olyphant crossed her arms. ‘Whatever happens in your kangaroo court, you cannot deny that the Williamson boy has been denied his basic human rights.’

Tell it to the judge.

She began recounting the list of transgressions on her fingers. ‘Denied access to counsel, denied sleep, denied—’

Holt held up a hand. ‘Was there something in particular that I could help you with, Millie?’

She stiffened slightly at his faux overfamiliarity, letting her hands drop into her lap. ‘I just wanted to let you know that we will be making an official complaint at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Fine.’ Holt tried his tea again. This time it was the perfect temperature. He took a mouthful, careful not to slurp in front of his guest. ‘That is your right, and that of your client. All I would say is—’

‘What?’

‘All I would say is, for once, why don’t you wait and see what happens? Wait and see if he gets off and then make a complaint.’

‘In particular,’ she said slowly, ignoring his advice, ‘we will be calling for an urgent investigation into why MI5 was drafted in to run the investigation.’

Shit, who told you about that? Holt wondered. No doubt, one of the guys in the station has been talking down the pub again. Bloody idiots. None of his colleagues were capable of keeping their mouths shut. He now realized that it had been a mistake to let Martin Palmer set foot in the station. Ah, well, nothing could be done about that now. ‘This is my investigation,’ he said firmly, ‘and my investigation alone. It has been conducted properly and your client’s rights have been fully respected.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Olyphant sniffed. Getting to her feet, she headed for the door. ‘The union will fight this one all the way. And I am sure that the newspapers will be more than interested to hear further details of the security services’ involvement in Mrs Slater’s death.’

‘Good for them,’ Holt murmured as she disappeared into the hall. ‘Good for them.’

Sitting in the snug of the Queen’s Larder pub, on the edge of the smoky bubble that surrounded the lounge bar, Dominic Silver drained his bottle of fake German lager – brewed in Warrington by computers – and slowly got to his feet. ‘Right,’ he said, stretching his arms out wide, ‘fancy another one?’

Finishing his whisky, Carlyle gestured towards the bar with his empty glass. ‘Hold on, it’s my round.’ Before he could get up from behind the table, Dom gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Johnny boy. Leave it to me.’

Well, thought Carlyle, relaxing back into his seat, if you’re offering, why not?

‘Business is good. I can stand it.’

‘Yeah, I can well believe it.’ Earlier in the evening, before they had repaired to the pub, Dom’s little back-door, cash ’n’ carry drug-dealing service had cleared more than fifty quid. And this was hardly a one-off. When they had first arrived at RAF Syerston, word quickly got round that Mr Silver was open for business. Within a matter of days, Dom became the most popular man on the base.

Policemen were just normal people, after all, Carlyle mused. They liked their drugs just like everyone else. It wasn’t like Dom was trying to grow a business out of selling the stuff, rather, it had just kind of . . . happened. Broadly speaking, there were two types of customers. Some, like Carlyle, needed a quarter gram of speed now and again to help them get through the soul-sapping drudgery of picket-line duty. For others, the dope heads, their interest in the contents of Dom’s knapsack was more recreational. Between the different groups, there were more than enough takers to sustain a successful business. What had begun as a little sideline had grown to the point where Dom was probably earning more from the drugs than he was from his monthly police packet.

The contradictions of a policeman selling illegal drugs were obvious. But Carlyle had quickly put any reservations to one side. Frankly, he didn’t care. As far as he could see, the problem with drugs was not with the drugs themselves but with their criminalization, which generated much pointless work for ordinary coppers like him. Besides, he himself was more than partial to a little bit of whizz now and again. And, above all, he could see that Dom’s entrepreneurial drive was impressive in its own way.

Dom gazed at a fat TV set hanging from the ceiling, near the bar. The news was on, volume down low, showing pictures from earlier in the day of police and strikers charging each other across a patch of waste ground.

‘Is that us?’

Carlyle looked up, staring for a few moments. The pictures could have come from their picket line or from one of half a dozen other locations. They all looked the same.

‘Dunno. Maybe. Hard to say.’

The news bulletin moved on to a story about a girl who was sexually assaulted and stabbed after a night out in Bath. ‘It’s all good news tonight,’ Dom sighed.

‘Yeah.’

‘All you can do is try and ignore this shit as much as possible.’

‘That’s a bit of an ask when you’re a bloody copper.’

‘When I go into business for myself, full-time,’ Dom mumbled, ‘you’ve got to join me.’

‘Eh?’

Dom pulled a thin spliff out of the breast pocket of his Belstaff jacket and held it in his hand, arm outstretched. ‘Business is just too good. I think I’m going to have to make the move.’ He gave a not-so-apologetic shrug. ‘It would be irrational to do anything else.’

Irrational? ‘But you only joined the police a year or so ago,’ Carlyle observed.

‘And look where it’s got me.’ Waving the joint in front of his face, Dom gestured towards the gaggle of grim-looking locals on the far side of the bar, who were studiously ignoring the two young coppers, muttering darkly into their pints of best bitter. He lowered his voice. ‘Standing here, in some total shithole, in the middle of nowhere, drinking shit lager.’

‘Fair point.’

‘We’ve been sold a pup, sunshine,’ Dom laughed. ‘Taken to the bloody cleaners!’

Carlyle could hardly disagree. After all, this was not what they had signed up for. It was not what they had gone through basic training for. He himself had expected to be pounding the streets of west London by now, chatting to shopkeepers, giving truants a firm clip round the ear and helping little old ladies across the road and maybe, on a good day, nicking the odd villain. Dixon of Dock Green made flesh, with youthful aspirations of graduating to The Sweeney. Instead, he was a paramilitary robot in the middle of someone else’s fight. Would Regan and Carter have put up with this crap? he sometimes wondered. Would they fuck.

‘And, anyway, the alternative is very appealing. Unlike this, it’s easy money,’ Dom mused.

‘There’s no such thing,’ Carlyle grumped.

‘Okay, well it’s easier money. And you’re not doing some bastard politician’s dirty work to boot.’

‘True.’

Dom looked at him closely. ‘So, if I do it, you’d be interested, then? It would be good. We make a good team.’

Nah. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Dom gave him a mock hurt look. ‘Not exactly biting my hand off, are you?’

‘We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,’ Carlyle yawned. The booze had kicked in and he was beginning to feel sleepy. But, even in his wearied state, the young constable knew that his friend’s plan was a non-starter. If Dom did leave the police for the private sector, good luck to him. But Carlyle would not be joining him. However ambivalent he felt about drugs that would simply be a step too far.

‘It’s a firm offer.’

‘Sure,’ he smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘Good,’ Dom grinned. ‘Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’m off for a quick smoke. Then I’ll get the drinks in.’

Stepping outside the Queen’s Larder into the cold night air, Dom yawned. Zipping up his jacket, he pulled a box of matches from the back pocket of his jeans. Sticking the blunt between his lips, he struck a match, shielding the flame from the breeze as he lit up. Tossing the spent match in the direction of the gutter, he inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke as he walked round the side of the pub and plonked himself down in one of the white plastic seats in the otherwise deserted beer garden.

Peace at last.

Reluctantly releasing the smoke, he watched it disappear into the sharp night air. Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On’ started playing in his head and he began humming along. Taking another drag, he thought about Natasha, an adventurous Dutch girl that he’d met in a bar on the Fulham Road. That was less than a fortnight ago, just before he’d left London to come on this ridiculous caper. It felt like a lifetime ago. While he was dodging bricks, Natasha had been heading for Greece, in search of sun, ouzo and some nice local boys to corrupt. He flicked through the dates in his head; she should be due back in London quite soon. The thought made him smile. Would they manage to hook up when he finally got back to civilization? Maybe. Maybe not. Even if they didn’t, there would be someone else. That was the great thing about London, there was always someone else.