Authors: James Craig
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle mumbled, slurping his coffee, ‘he seemed like a bit of a knob. Nice suit though.’
‘Never you mind,’ said Ross, retrieving his bag. ‘It’s not your problem. We’re done here.’
Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee and made a face. It tasted horrible, but at least it was hot. ‘That inspector seemed very friendly with the journalist woman,’ he mused.
‘This is the countryside,’ Ross shrugged. ‘They do things differently here.’
‘How do you know him?’ Dom asked, popping the last of the roll into his mouth.
‘I knew Rob Holt when he was pounding the streets of Putney,’ Ross explained, slipping the bag back over his shoulder. ‘He was a decent young officer.’
I bet you taught him all he knows, Carlyle thought.
‘I taught him all he knows.’
‘And now?’ Dom asked.
‘And now what?’
‘Is he still a decent copper?’
Ross made a face. ‘We all get older.’
‘What does that mean?’ Dom persisted.
‘It means,’ Charlie growled, ‘that it’s a fucking stupid question.’
‘So does the other guy work for him?’
Charlie Ross shook his head. ‘That’s your problem, Mr Silver. You ask too many bloody questions.’
‘But—’
‘Just leave it,’ Charlie snapped, heading briskly towards the trail. ‘Let’s get going. Forget about what happened here. Just think about the extra overtime.’
There was something about lunchtime drinking that always made him feel guilty. Charlie Ross stared into his glass of Bell’s knowing that it would take another couple before he could hope to feel any kind of buzz. However, with a full shift still to come that wasn’t really an option.
They had headed thirty miles out of their way, to a pub west of Buxton, to find a location where no one would pay them any attention. Here it was all ploughman’s lunches and the local darts league. If you ignored the television in the corner, you could almost imagine you were back in the 1950s, in that fictitious England of warm beer, buxom wenches and fair play that the dullest politicians tried to invoke when they went whoring for votes at election time.
What a load of old bollocks.
Charlie’s idea of a pub was more the kind of place his dad had made him stand outside as a kid in the Gorbals – Goldie’s had sawdust on the floor, spittoons by the bar and absolutely no women anywhere in sight. The memory made him smile. He could still remember the first time he’d been allowed inside, a month before his thirteenth birthday. His old man, a welder at Yarrows, bought him a half pint of Tennent’s, which he struggled through, despite hating the taste.
Goldie’s, that was a proper bar, not this kind of poncey southern shit hole. Breaking out of his reverie, he looked around. The place was empty, apart from the landlord and a couple of old-timers, who were sitting at a table in the back nursing half pints of Brown Ale. Looking out of the window, across rolling fields and the Peak District National Park beyond, Ross felt a strange mixture of peace and unease. The picket lines and murdered old ladies seemed a million miles away. But they were real, nevertheless. This, on the other hand, was not. Two coppers and a trainee spook sitting in a pub discussing murder and God knows what else?
What the hell were they playing at? His father, a dyed-in-the-wool socialist, would have been deeply unimpressed by these cloak and dagger games. Mercifully, however, the old man had died more than a decade ago. Times changed. Industries died. The shipyards had learned that harsh lesson in the 1970s. Now it was the turn of the miners.
Despite being on the right side of history, the grizzled sergeant was already regretting doing a favour for his old colleague, Rob Holt. And if he’d known MI5 was involved, he would have refused, point blank.
Looking up from his whisky, he gestured at the young man sitting next to Holt. Happily munching on a packet of ready-salted Tudor crisps with a glass of Coke on the table in front of him, Martin Palmer looked less like a spy and more like a minor character out of a P. G. Wodehouse story.
‘What I don’t understand is why he is still here,’ Ross grumbled.
‘There’s no need to be so chippy, Charlie.’ Rob Holt carefully placed his pint of Burton Ale on the table and gave the youngster a pat on the shoulder. ‘Martin here is only doing his job. What happened is rather . . . unfortunate, certainly. But it is hardly his fault.’
Sticking another crisp in his gob, Palmer gave an apologetic shrug.
The sergeant tossed back his whisky and slapped the glass on the table. ‘It’s a right fucking mess.’
‘You worry too much, Charlie.’ Holt smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s just a coincidence.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Come on, sergeant,’ Palmer trilled. ‘Do you think we go around knocking off old ladies?’
I think a genius like you is capable of doing just about anything, Ross thought sourly, as long as it’s stupid enough.
A couple of walkers appeared through the doorway, looked around and began making their way to the bar. Palmer leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘I had nothing to do with the death of poor Mrs Slater,’ he hissed.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Palmer indignantly. Waving a hand in the air, he hit his glass, which had to be rescued by Holt before it fell over.
Charlie Ross shook his head. On the bright side, at least the kid didn’t look capable of killing anyone, even a granny.
‘All I did,’ Palmer explained, ‘was go and pay Mrs Slater a visit.’
‘Just before she died.’
‘We had a very nice chat over a cup of tea and some French Fancies . . .’
Ross shot Holt a look. French Fancies?
‘It was all done in line with standard operating protocol,’ Palmer explained. ‘I was simply conducting a preliminary engagement interview.’
Charlie frowned. ‘What the hell’s an engagement interview?’
Palmer looked at the inspector.
‘It’s okay,’ Holt reassured him, ‘you can tell Charlie.’
The young man looked doubtful. ‘Have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’
‘Of course, son,’ Charlie lied without missing a beat, ‘many times.’
‘Me too,’ Holt nodded, trying not to grin.
‘Well,’ Palmer looked at them both doubtfully but pressed on, ‘like I said, we had a chat and a nice cup of tea. Mrs Slater talked about her roses—’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Charlie snapped.
‘Again,’ Palmer said patiently, ‘it’s what we’re taught to do.’
‘In spy school?’ Charlie let out a loud guffaw that broke the deathly hush in the room and caused the barman to look over in their direction.
‘In our basic training, yes,’ Palmer nodded, lowering his voice even further. ‘We are supposed to discuss topics of interest to the suspect, in order to put their mind at ease and get them to open up.’
Ross looked at Holt. ‘She was a little old lady. How was she a suspect?’
‘Mrs Slater is . . . was a person of interest to my employer,’ Palmer said primly, ‘that is to say, a potential source of antisocial behaviour. From our discussion, it was clear that she was very hostile to the elected government and to Mrs Thatcher in particular.’
She was a seventy-eight-year-old rose grower, Charlie reflected. Who cares what she thought? She was hardly going to start a bloody revolution. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he began playing with his moustache, wondering when Holt was going to offer to go to the bar. It was the inspector’s round, after all, and the more this boy opened his mouth, the more another whisky seemed desirable, not to say essential.
‘Or, to put it another way,’ Palmer’s voice was barely audible by now, ‘Slater was deemed a credible threat to national security.’
‘Fuck me,’ the sergeant grumbled. ‘We really are in big trouble then.’ He had to resist a sudden urge to give the kid a slap. Compared to Palmer, his constables, Silver and Carlyle – Silver in particular – were bloody geniuses. Even the spank mag king Trevor bloody Miller would have been able to hold his own in MI5 if this was the standard of recruit.
‘Ha!’ Holt laughed.
Palmer looked hurt. ‘I’m only doing my job,’ he pouted.
Charlie shook his head. He prided himself on being a true blue, a man who would happily put his body on the line for Queen, country and Rangers FC but, even so, there were times when the stupidity of the powers that be – and the foot soldiers doing their bidding – left him almost speechless with rage.
At last, Holt finished his pint and gestured at Charlie’s empty glass. ‘Bell’s?’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant nodded. ‘Make it a double.’
Getting to his feet, the inspector turned to the youngster. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘did you put in your report?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Palmer said sheepishly. ‘I haven’t got round to writing it yet.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Holt, heading for the bar. ‘That’s not very good, is it?’
‘No, my boss back in Gower Street is jumping up and down, wanting to know what’s going on.’
‘I thought he’d be delighted,’ Charlie said as he watched Holt pull a fiver from his wallet. ‘After all, it’s one less threat to national security for him to worry about.’
Nodding, Palmer took a mouthful of his Coke. ‘Yes, but you know what it’s like. The woman was quite well-known in . . . particular circles. All the lefties and conspiracy theorists will now say we did it. And we didn’t!’ His eyes widened in horror at the very thought of it. ‘Did you know that the poor woman had been violated, after the fact?’
Charlie made a face. ‘Holt mentioned it.’
‘They found semen all over the place.’
‘Have you given a sample?’
Palmer frowned.
‘For purposes of comparison,’ Ross explained. ‘To rule you out of the investigation.’
The horror on Palmer’s face turned to outrage. ‘Sergeant,’ he said with all the authority he could muster, ‘I was never ruled in.’
‘Mm.’ The sergeant looked back at Holt standing by the bar. Times change.
‘This was clearly the work of a deviant.’
‘A card-carrying member of the NUM deviant, no doubt.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I have seen the preliminary findings from the pathologist . . .’ That was quick, Charlie thought, considering how over-worked everyone is.
‘It was completely horrible. Definitely not the type of behaviour that you get from an MI5 man.’
Are you for real? Charlie wondered. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘So,’ Palmer continued, ‘my orders are to stay here until the matter is cleared up and we can be sure that the other side cannot use this terrible crime as a propaganda weapon in the current war.’
Eyeing Holt returning from the bar with his drink, Charlie licked his lips. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘What we really need is a quick arrest.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Holt as he reached the table. Handing Charlie his whisky, he dropped another packet of crisps into Palmer’s lap. ‘I think we’re going to have some good news for you on that front very soon.’
Walking down the street, Carlyle watched Dom scratch Jerry Dammers’ nose, just above his left nipple. ‘Have you got the new album?’
‘Nah,’ Dom yawned, ‘not yet. It’s only just come out. I’m gonna take a trip up to Rough Trade and treat myself when we get home.’
‘Something to look forward to,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Dom replied, before launching into a spirited rendition of ‘Enjoy Yourself’, much to the amusement of a couple of schoolgirls walking past them, takeaways in hand.
Once Dom had finished, Carlyle gestured at his mate’s T-shirt. ‘I never really got into The Specials,’ he reflected.
‘You should give it a whirl. I can lend you a couple of LPs, if you want.’
‘Nah. I’m more a punk man. The Clash, SLF, The Jam.’
‘The Jam?’ Dom looked horrified. ‘They’re not punk. Paul Weller supports Thatcher, for God’s sake!’
‘I think he was misquoted,’ Carlyle said limply.
‘Bollocks. Anyway, he’ll never stand the test of time.’ He tapped the peeling transfer on his T-shirt. ‘The Specials, mate – they’ll be around for ever, mark my words.’
‘Unlike us,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘if we don’t get something to eat, sharpish.’
‘Good point.’ Dom gestured down the high street. With three pubs, a Chinese takeaway and a fish ’n’ chip shop, the local village offered the only chance of escape from RAF Syerston. It was also the only hope of sustenance for two AWOL constables for more than twenty miles. ‘The world is your oyster, old son; take your pick.’
After ten minutes standing in the queue in the Golden Fryer, Carlyle was beginning to regret their decision. With increasing impatience, he waited as an old guy at the front of the queue slowly counted out sufficient cash to pay for his sausage supper. As he moved some coins around the counter, the woman at the till scratched her head, too bored to be annoyed.
‘You’re still fifty pence short, love,’ she observed, once the man had emptied out all of his pockets.
From the back of the shop, he could make out the sound of a radio playing TRB’s ‘Power in the Darkness’ Carlyle breathed in deeply the smell of boiling fat and cooked potatoes and felt his stomach rumbling. Reluctant to admit defeat, the old fella started rummaging round in his pockets all over again.
Get on with it, you old bastard, Carlyle thought, tapping his foot impatiently on the linoleum floor as he tried to ignore his hunger.
‘Here you go, mate,’ Dominic Silver slipped in front of Carlyle and placed a 50p piece on the counter.
Before the old man could respond, the woman scooped up all of the coins and thrust the newspaper-wrapped food parcel at him.
‘Thanks, son,’ he mumbled, staring at his shoes as he shuffled out.
Feeling like the cheapskate he was, Carlyle glared at his mate.
‘We would have been here for ever,’ Dom shrugged, pushing Carlyle towards the counter, ‘and I’m starving. Hurry up and get your bloody chips.’
Standing under a streetlight in front of J. A. Chisholm & Sons, the local Turf Accountants, Carlyle felt a globule of fat run down his chin and smiled.
‘What’s so funny?’ Dom asked, spearing a big fat chip with a tiny wooden fork and dropping it into his mouth.
‘It’s just a relief to have some proper food at last,’ Carlyle replied, wiping his chin, ‘rather than that crap they feed us in the base. It’s a bloody disgrace. You’d probably get better fed if you were in prison.’