The Enemy Within

by James Craig

  ‘Unlucky,’ Dom grinned. ‘He should have caught the guy though.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Who do you think?’ Charlie Ross grunted. ‘Only our good friend Trevor bloody Miller.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ the two young constables laughed in unison.

  The sergeant shook his head sadly. ‘Nah, it’s him. It’s not the first time, either.’ He pointed towards those enemy lines. ‘Those buggers are like lions preying on buffalo . . .’

  Dom gave Carlyle a quizzical look. Lions? It was the first time they had ever heard the old sod refer to the other side in anything other than the most disparaging terms. Was he going soft? Maybe it was the heat.

  ‘They can sense the weakest member of the herd and hunt them down.’

  ‘That’s Trevor,’ Carlyle laughed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Dom chimed in, ‘the runt of the litter.’

  Back at RAF Syerston, the two constables dumped their gear and headed straight for the canteen. Sitting at trestle tables thirty feet long, heads down, they worked their way steadily through the evening meal – boiled beef, potatoes and green beans, followed by jam sponge with custard – in exhausted silence, encased in the background noise of three hundred other coppers doing the same.

  After eating, they took their coffee outside into the warm evening air. Carlyle followed Dom to a quiet spot near the kitchens, where he could roll a joint in peace.

  ‘Time for a smoke.’ Dropping his knapsack onto the concrete, Dom plonked himself down on an upturned plastic crate.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And maybe do a little bit of business.’

  ‘You’re gonna get caught, you know,’ Carlyle grumbled, looking round for another crate.

  ‘You’re such a bloody pessimist, Johnny boy.’

  ‘I’m a copper.’ After some searching, Carlyle found what he was looking for. ‘So are you, for that matter.’ Dropping the crate onto the tarmac, he sat down. ‘You’ll end up getting the sack.’

  ‘Nah,’ Dom shook his head, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m telling you.’

  ‘Consider me told,’ Dom grinned.

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Rummaging around in his bag, Dom pulled out a copy of the Daily Mirror and offered it to his mate. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took the paper and turned to the back page.

  ‘Football season’s over,’ Dom observed. ‘It’s only minority interest crap like cricket and golf for the next couple of months.’

  ‘Yeah, but I still like to start at the back. Force of habit.’

  ‘Check out the story about the old girl in the woods. Page seven, I think.’ Sticking his hand back in the bag, Dom pulled out a packet of Rizla Blue King Size, a packet of Drum rolling tobacco and a small, transparent plastic bag containing what looked like a small cube of treacle fudge. ‘Ah,’ Dom’s smile grew wider. ‘This is the highlight of the day. Not that that is saying much at the moment.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Carlyle watched his mate begin to construct the joint and then started rummaging through the newspaper until he found the story. ‘Here we go. MAN ARRESTED IN SPINSTER MURDER CASE. It’s page eight, actually.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Dom grunted, sprinkling tobacco onto the paper.

  Carlyle scanned the half-page article, which told of how Ian Williamson, a twenty-two-year-old unemployed man, described as ‘a well-known figure among strikers in South Yorkshire’ had been charged with the murder of Beatrice Slater. Next to the piece was a picture of a smiling Slater in her garden. Looking like everyone’s favourite granny, she was holding up a freshly cut rose and smiling for the camera.

  ‘He was the guy they arrested outside the chippy,’ Dom explained, crumbling a little of the Moroccan black between his thumb and forefinger and adding it to the tobacco. ‘Just as you were about to do a runner.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to do a runner,’ Carlyle snapped.

  ‘No?’ Dom sniffed. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Do you think that he did it?’ Carlyle asked, moving the conversation quickly along.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Dom, running his tongue along the edge of the cigarette paper.

  Taking a mouthful of his coffee, Carlyle watched as Dom twisted one end closed and stuck the other end in his mouth before returning his attention to the newspaper. ‘It says here, “Mrs Slater was a controversial local figure, an outspoken critic of the Falklands war, as well as the government’s handling of the miners’ strike. Some have suggested that the security services may have been involved in her death after she claimed to have leaked documents that showed the police were deliberately targeting union leaders and their families.”’

  ‘Who knows?’ Dom shrugged. Pulling a packet of matches from the pocket of his jacket, he lit the joint. Puffing away happily, he inhaled deeply before sending a lazy stream of smoke up into the air. ‘Anyway, why wouldn’t the police deliberately target union leaders and their families? It’s fucking anarchy up here.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Give me Green Street any time. I’d rather take my chances with the Inter City Firm on the rampage.’

  Carlyle gave a sympathetic cluck. Dom was a West Ham fan, but he had little time for the football club’s hardcore hooligans. Carlyle, being a Fulham fan, didn’t have such problems to deal with. Craven Cottage was a far more sedate sporting venue than Upton Park.

  ‘At least you know where you stand with your common or garden thug. Even when the bloody Headhunters are steaming through, breaking heads, you can see what’s coming and get out of the way.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. One of the things the pair of them could bond over was a shared dislike of Chelsea and their animal fans.

  ‘But this . . . All this cloak and dagger bullshit does my head in. It’s like a bunch of little kids running around playing games, pretending to be James fucking Bond.’

  ‘Would MI5 really get involved in something like this?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Dom shrugged. ‘If you think about it, arguably it’s the kind of thing they’re supposed to do; the kind of thing we bloody pay them to do.’

  ‘The young bloke in the woods . . .’

  ‘Was he a spook?’ Dom offered up the joint. ‘Maybe.’

  Carlyle shook his head. Dope wasn’t his thing; it made him feel thick-headed and nauseous.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘But what’s the point of spying on a woman like that?’

  ‘The point is,’ Dom continued, taking another toke, ‘the only people who actually know who killed the old woman are the woman herself, who is dead . . .’

  ‘Obviously,’ Carlyle interjected.

  ‘Yes, obviously dead, seeing she was murdered. Her and the bloke who did it. Unless Uncle Charlie’s good chum Inspector Holt gets a confession from this guy,’ he gestured towards the newspaper, ‘which I very much doubt, it’s unlikely that we’ll ever know the truth. Get used to it. This is what the next forty years of our lives is set to be like: either banging someone up without knowing for sure that they did it, or knowing they did it but not being able to bang them up. It’ll drive you mad if you think about it too much.’

  Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Why?’ he asked finally.

  Dom frowned. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why will Holt not be able to get a confession?’

  ‘Because,’ said Dom, waving the joint airily above his head, ‘only an idiot would confess.’

  ‘Maybe he is an idiot.’

  ‘Maybe he is, but let’s assume not. If he was an idiot, he would either have been caught in flagrante . . .’

  ‘Urgh!’ Carlyle made a face. He didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘Or he would have confessed already. If I was this guy . . .’

  ‘Ian Williamson,’ Carlyle reminded him.

  ‘If I was this guy Williamson, and I had done it, I would sit tight and wait to see if they could prove it. Common sense really. Even better,
in this case he can start shouting about MI5 and let the conspiracy theorists argue he’s being framed.’

  ‘It won’t stop him going down though, will it?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Anyway, from Mr Williamson’s point of view, what’s to lose?’

  ‘Won’t he get a shorter sentence if he ’fesses up?’

  ‘For God’s sake, John, sometimes I worry about you. Do you really think some guy who shags a granny and kills her – or vice versa – is going to get anything other than the book thrown at him?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Can you imagine, if the bloke gets convicted then walks out of prison in five years’ time? The papers would go crazy.’

  ‘The papers are always going crazy about something.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘What if he didn’t do it?’

  ‘Shit happens, my friend,’ Dom shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’

  The combination of the passive smoke from Dom’s joint and the residual warmth of the sun was beginning to make Carlyle feel a little woozy. ‘That’s very . . . philosophical,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Dom mused. ‘It happens. The trick is just to make sure that it never happens to you.’ He sighed. ‘Justice is a lottery. Even in this country. And, believe me, this country is as good as it gets.’

  ‘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.’

  TEN

  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,’ s
he 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.