by James Craig
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.’
ELEVEN
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.
Not like this dump. What’s going on . . . ha! Sweet fuck all. That’s what’s going on.
Exhaling another lungful of smoke, he closed his eyes. Poor old Marvin, shot dead by his dad. What a bummer.
After a while, he re-opened his eyes, aware of a figure hovering at his shoulder. Half turning, he looked up through the haze of smoke to find a pretty girl in a bright red Puffa jacket smiling at him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ Despite the darkness, Dom could make out the lines of her cheekbones, not to mention the naughty twinkle in her eyes. What have we here? A gentle gust of wind had her swaying slightly on her feet. He guessed that she was slightly intoxicated, if not actually drunk.
‘Want some?’ he asked, offering the joint.
‘Thanks.’ Slipping into the chair beside him, the girl placed the roll-up between her lips and took a deep drag, holding in the smoke for several beats before blowing a perfect smoke ring into the inky sky.
‘Nice,’ said Dom as he watched the smoke ring disappear.
‘I’m Sam, by the way,’ she grinned, ‘Sam Hudson.’ Pushing her hair behind her ear, she took another drag before handing back the spliff to its rightful owner.
He nodded. ‘Dom Silver. Dominic.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dom.’
‘You too.’
She gestured towards the illuminated back window of the pub. ‘I saw you inside with your friend.’
Dom shifted in his seat, so that he could lean closer. Friend? What friend? ‘Yeah.’
Leaning back in her chair, she draped a leg over one arm. ‘Are you from round here?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so,’ she smiled. ‘You’re cops, I take it.’
Dom shrugged. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, it’s not a crime, is it?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she laughed.
‘Oh?’
‘Right now, around here, quite
a few people might think it was.’
‘Ha! Good answer. Anyway, whatever people think, there’s a lot of us about at the moment. So, there’s safety in numbers.’
‘But it’s unusual to see cops wandering about at night,’ she mused, ‘off duty. Are you looking for trouble?’
‘No, no. Not at all.’
She looked him up and down in a way that made him shiver. ‘You’re not a spy, are you?’
‘Hardly. I’m just a normal plod.’
‘But I thought you were all strictly confined to barracks. When you’re not on the picket lines, that is.’
Dom shrugged. ‘A boy’s got to have some fun.’
‘I suppose so. I just didn’t know you were allowed out.’
‘We’re not. But it’s so boring being cooped up on that base.’
‘I can imagine.’ She gestured limply past the pub, towards the rest of the village. ‘So you’re not worried about the locals, then?’
‘Should I be?’ Dom took another drag on the joint, the end flaring in the darkness. He had a good buzz going now, and was feeling really rather pleased with himself. Somehow, he had managed to hook up with the only pretty girl he had seen since he’d got here. And she was interested in more than just a smoke; he knew it. ‘Anyway, you don’t sound like a local yourself.’
‘I’m not,’ she smiled.
‘So where are you from?’
‘Richmond.’
Richmond, Richmond, Richmond. What did he know about one of the most upmarket parts of south-west London? ‘Near the park with the deer?’
‘Yeah. You know it?’
‘Not really,’ he had to admit.
‘The park’s about a five-minute walk from my parent’s house.’
‘Nice. Very posh.’
‘It’s not that posh.’ She gave him a playful tap on the arm.
‘It’s a lot posher than Walthamstow.’
‘Is that where you live?’
‘Yeah. Where my parents live. More or less.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been there.’
‘You’re not missing much.’ He took another drag on the joint. It was almost done now, but that was okay. He had another couple in his jacket. The night was still young. ‘So here we are, just two lost souls . . .’ He let the thought peter out; now was not the time to start quoting Pink bloody Floyd. ‘You’re here on your own?’
‘I came down the pub with some of my comr . . .’ she corrected herself, ‘with some mates. They went home.’
‘Aha.’
‘We’re sharing a house just off Market Street.’
‘Mm.’
‘It’s a bit crappy but we’ll only be here for a little while.’ She gestured towards the joint. ‘Are you going to finish that?’
‘Here,’ he grinned, handing her the remains of the spliff. ‘Knock yourself out.’
In the end, he bought himself another drink. After twenty minutes feeling increasingly self-conscious sitting on his own, pretending to watch the television, Carlyle stepped outside to look for Dom. Unable to find any trace of him he hovered on the pavement, unsure about what to do next. Should he wait? Or make his way back to the base?
‘Oi, copper!’
Turning, Carlyle saw a large bloke, with lank black hair down to his shoulders, lunge towards him.
Shit!
Grimacing, he staggered backwards as a beer bottle reared up in front of his face, followed by a crunching noise and an explosion of stars.
A sudden commotion in the corridor outside caused Millicent Olyphant to turn wearily away from her client and gaze towards the cell door.
‘Looks like they’re bringing in tonight’s flotsam and jetsam,’ she mused to herself. ‘Judge Jefferies is going to be busy in the morning. The poor soul is rushed off his feet. The wheels of justice have never moved so swiftly around these parts. It’s a miracle that he can keep up.’
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hands clasped as if in prayer, Ian Williamson said nothing. Indeed, the boy gave no indication that he realized his lawyer was still present. Staring blankly at the far wall, saying nothing, he rocked gently backwards and forwards, an occasional incomprehensible mumble stumbling from his lips.
To all intents and purposes, Williamson had been mute for the last sixty minutes. During the whole of their meeting, he had offered nothing apart from a hesitant ‘Hello’ when Olyphant arrived in his cell. Even then, he gave no indication of remembering their previous meetings. The boy was clearly in a state of shock.
In almost forty years as a lawyer, Millicent liked to think that she had seen it all. In particular, she prided herself on knowing when someone was faking a mental disorder. However, she was convinced that this was no act. As a result, she was extremely worried about Ian Williamson’s mental health. The trauma of being charged with Beatrice Slater’s murder had sent the young man into some kind of catatonic trance.
Innocent or guilty, it was clear that the authorities had a duty of care to her client. The lawyer had demanded that he be sent to hospital for tests and some proper treatment. So far, Inspector Holt had robustly refused any medical intervention ahead of Ian Williamson being remanded in custody by the judge. When that happened, it was most likely that he would end up in HM Ranby, a former World War II army camp where conditions were basic, to say the least. Olyphant feared that if the boy went in there, he would come out in a box.
On a self-imposed mission to save her client, the elderly lawyer had shouted, screamed and, literally, stamped her feet. It was embarrassing and also ineffective. Inspector Holt had remained immovable in the face of her desperate protests. Olyphant had no doubt that his hands had been tied by the rather vacant young man that she now thought of as his MI5 ‘handler’. The idea of the police being manipulated like this irritated her intensely. The inspector was a grown man; surely he was capable of independent thought and action?
Apparently not.
The shouting outside the cell finally abated. Olyphant looked at her watch and groaned. At her age, sleep was increasingly hard to come by. Tonight, she would be lucky to get as much as a couple of hours of genuine rest. Tomorrow was set to be a long and trying day. Exhaustion nibbled at her bones. Despite the anger that drove her on, Millicent knew that her reserves of stamina were limited. However much she hated it, the truth was that she was getting on. She had to pace herself.
Standing up, she put a comforting hand on Williamson’s shoulder. ‘Look, Ian,’ she said gently, ‘I know that this is all very stressful for you. It would be stressful for anyone.’
Williamson’s gaze remained fixed on the brick wall. Painted a dirty cream colour, it was covered in graffiti – initials, dates and a random selection of swear words and abusive slogans – that had been scratched into the paint over the years with a selection of random instruments.
‘I need to go now,’ the lawyer explained carefully, like a teacher talking to a five-year-old, ‘and you need to sleep too. I will be back in the morning. When I come back, we’ll need to discuss the basics of your defence. It is essential that what you tell the judge tomorrow is both clear and credible. Your alibi may not be the best but if it’s the truth, it’s the truth. Milton Jeffries is a decent enough man but, if we don’t give him anything, he will simply go with what the police and the DPP tell him and we’ll be sunk.’ You’ll be sunk. ‘That’s just the way these things work. At least, it is how these things work around these parts at the present moment.’
No response.
She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s not quite “innocent ’til proven guilty”, I know, but there’s no point in pretending it’s otherwise. So . . . we have to be on the top of our game.’
Did she detect the slightest of nods from the boy in response? Perhaps. She wanted to believe so, but it was impossible to be sure. One thing seemed certain; she wasn’t going to get anything useful out of him tonight. All that she could really hope for was that Ian Williamson might, somehow, be better able to function after a good
night’s sleep.
‘Okay . . . good.’ Stepping over to the door, she hit it twice with the side of her fist and called for the guard. ‘Do try and get some rest. We will talk again tomorrow.’
Out in the corridor, the lawyer stifled a yawn as she watched the duty sergeant lock the thick steel door behind her using a large, gap-toothed key that looked like it belonged in a museum. The sergeant was a slothful oaf by the name of Elliot. Millicent was convinced he should have been pensioned off years ago. Dropping the key into his trouser pocket, he looked at her warily under the harsh strip lighting.
‘That was a long meeting,’ he grumbled.
‘Am I keeping you from your dinner?’ Olyphant snapped.
He gave her a sweaty shrug. ‘Just sayin’, love.’
Don’t ‘love’ me. She gestured towards the locked door. ‘You need to keep a very close eye on him,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Mr Williamson is under great strain. He really should be receiving medical attention.’
He raped and killed an old woman – fuck him. Pushing past the lawyer, Elliot began making his way down the corridor. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, making no effort to keep the scorn from his voice, ‘we’ll make sure that your Mr Williamson is properly looked after while he’s in here.’
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Sitting up in bed, Dom gave his balls a vigorous scratch as he watched the naked girl sashay over to the ghetto blaster sitting on the bedroom floor by the far wall. Bending over, she flipped open the tape deck, turned over the cassette and hit play. After a few clicks and some hiss, Ultravox’s ‘Mr X’ kicked in. Dom smiled. He wasn’t a great fan of Midge Ure; Samantha Hudson, however, was another matter entirely. Closing his eyes, he let the image of her perfect arse burn itself onto his retinas. It was something that he would never forget as long as he lived.
‘Got another joint?’ she asked, straightening up.
‘Sure.’ Opening his eyes, Dom gestured towards the clothes strewn across the floor. ‘In the breast pocket of my jacket. Under the jeans. Help yourself.’