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.’