‘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,’ 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.