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.’