‘After all,’ she continued, ‘this is the biggest crime there’s been here, on your patch, for God knows how long.’
‘By miles,’ he agreed. ‘It’s the first murder in the district for more than a decade.’
‘Quite. . and you’ve managed to make an arrest in less than forty-eight hours.’
‘Well,’ he pouted, ‘it’s not like I’m some inexperienced village bobby. I did come up here from the throbbing metropolis, remember.’
‘Still, this is the first murder case that you’ve had since you’ve been here.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And you’ve solved it almost immediately, even though the whole place is a war zone at the moment and all of your officers are stretched to the limit.’
‘It’s not that surprising,’ Holt shrugged. ‘If you’re going to catch the bloke who did it, you’re usually going to get him in the first day or so.’ He remembered reading an article about it in the Police Review.
‘Only when they are caught red-handed,’ Mullin protested, trying to resist the craving for another cigarette.
‘So, what are you saying?’ he snapped.
‘Who fingered Ian Williamson?’ she shot back. ‘Was it that gormless boy from MI5?’
‘Who says he’s from MI5?’ Holt stuck an exploratory foot over the side of the bed. He really did need that piss.
Mullin let her gaze drift to a point near the window where the brown, orange and yellow Apollo wallpaper had started peeling off. ‘C’mon Rob,’ she said wearily, ‘it’s a bit late to be tight lipped.’
‘Mm.’
‘Anyway, the junior spook showed me his ID. He was very proud of it. It was quite sweet really.’
Holt slumped back on the bed. ‘Christ! What a berk!’
‘It’s good to know our security is in the hands of people like that,’ Mullin laughed. ‘Just as well they’re only up against poor old Arthur Scargill.’
‘You cannot write any of this,’ Holt groaned. ‘Never, ever.’
‘I don’t want to write any of this,’ she replied, exasperated with her boyfriend’s total lack of faith in her powers of discretion. ‘However, there will be plenty of people writing the story when Ian Williamson is paraded in court tomorrow. And more than a few of them will ask the same questions as me.’
‘He did it,’ Holt said sullenly.
‘Uh-huh. Isn’t the idea that you’re supposed to prove that he did it?’
‘He did it.’
Mullin raised her eyebrows. ‘Did he confess?’
‘We have two witnesses who saw him near Slater’s house.’
‘That’s very convenient. Who are they?’
‘C’mon,’ he frowned, ‘I’m not going to tell you that.’
‘Do they really exist?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you spoken to them?’
Holt hesitated.
‘Rob?’
‘Not yet,’ he admitted quietly.
‘And yet you’ve nicked this guy?’
‘I’ve seen the statements.’
‘How did you find them, the witnesses?’
‘They came forward.’
‘Very handy.’
‘They were concerned citizens.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘They did,’ he protested. ‘They independently say that they saw Williamson entering. . and leaving Slater’s house around the time that she was killed.’
Unconsciously, Mullin eased into full-on journalist mode as she changed tack. ‘Beatrice was found in the woods. Are you saying that she was killed in her home?’
‘We think so.’
‘And your witnesses saw him leave with the body?’
Holt grimaced. ‘I need a piss.’
But her mind was in overdrive now and she kept pressing. ‘If he went to the trouble of moving the body, why didn’t he make more of an effort to hide it? It wasn’t going to take people long to find her in those woods. They’re small and there are kids crawling all over them all the time. Presumably, if he had left her in her house, it would have taken a lot longer for the body to be discovered.’
‘People do stupid things,’ was all Holt could offer. He’d read that in Police Review too.
‘So, what are you saying? Williamson went to the house to rob her? There was a scuffle and he tried to hide the body in the woods?’
‘He diddled her too, remember.’
‘So what is he, a robber or a rapist?’
‘Looks like both.’ Unable to face any more questions, Holt slipped out of bed. ‘Sorry, but I really, really need to take a piss.’
She followed him into the bathroom, watching dispassionately as he sent a stream of golden urine into the bowl. ‘I’m sorry Rob, but you really haven’t thought this thing through, have you?’
Shaking himself, Holt flushed the toilet. ‘That’s the great thing about you, Fran,’ he said, hands on hips, ‘you’re always at least one step ahead of us poor old public servants.’
It’s not that hard, Mullin thought glumly. She gestured at his cock with her chin. ‘Are you going to wash that?’
‘For God’s sake, Fran!’ he hissed, grabbing a towel and stomping out of the bathroom.
‘It doesn’t take a genius to see how this could play out,’ she replied, following him down the hall. ‘Local activist murdered. MI5 snooping around, busy telling the local police what to do. A well-known NUM supporter nicked almost immediately. The conspiracy theorists will have a field day.’
‘Fuck off,’ he grumbled, running a hand through his unruly hair. ‘Can’t we have a simple shag without it turning into the bloody Spanish Inquisition? I need some food.’
The kitchen in Holt’s flat was devoid of any decoration, save for a huge poster advertising Led Zeppelin and the other acts headlining the 1979 Knebworth music festival which covered almost the entire far wall. Having borrowed one of her boyfriend’s fetching green and red Shetland sweaters, Mullin sat at the small round table that had been squeezed into the middle of the room, munching on a slice of toast smeared with strawberry jam.
‘Sorry,’ Holt said through a mouthful of toast, ‘couldn’t find any butter.’
‘It’s fine,’ Mullin grinned.
‘I need to do some shopping.’
‘As always.’ They had been going out for almost a year now. In that time, as far as she was aware, inspector Rob Holt had never once set foot inside the local Co-op. Despite not technically living here, Mullin seemed to buy all of the groceries. She washed down the toast with some tea from the chipped Bay City Rollers mug that a previous tenant had left in the cupboard and gestured to the remains of the Wonderloaf by the sink. ‘Want some more?’
Holt shook his head. ‘No, it’s okay. I’m fine.’ Getting to his feet, he shuffled round the table and squeezed behind her chair. ‘I’m sorry I got so grumpy,’ he mumbled, reaching forward and planting a kiss on the crown of her head. ‘I was just hungry.’
‘If sex takes that much out of you,’ she grinned, ‘maybe we’ll have to start rationing it.’
‘Hardly,’ he laughed. Reaching for the outsized red pot, he refilled his mug with tea, before adding a splash of milk from a carton in the fridge. ‘The job is really quite. . challenging right now.’
‘I know.’
‘I understand what you’re saying about Williamson,’ he continued, ‘and I know we’re skating on thin ice.’
You’re skating on thin ice, Mullin thought, saying nothing.
‘But I have to tread carefully on this one.’
‘Even if it means fitting up an innocent man?’ The words were out of her mouth before she had the chance to think about them.
A grimace passed across his face. ‘You don’t know he’s innocent.’
‘You don’t know he’s guilty,’ she shot back.
‘That’s not for me to decide,’ he said firmly, ‘as you well know.’
‘Do you even have enough to charge him? Really?’
He thought about it for a moment. ‘This whole conversation is fairly academic. There’s not really anything I can do about it. It’s out of my hands.’
‘Who’s in charge then? Billy Bunter?’
‘Martin Palmer? He’s just a kid sent up from London to report back about what’s going on.’ Outside in the darkness, the silence was interrupted by a car driving slowly past. Holt briefly wondered who could be out at this late hour, prowling his streets. Slipping back into his seat, he looked at her carefully. ‘You know you can never write any of this stuff, don’t you?’