Finishing up, Carlyle gave himself a quick shake and tidied himself away. Reaching forward, he grabbed the handle and flushed, watching as the piece of paper disappeared round the u-bend and then almost immediately reappeared, other side up. Peering into the bowl, Carlyle squinted at the photograph. What the fuck? From outside there was a shout and moments later, Donaldson pushed open the door of the gents.
‘Carlyle, c’mon, we’re off.’
‘Okay.’ Reaching down into the bowl, he cautiously removed the photo with the tips of his fingers. Keeping it at arm’s length, he waved it vigorously before drying it as best he could with a length of Izal Medicated toilet paper.
‘Carlyle!’ Donaldson bawled as he retreated down the hall. ‘Hurry up! You don’t want to be left in this shithole.’
‘Coming,’ he shouted, shoving the picture into his trouser pocket before jogging after the sergeant.
15
Finishing his Coke, Carlyle crushed the can in his hand and looked hopefully towards the bedroom door.
‘She’s not here.’ Dom flopped on to the sofa next to him and cracked open a can of his own.
‘Shame.’ An image of Samantha Hudson floating through the living room in her underwear slid across his brain.
‘We’re taking a break,’ Dom explained.
Are you mad? Still contemplating the lovely Sam, Carlyle crossed his legs. ‘A break?’
‘I dumped her.’ Dom stared vacantly in the direction of the tattered poster of Clyde Best on the far wall, above the television set. ‘Well, she kinda dumped me — or, rather, it was a kinda of mutual thing.’
‘That clears it up,’ Carlyle observed sarkily.
‘Ah well.’ Dom took a sip of his drink. ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘You sound like you’ve been smoking too much of your own dope again.’
‘Hardly,’ Dom retorted. ‘Don’t have the time, these days. There’s just way too much on, business-wise.’
In no mood for another lecture on the infinite opportunities presented by the drugs trade, Carlyle gestured towards the copy of that morning’s Guardian lying on the coffee table. ‘Did you see the thing in the paper about the miners’ strike?’
‘Huh?’ Dom idly scratched at the logo of his red Adidas T-shirt.
‘The investigation into policing at the battle of Orgreave.’
‘Oh, that? Yeah.’ Dom shook his head sadly. ‘What kind of idiots were we? Weeks spent standing around amidst piles of rubble while every other bastard involved in the strike was playing their own silly fucking games.’
‘It looks like South Yorkshire Police could be in the frame for fitting people up and fabricating evidence.’
‘In the frame. Ha!’
‘There’s going to be an investigation.’
‘There’s going to be a cover-up, you mean.’ Dom sighed. ‘Something like this — the truth won’t come out for thirty years, if it ever does.’ He shot Carlyle a world-weary look. ‘The coal strike was a complete balls-ache. A bunch of poor bloody plods stuck in the middle, with wankers on all sides. All we can do is forget about it and move on.’
‘That’s actually what I came to talk to you about.’
‘What? Moving on?’ Dom pushed himself up into a sitting position. ‘You looking for a new job?’
‘No, no, no. The strike.’
‘Boring shit,’ Dom grumbled.
‘Remember the spook we came across that time?’
‘The MI5 guy? Sure. What about him?’
Carlyle shifted his weight forward, so that he was perched on the edge of his seat. ‘I’ve seen him again.’
‘Oh?’ Yawning, Dom made no effort to appear interested in the slightest.
‘And I think he killed that old woman up there.’
Dom thought about that for a moment. ‘The rose-grower who was found in the woods, minus her knickers?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Yeah. Beatrice Slater.’
‘If I recall rightly, the prime suspect died in custody.’ Dom’s eyes narrowed as he returned his gaze to Clyde Best. ‘So why do you think the spook did it?’
Pulling the photograph from his pocket, Carlyle handed it to his mate. ‘Because he’s only gone and done it again.’
Dom listened patiently while Carlyle explained about the photograph and the connection between Beatrice Slater and Hilda Blair.
Martin Palmer.
‘Bloody hell,’ he marvelled, when Carlyle had finished his tale. ‘When did you turn into bloody Columbo?’
‘It was a complete accident — one of those weird pieces of luck. I found the photo when I went for a piss,’ Carlyle told him, blushing slightly.
‘I doesn’t prove that he did it, of course.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but it’s a lead.’
Dom got up and paced around. ‘Oh, it’s a hell of a lead all right.’
‘So, what should I do now?’
‘You’re asking me?’
‘Who else would I ask?’
‘I dunno.’ Dom spread his arms wide. ‘Your sergeant, maybe?’
Carlyle thought about Jamie Donaldson and shook his head. ‘Hardly.’ He looked at Dom expectantly.
‘Sorry, sunshine, I wouldn’t have a clue.’
‘So you were in the pub?’
‘Yes.’
‘Having a drink with public enemy number one, Gerry Durkan.’
‘Yes — well, no, not exactly. He was drinking, I wasn’t — obviously, seeing as I was on duty.’
‘And you just let the bastard walk right out of there, while half of the Territorial Support Group was standing on the street outside?’ The vein above Commander Brewster’s left temple was throbbing so violently that he wondered if she was about to have a seizure or some kind of stroke. That seemed the only way he would get out of here without a terrible thrashing.
Standing to attention in front of the Commander’s desk, Palmer felt a fat bead of sweat running down the length of his spine. His balls had retreated deep inside his body and his dick had shrivelled to nothing. He was melting rapidly, and her onslaught had barely started.
From somewhere in the back of his brain came the faint idea that attack would be the best form of defence. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, ‘We made some arrests. Thirty-seven, in fact.’
Brewster glared at him. ‘An operation that cost almost twenty thousand pounds to mount and we end up with a cell full of drunks. Not much of a result, is it?’
‘We nicked Rose Murray,’ Palmer protested feebly, ‘and Rebecca Andrews.’
‘Andrews?’ The Commander gave him a quizzical look. ‘Who the hell is she?’
‘A leading Trot — on our Most Wanted list,’ Palmer said, with the confidence of a man who had personally added the promiscuous newspaper-seller to said list immediately after her arrest. ‘A known terrorist sympathiser.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She’s definitely a player,’ he explained, getting into the lie now, ‘just not as big a name as Murray.’
‘Red Rosie?’ Brewster sniffed. ‘She’s a bloody name all right. The papers are all over it.’ Taking a copy of the Evening Standard from her desk, she hurled it past Palmer’s head, snarling, ‘Little Miss Murray was released from custody in less than an hour. She had a tearful reunion with her father on the steps of the police station and appears to have embraced the role of the Prodigal Daughter with gusto.’ The Commander gestured towards the newspaper lying next to Palmer’s feet. ‘The fact that she was consorting with a known terrorist barely gets a mention. The press are more interested in the fact that the spoiled, stuck-up bitch is now supposed to be doing a photo-shoot with fucking Tatler.’
‘I’m more a Country Life man, myself,’ Palmer muttered, bracing himself for another missile, ‘although surely we can celebrate a young life saved, whatever the details.’