by James Craig
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?’
‘You told me that already.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Or what? I’ll end up like Beatrice?’ She tried to laugh but it came out more like a hollow squeak.
He took a deep breath. ‘Be serious, Fran.’
Placing her mug on the table, she gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t drop you in it. The usual rules apply, however big the story.’
‘Good,’ Holt exhaled. At the outset of their relationship the two of them had agreed that no ‘pillow talk’ could ever, under any circumstances, be used in any of Fran’s stories. At the time, it hadn’t been such a big deal; Inspector Holt didn’t have any newsworthy stories. But since they’d been caught up in the mineworkers’ strike, the agreement had been put to the test once or twice.
Mullin, however, had always kept her side of the bargain.
So far.
Did he trust her? He was forty-three years old, forty-four in little more than a month. This had become, more or less, the longest relationship he’d had in his life. He was beginning to think that he and Fran Mullin might even have some kind of long-term future together. If he couldn’t trust Fran, whom could he trust?
Sitting across the table in the middle of the night, he made a clear decision. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you see, it’s like this: we have been told that the Slater thing has to be cleared up as quickly as possible.’
‘Told? By whom?’
Holt made a face. ‘Just told. This is a very unusual situation. We are kind of at war. The usual rules have been suspended.’ He thought about that statement for a moment, before correcting himself. ‘Well, maybe not so much suspended as blurred. It’s all very confused. Everyone’s making it up as they go along.’
She stared into her mug. ‘Including fitting people up for murder? That doesn’t seem like blurring the rules to me; that seems like breaking them.’
‘No one’s fitting anyone up,’ he protested, already wondering about the wisdom of his decision to come clean. ‘Williamson is a genuine suspect. Plus, don’t forget that he assaulted one of my officers when he was arrested. I saw that myself.’
‘Do you think he did it?’
Staring at the table, he sighed deeply. ‘Like I said, I don’t have to take a view on the person’s innocence or guilt. I just have to present the evidence.’
‘How very diplomatic,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘Even a half-decent lawyer will say this is a political prosecution. Ian Williamson is being hung out to dry because he supports the strike. It allows you to kill two birds with one stone. You can silence that dotty old woman who keeps saying embarrassing things about Thatcher and get an NUM yobbo off the street at the same time.’
Holt shook his head. ‘Williamson isn’t political. He’s just a little thug using the opportunity presented by the current situation to have a scrap every night. He isn’t a miner either. As far as I know, he’s never done a proper day’s work in his life.’
‘Still,’ Mullin yawned, ‘that’s not how he’ll be presented. Unless you have a totally watertight conviction. He’ll become a martyr to the cause.’
‘I know.’
‘And who’s to say, in twenty years’ time, he isn’t freed on a miscarriage of justice and they come after you?’
For a while, they sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts. Finally, Mullin got to her feet. ‘Time for bed,’ she said, pushing back her chair.
He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
‘To sleep,’ she said firmly. ‘You need your rest. I’ve got a feeling you’ve got a rough few days coming up.’
EIGHT
Feeling sorry for himself, Ian Williamson felt the large bump where his head had repeatedly hit the tarmac. The bleeding had stopped but it still hurt like a motherfucker. It was like the worst hangover he’d ever had, times ten.
Times a hundred.
He looked up at the young WPC sitting by the door. ‘Can I get some aspirin?’ He pointed to his forehead. ‘It hurts like a total bastid.’
The officer looked at him, but said nothing.
‘Hey!’ He pushed out of the chair, yanking at the handcuffs which kept him attached to the radiator on the wall behind him. ‘I’m talking to you . . .’
The WPC gave her best inscrutable stare. She had a hawk nose and a bad case of acne.
‘I’m talking to you,’ he repeated, sitting down again. ‘All I want is a bloody aspirin.’
> Still he got no response.
Stupid bitch, Williamson thought grimly, yawning. His body ached with tiredness and he needed a shit. He thought about having a crap in his trousers. That might force them to get him out of here. On the other hand, if the lads found out about it he’d never hear the end of it. That kind of thing could stain you for life, no pun intended. Grimacing, he kept his sphincter squeezed shut.
Where were Arthur and Eric? After bringing them back to the station, the police had split the three of them up. Williamson had been left in this interview room with the beaky bitch all night. What the hell was going on?
In his experience, this was not the way it usually panned out. This was the fifth time he’d been nicked since the coal strike had begun. Every arrest was a badge of honour. It was like everything; once you understood the routine you were fine.
The routine had never changed, until now. Normally, he would have been given a couple of slaps, processed and then thrown into a cell for the night. The next morning, after breakfast, there would be a quick visit to the local magistrate’s court. There, along with the others rounded up the night before he would plead guilty to some public order offence, as directed by the union lawyers. He would receive his fine and be back out on the streets in time for lunch. It was all really quite efficient, by British standards of justice.
So far, his fines had grown to more than six hundred quid. Six hundred quid! Where was he going to find that sort of dough? Williamson shook his head at the stupidity of it all. Good luck if you think you’re ever going to see any of that. They’d have to start docking his student grant. His parents would have a heart attack if they ever found out. As far as they knew, he was busy studying for his degree in Geography and Urban Studies at Leeds Poly.
Oblivious to his existence, the WPC began picking her nose. Urgh! Looking away, Williamson fought the urge to gag. This whole carry-on was beginning to piss him off, big time. Up until now, the whole strike thing had been nothing more than a bit of a laugh. Why was this time different? Was it all because he’d headbutted some plod? Why not just fine him an extra fifty quid and be done with it?
As he thought about it, Williamson’s sense of injustice grew. It wasn’t even as if he had gone out looking for a fight. Well, he had, but not that fight. The whole police response seemed way over the top. Then, again, the dispute was getting worse by the day. Increasingly, PC Plod was taking no prisoners.
His musings were interrupted by the door opening. Hastily removing an index finger from her nostril, the WPC jumped to her feet. A tall, middle-aged guy in a green quilted jacket walked in, followed by a fat bloke in a suit. The guy in the green jacket nodded at the WPC, who scuttled out.
Williamson eyed the new arrivals suspiciously. One looked like he was going out hunting; the other looked like he worked in a bank. Why is a guy in a suit wandering round the cop shop? Williamson wondered. You don’t get many blokes in suits round these parts in the middle of the day, never mind the middle of the night.
The older guy pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Ian, I’m Inspector Holt. I’m in charge of this investigation.’
Williamson glanced up at the younger guy, who was hovering nervously by the door, arms folded. ‘Who’s he? Is he my lawyer?’
Holt glanced over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Have you asked for a lawyer?’
‘Not yet. The union usually provides one in the morning.’
‘Curious, that,’ Holt sniffed, ‘seeing as you’re not in the union.’
Williamson shrugged. ‘We’re all on the same side.’
‘Not this time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Again, Williamson looked past Holt, towards the door.
‘Ian,’ said Holt firmly, ‘look at me. Don’t worry about him.’
‘Who is he?’ Williamson asked again.
‘Look at me. This is a very serious matter.’
‘So I nutted the bloke, fair enough, I admit it.’ While talking to Holt, Williamson kept his gaze fixed on the guy by the door, trying, unsuccessfully, to get him to make eye contact. ‘You were there, anyway. You saw what happened. You could see that it was a reflex action. Self-defence. He came out of nowhere and—
Holt sighed. ‘PC Johnson will be fine, Ian. It may well be that we never get round to pressing charges on that one.’
That one?
‘However, GBH is the least of your worries.’
Grievous bodily harm? Just for twatting the bloke? What could they give me for that? Williamson wondered. Then he finally realized what the inspector had said. ‘What do you mean?’
Holt glanced over at the guy in the suit, who gave the slightest of nods. ‘You are going to be charged,’ he said quietly, ‘with the murder of Beatrice Slater.’
The inspector had his full attention now. Trying to put as much distance as possible between them, Williamson pushed himself back into his chair. ‘What?’ he spluttered.
‘Beatrice Slater,’ Holt repeated.
Listening to his heart trying to burst out of his chest, Williamson took a couple of deep breaths and tried to clear his head. Think!
‘She was murdered.’
Wondering if it made him look guilty, Williamson took another deep breath. ‘I know,’ he said finally, ‘I read about it in the Gazette.’
Holt clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘You killed her,’ he said quietly.
Williamson shook his head. ‘I didn’t even know her.’
‘That’s a lie, Ian.’ Holt shook his head sadly. ‘We know you met her several times. She supported the strike, like you. When some scab put a brick through her window, you went round to help clean up.’
‘So if I helped her, why would I kill her?’ Williamson demanded.
‘We have witnesses.’
‘What witnesses?’
‘Look,’ he said gently, giving it the father confessor routine, ‘this is a very clear-cut case. You will get a Legal Aid lawyer in the morning. Once you are processed, things will move very quickly. She was a little old lady. You sexually assaulted her.’
‘No—’
Holt held up a hand. ‘The machinery will not stop. They’re going to throw the book at you. We just wanted to have this little chat with you first to see if we can make things easier. What’s happened can’t be undone but we can sort things out quickly. Mrs Slater didn’t have any family, so, frankly, the Director of Public Prosecutions will be happy to do a deal.’
Stunned, Williamson folded his arms. His eyes lost their focus and his bottom lip started to tremble. Then he started to cry.
That’s taken the wind out of your sails, the MI5 man thought cheerily.
‘So,’ Holt continued, ‘if there’s anything you want to tell us now, that would be the sensible thing to do. It will save everyone a lot of time and effort. We will make sure that the DPP take into account that you have cooperated fully and it will count heavily in your favour when it comes to sentencing.’
Leaning against the doorframe, Palmer watched the suspect drop his head in his hands and begin blubbing like a baby. The enemy within, he mused, what a total shower. With a bit of luck, this shabby provincial affair would be wrapped up in the next twenty-four hours. Then he could get back to London, hopefully never to return to this utter hell hole.
NINE
The day shift was safely inside and the forces of law and order could claim another victory. Carlyle glanced at his watch. They had been standing on this patch of waste ground for almost three hours now, eyeing the hundred or so flying pickets two hundred yards away, on the other side of no man’s land. It was a blisteringly hot day and, so far, no one had summoned up the energy for a ruck. The boredom was driving him mad.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie Ross approaching, striding down the thin blue line, like an emperor inspecting his troops.
Standing to his right, Dom let out a groan. ‘Oh great,’ he complained. ‘That’s just what we need, another pep talk from the pintsized Scottish psycho.’
‘The old git is never happy unless we have a full-scale scrap,’ Carlyle mused, gesturing towards the pickets. ‘He’ll be scheming about how to wind up those buggers over there so we can claim they started a fight and go in, truncheons flailing.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Dom kicked at a stone lying on the ground, sending it flying a couple of yards through the dust in the sergeant’s direction.
Ross watched the stone arrive at his feet and looked up at Dom. ‘I hope you’re not waiting for Arsenal to call, son.’
‘I’m a West Ham man,’ Dom sniffed.
‘I hear that they’re desperate,’ the sergeant cackled, walking in front of the two constables, ‘but even so, I don’t think they’ll be in for you.’
‘Even if they were, I’d say “no”.’ Dom gestured across the battlefield. ‘Professional football could never be as much fun as this.’
Charlie nodded solemnly.
You probably believe it, Carlyle thought, wiping a bead of sweat from under the peak of his helmet.
Taking a step forward, Dom lowered his voice. ‘I hear that they’ve found the bloke that killed that woman.’ He gestured over his shoulder, towards the woods where Beatrice Slater’s body had been found.
‘I understand that bloke’s been charged,’ Charlie mumbled, not keen to be talking about it. ‘But that’s nothing to do with us.’
‘It’s still a result,’ Dom said equably.
‘Like I said, son,’ Charlie said grimly, ‘it’s not our problem. We did the locals a quick favour, that’s all. Job done. Forget about it.’
Quick? Carlyle harrumphed. That’s very easy for you to say; you weren’t the one who was stuck with the body all bloody night.
A cheer went up and the three of them looked around. A longhaired striker had sprinted across no-man’s land and smacked an unsuspecting officer round the back of the head, knocking off his helmet. Scooping the helmet out of the dirt, the miner plonked it on his head and began sprinting back towards his own lines. Red-faced and panting, the officer set off in pursuit, spurred on by a rage of abusive catcalls and hand gestures from his colleagues. Unable to close down his quarry, the officer made a despairing attempt at a rugby tackle. As he landed face down in the dust the cheers reached a crescendo. Meanwhile, the thief reached the relative safety of his own lines, tossing his prize high into the air.
