James Craig - The Enemy Within

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.

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.’