James Craig: The Enemy Within

‘Would MI5 really get involved in something like this?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Why not?’ Dom shrugged. ‘If you think about it, arguably it’s the kind of thing they’re supposed to do; the kind of thing we bloody pay them to do.’

‘The young bloke in the woods. .’

‘Was he a spook?’ Dom offered up the joint. ‘Maybe.’

Carlyle shook his head. Dope wasn’t his thing; it made him feel thick-headed and nauseous.

‘Suit yourself.’

‘But what’s the point of spying on a woman like that?’

‘The point is,’ Dom continued, taking another toke, ‘the only people who actually know who killed the old woman are the woman herself, who is dead. .’

‘Obviously,’ Carlyle interjected.

‘Yes, obviously dead, seeing she was murdered. Her and the bloke who did it. Unless Uncle Charlie’s good chum Inspector Holt gets a confession from this guy,’ he gestured towards the newspaper, ‘which I very much doubt, it’s unlikely that we’ll ever know the truth. Get used to it. This is what the next forty years of our lives is set to be like: either banging someone up without knowing for sure that they did it, or knowing they did it but not being able to bang them up. It’ll drive you mad if you think about it too much.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Why?’ he asked finally.

Dom frowned. ‘Why what?’

‘Why will Holt not be able to get a confession?’

‘Because,’ said Dom, waving the joint airily above his head, ‘only an idiot would confess.’

‘Maybe he is an idiot.’

‘Maybe he is, but let’s assume not. If he was an idiot, he would either have been caught in flagrante. .’

‘Urgh!’ Carlyle made a face. He didn’t want to think about that.

‘Or he would have confessed already. If I was this guy. .’

‘Ian Williamson,’ Carlyle reminded him.

‘If I was this guy Williamson, and I had done it, I would sit tight and wait to see if they could prove it. Common sense really. Even better, in this case he can start shouting about MI5 and let the conspiracy theorists argue he’s being framed.’

‘It won’t stop him going down though, will it?’

‘Stranger things have happened. Anyway, from Mr Williamson’s point of view, what’s to lose?’

‘Won’t he get a shorter sentence if he ’fesses up?’

‘For God’s sake, John, sometimes I worry about you. Do you really think some guy who shags a granny and kills her — or vice versa — is going to get anything other than the book thrown at him?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Can you imagine, if the bloke gets convicted then walks out of prison in five years’ time? The papers would go crazy.’

‘The papers are always going crazy about something.’

‘Yeah, but you know what I mean.’

‘What if he didn’t do it?’

‘Shit happens, my friend,’ Dom shrugged. ‘Shit happens.’

The combination of the passive smoke from Dom’s joint and the residual warmth of the sun was beginning to make Carlyle feel a little woozy. ‘That’s very. . philosophical,’ he mumbled.

‘Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Dom mused. ‘It happens. The trick is just to make sure that it never happens to you.’ He sighed. ‘Justice is a lottery. Even in this country. And, believe me, this country is as good as it gets.’

‘Don’t you think that MI5 guy might have killed her?’ Carlyle asked, trying to bring the conversation back down to a more practical level.

‘The only thing I think,’ Dom smiled, ‘is that I don’t know. And not only do I think I don’t know, I know I don’t know.’ He giggled. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘But,’ Carlyle said earnestly, ‘isn’t that our job, to find these things out?’

‘In this case it is most definitely not our job; you heard Charlie Ross. Just forget we were ever in those woods.’

‘Okay, but if it’s not our job, personally, it’s still the police’s job. Inspector Holt’s job.’

‘Johnny boy, Johnny boy.’ Dom shook his head sadly. ‘I think if you keep up with that kind of attitude you may well find life in the police force something of a struggle.’

‘The truth is important,’ Carlyle persisted.

‘Yes it is,’ Dom agreed. ‘The trouble is that there are just so many different bloody versions of it. As J. K. Galbraith said “we associate truth with convenience”.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Who’s J. K. Galbraith?’

Dom shook his head. ‘He was a famous economist. Look him up. Basically, he pointed out that people believe what they want to believe, what is in their self-interest, what makes them feel good or help them avoid difficult or uncomfortable choices.’

‘But truth is truth,’ Carlyle persisted, feeling like a dullard.

‘No it’s not. That’s the point. This guy Ian Williamson may or may not have killed the granny. The facts may or may not prove it. But his guilt is highly acceptable to the police, to MI5 and even to Mrs T. That’s the truth.’

‘But-’

‘But nothing. Just don’t ever be a victim; that’s all I’m saying. Anyway, that’s enough philosophy for beginners for today.’ With the stub of his joint, he pointed at a small gaggle of uniforms that had just appeared round the corner of the kitchen. ‘I spy some customers. Dinner time is over. It’s time to get on with some business.’

Millicent Olyphant burst through the door, and plonked herself in the seat in front of the inspector’s desk before he had time to look up and acknowledge her arrival.

‘Let me guess,’ Holt grinned, blowing on his Earl Grey tea.

‘Ian Williamson.’ She dropped her satchel on the floor and crossed her legs. She was still a good-looking woman — for someone the wrong side of sixty — and her energy was just as impressive as her bone structure.

‘Of course, the unfortunate Mr Williamson.’ The inspector took a sip of his tea and scowled: still too hot.

‘Unfortunate has nothing to do with it,’ Olyphant snorted. ‘Murder? This has to be the worst miscarriage of justice I’ve ever seen.’

Since the last one, Holt thought. Millicent’s ability to work herself up into a frenzy of indignation in ten seconds or less was wearisome at the best of times. And these were not the best of times. He took a deep breath. ‘The wheels of justice have only just begun to turn, so you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.’

‘Oh?’ she scolded. ‘So you haven’t charged him yet?’

‘Is he your client?’

‘Yes. I have spoken with him this morning and he has dispensed with the services of that Legal Aid idiot that you foisted upon him.’

‘We haven’t foisted anyone on him,’ Holt replied, struggling to keep his irritation in check. There was a knock and the desk sergeant’s head appeared round the door.

‘Sir?’

Holt waved him away, waiting for the door to click shut before returning his gaze to the elderly lawyer. ‘Everything is being done by the book on this one, as you would expect.’

‘By the book involves an interrogation, without a lawyer, in the middle of the night, does it?’ Olyphant shook her head. ‘I suppose I should be grateful that the boy wasn’t tortured.’

‘Is this a private case?’ Holt asked through gritted teeth. ‘Or have you been sent by the union?’

The lawyer shot him a sharp look. Despite being a strident supporter of the strikers, or perhaps because of it, Ms Olyphant was invariably irritated by any discussion of her apparently boundless willingness to take the NUM shilling. ‘Does it matter?’ she huffed.

‘No,’ Holt smiled, ‘not really. I”m just curious about who will be footing what will doubtless be a very large bill.’