James Craig: The Enemy Within

‘Her knickers are missing,’ Ross continued, oblivious to the young constable’s discomfort.

‘Was she killed here?’ Dom asked.

‘Good question,’ Ross replied. ‘We don’t know that yet. The body was found here by a couple of lads just after three o’clock this afternoon. The little sods had been skiving off school.’ He shook his head at the cheek of it.

Dom looked at Carlyle. The expression on his face said, Looks like we’ve caught the shit end of the stick again. ‘And what’s it got to do with us?’ he asked.

‘I need someone to guard the body overnight. Make sure the scene isn’t disturbed. Scare off journalists and other rubberneckers; you know the drill.’

‘But what’s it to do with us?’ Dom repeated.

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle chipped in. ‘I thought we were here for the strike. Not to deal with little old ladies getting killed. Surely that’s not our problem?’

Holding up a hand, the sergeant looked at each man in turn. ‘I know, I know, it’s not our responsibility, but the local sheep-shaggers have asked us for some help on this one. What with everything going on around here, there just aren’t enough bodies to go round.’ Realizing what he’d said, he glanced beyond the tape and gave a rueful smile. ‘No pun intended, love.’ He turned back to face the two young officers. ‘To top it all, a couple of scabs down the road had their houses petrol-bombed last night. They only just got out alive by all accounts.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘One of them had their pet cat barbecued — everyone’s going crazy about that.’

‘It figures,’ Dom mused. ‘People care more about animals than they do about people.’

Ross nodded. ‘A Siamese cat called Dennis. Quite expensive, apparently. He went to shows all over the country.’

‘So we’re here because of a bloody cat?’ Carlyle grumped.

‘No,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘You’re here because the forensics team for the whole bloody county has been stuck there all day. They’re still going through the smouldering remains, searching for the vital clues that will lead the forces of law and order to the cat killer. Doubtless, it will turn out to be some NUM-supporting little scrote who believes domestic pets are some kind of fascist conspiracy created by the ruling elite in order to keep the working classes under the heel of their filthy jackboots.’

‘He may have a point,’ Dom grinned.

‘Either way,’ Ross mused, ‘you boys are here tonight.’

‘Great,’ Carlyle pouted, folding his arms.

‘The local constabulary can’t cope,’ Ross continued. ‘Their idea of a crime wave is if a group of ten-year-olds go on a shop-lifting spree down the newsagents on the high street. Their world has been turned upside down by all of this. They’ve had twenty years’ worth of criminal activity here in the last month.’

Like I give a fuck, Carlyle thought sourly. A gust of wind blew through the trees, causing him to shiver.

‘Your job is simply to preserve the crime scene for the next few hours,’ Ross explained. ‘Forensics won’t be able to get here until morning, so try and keep everything nice and fresh for them. Stay this side of the tape.’

Frowning, Dom looked up at the inky heavens. ‘What happens if it rains?’

Charlie shrugged. ‘That will count as an Act of God. Nothing you can do about that, son. If any evidence gets degraded overnight, that will be forensics’ problem.’ Turning, he headed back towards the path down which they had arrived a few minutes earlier.

‘Are you not staying then?’ Dom asked.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid, son,’ Charlie laughed as he continued on his way. ‘Good luck. I’ll see you both in the morning.’

His dreams of watching pretty girls walking down the King’s Road were interrupted by the sound of the wind in the trees, followed by the crowing of birds.

‘Wakey, wakey!’

With the greatest reluctance, Carlyle opened his eyes and found himself staring at the scuffed end of Dom’s boot. ‘Did you just kick me?’

‘Just a gentle prod,’ Dom grinned. ‘You don’t really want Charlie Ross to bowl up and find you in the land of nod, do you?’

Shivering in the grey dawn, Carlyle yawned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after six.’

‘Fuck.’ Struggling to his feet, Carlyle stretched before trying to shake the stiffness from his body. Dom patted the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’

‘What have you got?’ Carlyle asked groggily, wiping the leaves from his overcoat.

‘Just some whizz.’

‘Urgh, no thanks.’ It was one thing taking advantage of Dom’s amphetamine supply to get through the last stretch of a double shift, quite another to find yourself snorting speed at this hour of the morning. ‘I’d rather have a coffee and a Danish pastry.’

‘Not on the menu, I’m afraid.’

‘Then I’ll pass.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Dom’s jerky manner suggested he had already partaken.

‘I need a slash,’ Carlyle grunted. He glanced at the grey plastic sheet behind the police tape. At least it hadn’t rained. Everything seemed as it was the night before. Turning away, he stepped up to the nearest tree and unzipped his fly.

‘Ahhh. . fuck. .’

Still in full flow, he looked up to see a young woman walking towards him.

‘Fuck!’ Blushing violently, he took a step backwards, struggling not to piss all over his trousers.

‘Good morning!’ the woman said cheerily, eyeing his groin with more amusement than seemed strictly necessary.

Turning away, Carlyle finished his business, gave himself a shake and zipped himself up.

‘Good morning,’ said Dom cheerily. He nodded at Carlyle, who was struggling to regain his composure. ‘Sorry about the floor show.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the woman, looking Dom in the eye. ‘In my experience, once you’ve seen one knob, you’ve seen them all.’

Now it was Dom’s turn to blush. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he mumbled.

The woman stepped forward. ‘I’m Fran Mullin. From the Gazette.’

They looked at her blankly.

‘The local paper,’ Mullin explained.

‘So you’re a journalist, then?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Well spotted.’ Her grin grew wider. ‘Looks like your brain is as big as your other organ.’

‘Ha!’ Dom laughed.

Carlyle frowned. Not only a journalist, but a piss-taking journalist. Just what he needed: a great start to what would doubtless be a great day. He looked the woman up and down. She was dressed in jeans and a parka with fur on the collar and a pair of sturdy-looking walking boots. On one shoulder was a small black rucksack. Carlyle suddenly had a flashback to his school days, memories of his fifth-form geography teacher, a cheery, outdoorsy type who was the subject of much sixth-form speculation and banter. There was dismay among the boys of 6C when she ran off with the deputy headmaster, much to the annoyance of the latter’s wife.

‘I work for the local paper,’ Mullin explained, ‘and do a bit of radio too, sometimes even TV, when there’s a big story.’ Dropping her bag on the ground, she gestured towards the police tape. ‘Like this one.’

Carlyle watched the cheeky hack pull a notepad and pen from the bag. Has she got a tape recorder in there as well? he wondered. Charlie Ross had given clear instructions about keeping journalists well away from the crime scene. But that was easier said than done now that one had actually turned up. What were they going to do?

He looked at Dom, who gave him a hopeless shrug.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Carlyle said feebly.

Taking the cap off her biro, the Mullin woman gave the young constable a patronizing smile. ‘I’m here on a public right of way, love,’ she said, tapping the muddy path with the sole of her boot, ‘as is my legal right.’