James Craig: The Enemy Within

‘Yes, but-’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I interfering with your duties, in any way?’

‘No, but-’

‘So, I’m not infringing the legal process.’ A smile played across her lips. ‘Plus, I’ve had to contend with you waving your willy at me.’

Carlyle felt a sense of desperation creeping over him. ‘But-’

‘Lucky for you I’m not the kind of girl who is going to run off screaming about a pervert in the woods.’

‘I didn’t-’

Cutting short Carlyle’s protests with a wave of her hand, she flipped open her notebook in a way that made his heart sink. ‘Now that we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way, what can you tell me about the murder of Beatrice Slater?’

‘She’s dead,’ Dom sniffed.

‘Yes, I am aware of that. What can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding her death? Give me some background. Who found her? When?’

‘Look, love,’ Carlyle said, trying to sound both knowing and world-weary at the same time, ‘we’re just here guarding the crime scene, waiting for forensics to turn up. The investigation proper hasn’t even started yet. We don’t know anything.’

Nodding furiously, the woman began scribbling on her pad. ‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘No, you bloody well can’t,’ Carlyle wailed. ‘Fuck off!’

A gleam appeared in Dom’s eye. ‘You can quote what he’s said, as long as you attribute it to a Sergeant Charlie Ross.’

Mullin shook her head, pointing at their uniforms with her pen. ‘Neither of you are sergeants. What’re your names?’

‘Fuck off,’ Carlyle repeated.

The journalist gestured with her chin towards the body. ‘Don’t you know who she is?’

The two young policemen said nothing.

‘Beatrice Slater is — was — something of a local celebrity round here. She was a champion rose grower who campaigned on a range of issues like the environment, nuclear disarmament and animal rights.’

A lentil-eating, Guardian -reading leftie then, Carlyle mused.

‘She claimed that she’d been under surveillance by Special Branch and MI5 ever since she wrote to Mrs Thatcher in Downing Street to protest about the Falklands War.’

Dom laughed. ‘A bit doolally, then, was she?’

Mullin shook her head. ‘Not at all. Beatrice was a very interesting and engaging person. She was a teacher for almost thirty years. She was also a vocal supporter of the striking miners.’

Oh, oh. The faintest of alarm bells started ringing in Carlyle’s head. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘I interviewed her for the Gazette not so long ago. Someone put a brick through her front window after she organized a coffee morning and cake sale in support of the local branch of the NUM. The story made page four of the paper. There had been threats. .’

‘What threats?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Now, now, Fran,’ said a deep voice, ‘what are you doing to these young lads after they’ve been up all night?’

Carlyle turned to see a tall, middle-aged man in a green quilted jacket and brown cords appear through the trees, with Charlie Ross following obediently in his wake. Bringing up the rear was a third man, a young bloke about the same age as the two constables. Plump, with blonde curls spilling over his face, the youngster was incongruously dressed in a tweed suit with a Prince of Wales check. His pale brown brogues were covered in mud and he looked distinctly uncomfortable out in the open air.

‘Ha!’ Mullin laughed. ‘And what are you doing using a couple of guys up from London to cover this for you?’

Who said we were up from London? Carlyle wondered.

‘Put that bloody notebook away,’ said the man.

Glaring at him, Mullin reluctantly did as she was told.

‘Shouldn’t you be on the Dennis the cat story, anyway?’

‘Chris Boon is covering that,’ she pouted. ‘You know I don’t do fluff.’

‘Ha, ha,’ the man deadpanned, ‘very good. We could all do with a bit of comedy at the moment.’

Mullin gestured towards the body. ‘This is no laughing matter.’

‘No,’ the man agreed, ‘it isn’t. It is very serious. Very serious indeed. All the more reason why you shouldn’t rush into print with some hasty and ill-considered ramblings.’

‘I don’t-’

‘Now is not the time or the place,’ he cut her off. ‘We can sort out what you’re going to write later.’

Ross glared at his two young charges. ‘I told you buggers to keep journalists away,’ he growled.

‘Don’t worry, Charlie,’ the man smirked, ‘I can handle Fran here.’ Striding across the clearing, he extended a hand to Dom and then to Carlyle. ‘I’m Inspector Rob Holt from the local station up the road.’ He paused, to allow the duo to introduce themselves.

‘PC Silver,’ Dom said cheerily.

‘Carlyle.’

Holt smiled at the sergeant. ‘Looks like you’ve got some good lads under your command at the moment, Charlie.’

Ross grunted non-committally.

‘Anyway, thanks for helping us out, boys. It was very good of you to step into the breach at such short notice.’

As if we had much choice, Carlyle thought glumly. He glanced at the cherub in tweed but got no response. Stepping over to the police tape, the man showed no intention of introducing himself.

‘I’m sure Charlie. . Sergeant Ross explained how stretched things are here at the moment.’

‘Yes,’ the two constables replied in unison.

‘So, like I said, we are very grateful for the help.’

‘Our pleasure,’ Ross beamed. Slipping a knapsack off his shoulder, he pulled out a Thermos and tossed it towards Dom. ‘Hot coffee; you deserve it.’

Catching the flask, Dom started unscrewing the lid. ‘Thanks.’

Sticking his hand back in the bag, Ross pulled out a brown paper bag soaked with grease. ‘And a couple of bacon rolls.’

‘Result!’ said Dom, stepping forward and grabbing the bag.

‘We’ll have someone here to replace you in an hour or so,’ Holt explained. ‘The forensics guys might turn up first. I hear that the remains of Dennis have been recovered — such as they are — and returned to the grieving owner. .’ turning to Mullin, he flashed a cheesy smile, ‘who I’m sure will make page one of the Gazette.’

Mullin made a face. ‘We’ll see about that. It’ll be an editorial decision.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Holt turned back to the two young constables. ‘Anyway, my forensics guys are very good. They know what they’re doing, so let them get on with it.’

‘Just don’t get in their way,’ said Charlie Ross firmly.

Carlyle started to complain then thought better of it.

The cherub caught the inspector’s eye and gave him a slight nod. Turning away from the body, he started back down the path.

‘Right,’ said Holt, stepping over and slipping an arm round Mullin’s shoulder, ‘we’ll be on our way. Thanks again.’

As they watched the trio depart, the sergeant gave his underlings a nasty smile. ‘When you get back to camp, be sure to get some rest. You’ll be back on duty this afternoon. We’re expecting things to kick off properly later on.’

‘Jolly good.’ Dom took a bite from his bacon roll and washed it down with some coffee before handing the cup to Carlyle. ‘By the way, who was the guy in the suit?’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle mumbled, slurping his coffee, ‘he seemed like a bit of a knob. Nice suit though.’

‘Never you mind,’ said Ross, retrieving his bag. ‘It’s not your problem. We’re done here.’

Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee and made a face. It tasted horrible, but at least it was hot. ‘That inspector seemed very friendly with the journalist woman,’ he mused.