James Craig: The Enemy Within

‘Ha!’ Holt laughed.

Palmer looked hurt. ‘I’m only doing my job,’ he pouted.

Charlie shook his head. He prided himself on being a true blue, a man who would happily put his body on the line for Queen, country and Rangers FC but, even so, there were times when the stupidity of the powers that be — and the foot soldiers doing their bidding — left him almost speechless with rage.

At last, Holt finished his pint and gestured at Charlie’s empty glass. ‘Bell’s?’

‘Yes,’ the sergeant nodded. ‘Make it a double.’

Getting to his feet, the inspector turned to the youngster. ‘And what,’ he asked, ‘did you put in your report?’

‘That’s the thing,’ Palmer said sheepishly. ‘I haven’t got round to writing it yet.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Holt, heading for the bar. ‘That’s not very good, is it?’

‘No, my boss back in Gower Street is jumping up and down, wanting to know what’s going on.’

‘I thought he’d be delighted,’ Charlie said as he watched Holt pull a fiver from his wallet. ‘After all, it’s one less threat to national security for him to worry about.’

Nodding, Palmer took a mouthful of his Coke. ‘Yes, but you know what it’s like. The woman was quite well-known in. . particular circles. All the lefties and conspiracy theorists will now say we did it. And we didn’t!’ His eyes widened in horror at the very thought of it. ‘Did you know that the poor woman had been violated, after the fact?’

Charlie made a face. ‘Holt mentioned it.’

‘They found semen all over the place.’

‘Have you given a sample?’

Palmer frowned.

‘For purposes of comparison,’ Ross explained. ‘To rule you out of the investigation.’

The horror on Palmer’s face turned to outrage. ‘Sergeant,’ he said with all the authority he could muster, ‘I was never ruled in.’

‘Mm.’ The sergeant looked back at Holt standing by the bar. Times change.

‘This was clearly the work of a deviant.’

‘A card-carrying member of the NUM deviant, no doubt.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I have seen the preliminary findings from the pathologist. .’ That was quick, Charlie thought, considering how over-worked everyone is.

‘It was completely horrible. Definitely not the type of behaviour that you get from an MI5 man.’

Are you for real? Charlie wondered. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘So,’ Palmer continued, ‘my orders are to stay here until the matter is cleared up and we can be sure that the other side cannot use this terrible crime as a propaganda weapon in the current war.’

Eyeing Holt returning from the bar with his drink, Charlie licked his lips. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘What we really need is a quick arrest.’

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Holt as he reached the table. Handing Charlie his whisky, he dropped another packet of crisps into Palmer’s lap. ‘I think we’re going to have some good news for you on that front very soon.’

Walking down the street, Carlyle watched Dom scratch Jerry Dammers’ nose, just above his left nipple. ‘Have you got the new album?’

‘Nah,’ Dom yawned, ‘not yet. It’s only just come out. I’m gonna take a trip up to Rough Trade and treat myself when we get home.’

‘Something to look forward to,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Dom replied, before launching into a spirited rendition of ‘Enjoy Yourself’, much to the amusement of a couple of schoolgirls walking past them, takeaways in hand.

Once Dom had finished, Carlyle gestured at his mate’s T-shirt. ‘I never really got into The Specials,’ he reflected.

‘You should give it a whirl. I can lend you a couple of LPs, if you want.’

‘Nah. I’m more a punk man. The Clash, SLF, The Jam.’

‘The Jam?’ Dom looked horrified. ‘They’re not punk. Paul Weller supports Thatcher, for God’s sake!’

‘I think he was misquoted,’ Carlyle said limply.

‘Bollocks. Anyway, he’ll never stand the test of time.’ He tapped the peeling transfer on his T-shirt. ‘The Specials, mate — they’ll be around for ever, mark my words.’

‘Unlike us,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘if we don’t get something to eat, sharpish.’

‘Good point.’ Dom gestured down the high street. With three pubs, a Chinese takeaway and a fish ’n’ chip shop, the local village offered the only chance of escape from RAF Syerston. It was also the only hope of sustenance for two AWOL constables for more than twenty miles. ‘The world is your oyster, old son; take your pick.’

After ten minutes standing in the queue in the Golden Fryer, Carlyle was beginning to regret their decision. With increasing impatience, he waited as an old guy at the front of the queue slowly counted out sufficient cash to pay for his sausage supper. As he moved some coins around the counter, the woman at the till scratched her head, too bored to be annoyed.

‘You’re still fifty pence short, love,’ she observed, once the man had emptied out all of his pockets.

From the back of the shop, he could make out the sound of a radio playing TRB’s ‘Power in the Darkness’ Carlyle breathed in deeply the smell of boiling fat and cooked potatoes and felt his stomach rumbling. Reluctant to admit defeat, the old fella started rummaging round in his pockets all over again.

Get on with it, you old bastard, Carlyle thought, tapping his foot impatiently on the linoleum floor as he tried to ignore his hunger.

‘Here you go, mate,’ Dominic Silver slipped in front of Carlyle and placed a 50p piece on the counter.

Before the old man could respond, the woman scooped up all of the coins and thrust the newspaper-wrapped food parcel at him.

‘Thanks, son,’ he mumbled, staring at his shoes as he shuffled out.

Feeling like the cheapskate he was, Carlyle glared at his mate.

‘We would have been here for ever,’ Dom shrugged, pushing Carlyle towards the counter, ‘and I’m starving. Hurry up and get your bloody chips.’

Standing under a streetlight in front of J. A. Chisholm amp; Sons, the local Turf Accountants, Carlyle felt a globule of fat run down his chin and smiled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Dom asked, spearing a big fat chip with a tiny wooden fork and dropping it into his mouth.

‘It’s just a relief to have some proper food at last,’ Carlyle replied, wiping his chin, ‘rather than that crap they feed us in the base. It’s a bloody disgrace. You’d probably get better fed if you were in prison.’

‘Mm.’

‘I reckon I’ve lost half a stone since we got here. More.’

‘It’s the Maggie Thatcher diet,’ Dom mused. ‘You run around chasing fuckwit miners all day and then have to make do with survival rations.’

‘Maybe keep your voice down, a bit,’ Carlyle implored, gesturing back along the road towards the Golden Fryer. A group of three lads had just emerged from the shop and were shovelling chips into their mouths, just like the two policemen. All three were in identical uniform: black DMs, drainpipe jeans, T-shirts and leather jackets. The jackets were covered, front and back, with the small, round yellow and black Coal Not Dole stickers of the NUM.

Standing on the pavement, the trio eyed the two coppers suspiciously over their bags of chips.

‘We don’t want a ruck,’ Carlyle said, sotto voce, as he got ready to flee.

‘No,’ Dom agreed, cheerily, ‘not ’til I’ve finished my tea, anyway.’

‘Cheeky sods!’

Even out of uniform, the two coppers stood out like a sore thumb. With their short-back-and-sides haircuts and healthy, well-fed glow, it was almost as if they were a different species from the anaemic, washed-out locals. It was rare to see any rozzers venturing into the village out of uniform nowadays. These two must be particularly stupid.