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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.’

SIX
    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