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repeated.
    ‘Up to you,’ Dom shrugged.
    ‘Anyway, there’s a woman at the station . . .’ Desperate not to seem like a total loser, Carlyle gave Dom a quick bit of background on Sandra Wollard, omitting to mention the kids, the divorces and the fact she was well on the way to forty.
    Dom listened patiently. ‘Ah well, good luck with that,’ he said when Carlyle had finished. ‘I’m not sure I would get involved with another copper, but that’s up to you. How is work at the moment, anyway?’
    ‘Nothing particularly exciting.’
    ‘That’s exactly why I left,’ Dom said, tapping the cigarette packet with his index finger. ‘Who would have thought the whole thing was just so totally fucking boring?’
    Carlyle grinned. ‘I thought you left because they were gonna kick you out.’
    ‘Hardly.’
    ‘How many coppers tried to shop you over Syerston in the end?’ A few months earlier, in the summer, the pair of them had been billeted in an RAF base in Nottinghamshire while on picket-line duty during the mineworkers’ strike. For Constable Dominic Silver, presented with a captive market, it had been an opportunity to develop his growing side-line – selling drugs. There had been plenty of brother officers happy to partake of his wares. A fair few, however, had not been prepared to turn a blind eye to what was going on. Barely two months after returning to London, Dom had left the force.
    ‘One or two,’ Dom admitted. ‘Wankers. They should have minded their own fucking business.’
    ‘So,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you jump, or were you pushed?’
    ‘I jumped.’
    Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
    ‘No, really.’ Taking the packet of Embassy from the table, Dom shoved it back in his pocket, fishing out a couple of pound notes in the process. ‘There were some murmurings before I left, but no one got round to starting any disciplinary proceedings or anything like that. My discharge was perfectly honourable.’
    ‘Glad to hear it.’ Carlyle sniggered.
    Dom waved the notes across the table. ‘The point is, what I do now is far more lucrative. I’m good at it and I’m my own boss. There was no point in hanging around being a hopeless plod for thirty years just so I could collect my pension.’ Pushing back his chair, Dom jumped to his feet and went over to the counter to pay for breakfast. ‘No offence.’
    ‘None taken.’ Carlyle smiled limply.
    Out on the street, Dom turned in the direction of his flat. ‘I need to get going. Sam’s waiting.’
    ‘OK,’ Carlyle said.
    ‘What are you up to?’
    Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I’m off to the Cottage this afternoon; taking my dad to see Fulham.’
    ‘Oh yeah, who are they playing?’ Dom’s tone displayed a complete lack of interest.
I wouldn’t be interested in bloody football either,
Carlyle thought,
if I was heading off to cavort with Sam Hudson.
Belatedly, he remembered why he’d come over to see his mate in the first place. Pulling the flyer out of the back pocket of his jeans, he unfolded it and handed it to Dom.
    ‘Ever heard of this place?’
    Dom looked at the picture of the bucking bronco and nodded. ‘Yeah, I know the McDermott Arms.’ He handed the flyer back to Carlyle. ‘It’s an Irish pub on Kilburn High Road. Not exactly home turf, but I’ve been known to do a little bit of business up there, now and again. Why do you ask?’
    ‘It just came up in something I was looking at,’ Carlyle replied vaguely.
    ‘Well,
constable
,’ Dom chuckled, ‘be advised that the McDermott Arms is most definitely not the kind of place for a boy like you. Not unless you’ve got thirty mates from the Riot Squad with you, all tooled up and ready for a ruck.’ He gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and started off down the road. ‘See you soon.’
    ‘Have fun,’ Carlyle mumbled, the words sticking in his throat.

8
    Propping himself up with a pillow, Harry Cahill watched Rose Murray lean over the edge of the bed and unceremoniously