Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [79]
This boy, apparently home alone at the time of the incident, had no alibi, but Carlyle couldn’t see him doing it – he seemed too much of a wimp. Anyway, domestics rarely involved stolen cars; it was so much easier just to smack the offending partner over the head with a frying pan.
‘What I’m wondering,’ Carlyle continued, ‘is why someone would want to do this to her.’
‘Why would you care?’
‘I didn’t say I cared.’ Carlyle smiled nastily, just to keep the boy on his toes. If the little do-gooder wanted to believe in the fascist bullyboy stereotype, that was fine by Carlyle. ‘It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that it’s come on to my radar.’ Thinking about it on his way over to the hospital, that was the best explanation he had been able to come up with.
‘What about the other policemen?’ Joyce asked.
‘This is still their case,’ Carlyle replied. ‘But I have another case currently under investigation and I’m wondering if there might be a connection.’
‘So what do you want from me?’ Joyce asked, clearly not convinced that he should be having this conversation.
‘Tell me about what you guys were involved in.’
‘We weren’t involved in anything,’ Joyce said defensively.
‘You’re political,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘You were campaigning for – what?’ His mind went blank. ‘That advertising business on the side of the bus.’
‘Religious beliefs.’
What about the beliefs of atheists? Carlyle thought, but he bit his tongue. ‘That’s right, I remember. It’s kind of political, I suppose.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘I didn’t say that it was.’ Carlyle fought to keep his irritation in check. ‘Tell me about the things that are important to you guys. Tell about the campaigns you’ve supported.’
The boy looked at the woman in the bed. Then, realising he didn’t have much else to do, he launched into a monologue he had clearly delivered many times before: ‘We draw our inspiration from the Bible and from the social teachings of the Church . . .’
Which church? Carlyle wondered. That’s the thing about churches; they all think they’re ‘the’ church. His irritation level rose another notch, but again he said nothing.
‘We want to help people who are poor, marginalised or oppressed,’ the boy continued, ‘and to fight injustice and poverty. There needs to be a global community that respects the rights and dignity of everyone. Discrimination must be ended.’
Good luck, sunshine, Carlyle thought. He wondered what all this had to do with filming the antics of Clive the nutty bus driver and making the traffic congestion on St Giles High Street even worse than normal.
‘The bounty of creation should be shared by all. To do that we need social justice, underpinned by the Christian faith and the values of the Gospel.’
Carlyle failed to stifle a yawn.
‘Am I boring you?’ the boy asked sharply.
Of course you bloody are, Carlyle thought. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled, yawning again. ‘Sorry, it’s just that it has been a very long day.’
The boy looked at him doubtfully.
The next yawn the inspector managed to stifle – third time lucky. ‘The Church – the campaign against unfairness – do you do any work in Latin America?’
‘Of course. We campaign wherever there is injustice and poverty.’
‘Anything specifically in Chile?’
The boy eyed him. ‘Why?’
Just answer the fucking question. ‘Humour me.’
‘Maybe,’ Joyce said. ‘I’d have to check.’
‘That organisation Sandra mentioned – the Daughters of Something or other – is that what you use to achieve all this?’
‘Daughters of Dismas is one of the organisations that gets involved in the campaign, yes,’ Joyce replied. ‘But, obviously, it’s for women only, so I can’t really get involved that much.’
‘How many members does it have?’
‘Quite a few.’
I bet, Carlyle thought. ‘What does that mean? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands?’
‘I wouldn