Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [80]
Probably less than ten, Carlyle thought dismissively. He ploughed on. ‘What type of people are members?’
‘There are all sorts, from young activists like Sandra, through to old-timers – women who remember Greenham Common, things like that.’
Old-timers, thought Carlyle. Helen would love that. His wife had been to Greenham, the Women’s Peace camp in Berkshire, several times in the early 1980s, protesting against American cruise missiles being based there. Carlyle hadn’t thought about that for a long time. It was from before they had got together; before he’d even joined the police force – which was just as well or they might have met under very different circumstances. CND – the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament – had been a big deal back then, in the days when the Russians were the number one enemy and no one had heard of Muslim fundamentalism. Now, it was all you heard. Carlyle wondered if CND was still going.
For all their time, effort and commitment, had those protestors ever achieved anything of note? Not as far as he could recall. The situation now was as bad as ever. The country was skint and yet the politicians were still spending billions on fantastically expensive weapons systems. Were they still pointed at the Russians? Who knew?
He wondered if he dared ask Helen about it. Looking back, she was as ambivalent as most middle-aged people were about their youthful idealism. Holding hands and singing songs – it all seemed so naïve now; just one of those things you did when you didn’t really understand the way the world worked. Still, the idea of people fighting the same battles almost thirty years on filled him with sadness. He looked at the boy directly. ‘Have you ever heard of a woman called Agatha Mills?’
Joyce shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, no.’
Carlyle considered him, unsure if he was telling the truth. Sandra Groves let out a low moan, then shifted in the bed and started snoring lightly. Joyce looked at her, until he was happy that she was still sleeping soundly. ‘I usually only tagged along with Sandra when she was on her own,’ he told Carlyle, ‘like that day on the bus. When she was with her “sisters”, she didn’t like me being there. The Daughters of Dismas is supposed to be a women-only organisation.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. ‘The sisterhood in action.’
Joyce gave him a funny look. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Where would I find a membership list?’
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Joyce. ‘We are law-abiding people. We don’t need to be harassed by the police.’
Harassment? Carlyle thought wearily. You don’t know you’re born, you middle-class muppet. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if I wanted to find out if my Mrs Mills had been involved in Sandra’s group, how might I do that?’
Joyce told him: ‘If we checked and she was a member, she’d need to agree to let us share the information.’
‘She won’t be able to do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’s dead.’
Joyce looked confused. ‘Dead?’
‘She was murdered,’ sad Carlyle, without going into any of the details.
‘Um.’ Joyce looked a bit sick.
‘So,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I am wondering if there is any connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra here. Maybe the person who killed Agatha was the same person who tried to run Sandra over. If there is a connection, that is very important for our investigation. It will help us track him down.’
He didn’t add before he tries again, not wanting to wind the boy up any more.
Joyce sat and thought about it. As the colour began returning to his cheeks, he pulled a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans and started a text message. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said, concentrating on his texting.
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle limply. His stomach growled and he suddenly realised how hungry he felt. He remembered seeing a coffee shop on the ground floor as he came in. With luck, it would still be open. He waited for Joyce to send his message. ‘I’m going to buy a coffee and something to eat. Can I get you anything?’
The boy grunted. Carlyle took that as a yes – or maybe a no? – and wandered off.
He reached