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By Root 754 0

didn’t really want to talk about his work, but he knew that wasn’t an option. Helen was not one of those women who could let her husband go off to work every day and not give a moment’s further thought to what he did or how he did it. She always kept track of what he was up to: his cases and, even more keenly, the endless cycle of the Met’s internal politics. In this regard, Carlyle knew that he was a very lucky chap. Now, more than ever, Helen was his main sounding-board and adviser. She was discreet, decisive and insightful, and he trusted her judgement completely.

She looked at him expectantly, so Carlyle leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want the people at the next table – a couple of girls currently discussing different mobile-phone tariffs – tuning into their conversation. ‘It was quite a night . . .’ He smiled wanly, before going on to explain how Sandra Groves and Stuart Joyce had been executed while he was down the road munching an egg roll.

He gave her the two-minute version, avoiding too many details that might put her off her lunch when it came. Even so, by the time he’d finished, Helen managed to look pale and angry at the same time. ‘Thank Christ you weren’t there!’ she hissed.

But I was there, Carlyle thought. ‘What do you mean?’

She picked a knife off the table and waved it in his general direction. ‘I mean, Inspector bloody Carlyle, that if you hadn’t gone off to get yourself something to eat, they’d have shot you as well.’

They were just then interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with their food, which saved him from having to admit that he hadn’t thought of that.

For a short while they ate in silence. After a couple of mouthfuls of enchilada, Helen seemed to have successfully overcome her shock at Carlyle’s near brush with death. ‘So why did that poor girl get shot?’ she asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Carlyle. ‘It’s not my case.’

Helen daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘If it’s not your case,’ she said finally, ‘then why were you at the hospital?’

‘Well . . .’ Once again, Carlyle gave her the short version: a quick explanation about the Daughters of Dismas, and his idea about a possible connection between Agatha Mills and Sandra Groves. ‘The boyfriend said that they had some old-timers in their group; the kind of people who had been campaigning against all this sort of stuff for decades.’ He smiled meekly. ‘The kind of people who used to go to Greenham Common.’

‘There was nothing wrong with going to Greenham,’ Helen said tartly. ‘I did it myself, after all.’

Carlyle sat back in his chair and held up a hand. ‘I know, I know.’

‘And if I’d come across you on the front line, I wouldn’t have fancied your chances.’

Me neither, Carlyle thought.

‘I’m glad I had the spirit to do that,’ Helen continued. ‘I hope Alice has it about her too.’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed readily.

Helen watched him carefully, waiting to see if he could resist poking fun at her youthful idealism back in the day. When she was satisfied that he had, for once, managed to resist the temptation to tease her, she said: ‘What was the name of that group of women again?’

‘Daughters of Dismas.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘No reason why you should have.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dismas was some old-time religious guy in the Bible. He hung out with Jesus – something like that. They’re just a bunch of religious loonies.’

‘But I know someone who will.’ Helen reached down under the table and pulled her bag on to her lap. After rummaging around for a few seconds, she found her mobile and started searching through the contacts list. The girls at the next table had moved on from talking about technology to discussing sex and were casually comparing STDs. Carlyle tried not to listen, watching Helen hit the call button as he began contemplating a plate of churros y chocolate.

‘Clara, it’s Helen. Hi! How are the boys? Good, yes, we’re all fine.’ She looked over at Carlyle and grinned. ‘Yes, he’s still a policeman. I know, I’m giving up hope of him ever getting a proper job.’

Carlyle made a face and she stuck her