A Clear Conscience by Frances Fyfield

wasn’t the best companion, since he could not hold his drink, always picked a fight, while me, I get quiet and sleepy. Anyway, he did pick an argument with someone in the pub, the Lamb it’s called, only round the corner from where I live, as a matter of fact, and it all ended up in threats, you come outside with me, all that stuff. Damien loved it of course, Damien would. He had three friends with him, big blokes, like himself, all ex-boxers, they could handle anything. I dunno why it is when blokes are big, they seem to attract trouble. One of them wanted to go home, so Damien said go then, but he didn’t, and then Damien says to me, stay, will you? And I said, the hell I will, if this lot are coming back for a fight, I’ve your sister to look after and I’m not getting hurt for anyone. Fine, he says, fine, and we get another drink. I don’t drink much myself; you can’t when you run a bar, but when I’m not at work, I take anything offered. They’re a good laugh, that crew of Damien’s, when they get together. That other team were long gone, I forgot about them.’
    Ryanhad taken this statement. He had an ear for the vernacular and an ability to make people talk, something to do with his deceptively friendly face.
    â€˜Anyway, I hardly noticed that the crowd had left and I forgot the fact they threatened to come back. I can’t, for the life of me, remember what the argument was about. Damien was good at pool; the pub has five tables; he’d won some money off a bloke who thought he was better; Damien had fleeced the poor kid on a bet, that was it, I think. Oh, maybe three or four games. What was lost? I’ve no idea. Maybe fifty, more like a hundred, but Damien was so shambling and so clever, they couldn’t see him coming. He was more than good at pool: he was brilliant.’
    There would have been a pause in the statement, for tea, Bailey guessed, rehearsing it all in his mind. The man was not a defendant, merely a witness. He would have been afforded all the luxury the police station could allow. Which was tea or coffee in a smoke-filled interview room, not quite far enough away from the sobbing and grunting in the cells.
    â€˜Anyway, the place closed and out we went. Damien wanted to go to some other place, I said, no, not me, I must get home, your sister has an early start. He nodded, he never thought much of me, to tell the truth, and you were either with Damien or against him. So I didn’t wait to see if there was anyone there in the shadows, if you see what I mean. He had more than enough going for him with his friends around him. I was only ever asked along for the ride because my wife wanted Damien and me to be friends; he’s a bit flash for me. If he wanted a fight he had one. Boys will be boys and there never was any stopping my brother-in-law. I never dreamt it would go so far.’
    Not a bad bloke, that Joe Boyce, Ryan had said to Bailey. Bailey had never seen the man whose evidence had been agreed as part of the setting; it would provide nothing of great interest to either prosecution or defence at the forthcoming trial. Pleasant Mr Joseph Boyce had helped with descriptions, that was all, leaving before the action, as Damien’s friends had confirmed in their own, sorrowful evidence. Since they too had failed to prevent the death, they could not afford contempt, although one of them suggested it. Joe was nothing but a hanger-on, adopted by Damien and Mickey Gat because he was wed to Damien’s sister, Mary Catherine Boyce: there was a statement from her too.
    Baileycould not have said why he wanted to cast his eyes over Mr Boyce, some little trace element of bitterness in the statement, perhaps, but with his car accidentally pointing west instead of east, the time was as good as any. Ryan was a fine investigator. He got on the wavelength and spoke as he was spoken to, but his judgement, well, that varied.
    Bailey always knew the