What Dies Inside (7 page)

The Mowlam Arms had filled up in the last couple of hours, but not by much. Gerry Durkan dropped his holdall next to the footrail and placed a pound note and a selection of coins on the bar. Catching the barman’s eye, he signalled towards the bottle of Powers Gold Label sitting amongst a random selection of spirits on a shelf above the cash register. ‘Make it a double.’ Nodding, the barman reached for a less than clean-looking shot glass. The TV on the far end of the bar was showing an episode of
The Bill
. For a few moments, Durkan allowed himself to be distracted by the new cop show, but he wasn’t really that interested. He had sat with Hilda and watched one of the first episodes a few weeks earlier, quickly concluding that it wouldn’t last for long. The life of your average British plod just wasn’t interesting enough to sustain a long-running television series. In his book, there hadn’t been a decent cop show on the telly since
Target
.

At least the television’s sound was down, so the lame drama wouldn’t distract the serious drinkers scattered around the bar. As ITV went into a commercial break, the barman handed Durkan his drink. Not waiting on ceremony, he downed the whiskey in one. It didn’t taste great but he asked for another anyway. The adrenalin from his encounter with Harry Cahill was wearing off and he felt weary. Taking his new drink, he paid the barman, grabbed his bag and retreated to a table in a lonely spot at the back of the pub. Here, he sat and contemplated the rather unfortunate turn of events and asked himself where things would likely go from here. Clearly, the Special Branch man would be found soon enough. Once that happened, the police search for him would only intensify.

Should he run? Or should he go to ground in the city? The police, along with the other organs of the state, had the resources to deal with either scenario. Durkan could feel the tiredness eating into his bones. For several moments, he stared vacantly into the middle distance. Still undecided as to his next move, he pulled Cahill’s wallet from his jacket and began rifling through its contents. Aside from a warrant card, two five-pound notes and a small foil wrapper containing a single Durex Elite condom, there was a crumpled photograph which had been folded several times before being shoved into the wallet. Taking another sip of his drink, Durkan flattened the picture out on the table and studied it carefully.

Without doubt, it was a surveillance photograph, taken with a long-distance lens. It took him a few seconds to recognise the MI5 man, Martin Palmer, from whom he’d removed the Browning after he’d been caught snooping in Rose Murray’s flat. Durkan made a face.
Why would Special Branch trail an MI5 man? Then again,
he reasoned,
why not? The bastards spy on everyone else.

In the picture, Palmer was leaving Hilda Blair’s house. He looked pleased with himself and he was grasping something in his left hand. With his nose less than an inch from the table, Durkan squinted at the image for several seconds before giving up. The image was too fuzzy. It was impossible to make out what the spy was holding.

What did he take from Hilda’s house?

‘Aaah . . .’

Slowly, slowly, Durkan realised just what the picture was showing him. He thought back to his conversation with Palmer in Rose Murray’s flat:
‘Where did the other pair of knickers come from? Do you go round stealing women’s underwear to wank off in?’

Finishing his drink, Durkan slumped back in his chair. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘I didn’t know the half of it, did I?’ Images of Hilda’s battered body fluttered through his brain and a wave of revulsion filled his stomach. ‘You sick fucker,’ he groaned, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘I hope you get what you truly deserve.’

Shovelling everything into his holdall, he got to his feet just as
The Bill
was interrupted by a newsflash. After a few words from a newsreader, a mug shot of Harry Cahill appeared on the screen. Eyes down, Gerry Durkan upped his pace as he weaved his way through the tables and headed for the street.

Glancing at his watch, Carlyle calculated that there were three hours and seventeen minutes until the end of his shift. Precisely six minutes fewer than when he had last checked. With a heavy sigh, the constable looked along the deserted Nelson Avenue. The last forensic technician had left more than an hour ago, along with the bodies. Even the representatives of Her Majesty’s press, drawn to the scene of a double murder like flies to shit, had called it a night. The place was now totally empty.

Why he had to stand guard over a locked house was beyond Carlyle. He just hoped that the station would remember to send a replacement by the end of his shift. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’d totally forgotten about him. He would get the overtime, of course, but tonight he didn’t want the extra cash; he wanted to go to the cinema and park his brain for a couple of hours. Assuming he clocked off at the appointed time, he should just about be able to make a late showing of
Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom
at the Shepherd’s Bush Pavilion.

Yawning, his thoughts drifted back to events inside the house. From what he’d picked up, Hilda Blair had been strangled and raped, while Cahill, the Special Branch officer, had been shot. The assumption was that Gerry Durkan, the IRA bomber, was responsible for both crimes. In his mind, Cahill replayed his recent visit to the house with Cahill and Donaldson, trying to recall any detail that might be important. Nothing sprang to mind.

He looked at his watch. Three hours and fifteen minutes. And counting.

A car slowly made its way along the road. A smile crossed Carlyle’s lips as he recognised the police vehicle.
At least they’ve remembered I was here
, he thought. The Austin Allegro slipped into a space between parked cars on the far side of the road and the engine was switched off. He tried not to grin as his replacement, a suitably pissed-off constable by the name of Donne, reluctantly got out of the passenger’s side and loitered on the pavement. After a moment, the driver’s door pushed open and Sergeant Sandra Wollard gave him a cheeky smile. ‘You thought we’d leave you here all night, didn’t you?’ she called.

‘No,’ Carlyle lied.

Wollard gestured for Donne to get across the road. ‘Ian will take over now.’

‘Any chance of a lift back to the station?’ Carlyle asked hopefully.

‘Sure.’ Wollard’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she got out and came over. She was in her uniform but he could see that her make-up had been freshly applied. And the smell of her perfume caused the smallest frisson of excitement to ripple through his chest. ‘I just need to check something inside for Sergeant Donaldson first.’

‘OK.’ Carlyle frowned. As far as he knew, Jamie Donaldson was in Majorca, on a one-week package holiday at the two-star Panorama Beach Hotel. It was costing thirty-nine pounds each for Donaldson and the wife, nineteen quid for the kids. Carlyle had been forced to listen to him drone on about it for weeks.

On the front step, Wollard pulled out a key, raking it across the
Police – Do Not Cross
tape stuck to the front door. ‘Come on, Constable,’ she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘You can show me what I’m looking for.’ Feeling his heart-rate accelerate, Carlyle watched her stick the key in the lock, push open the door and disappear into the hall. Giving Donne an apologetic shrug, he quickly followed her inside.

Sadly, Samantha Hudson was nowhere to be seen. As he watched the TV in Dominic Silver’s living room, Carlyle tried to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. The idea that she might be in bed, sprawled naked under the covers in the room next door, barely fifteen feet from where he was sitting, was just too terrible to contemplate.

‘So, did you get laid yet?’ Sitting at the far end of the sofa, Dom tossed this week’s copy of
City Limits
on to the coffee table and struggled to his feet.

Carlyle grunted something noncommittal as he kept his gaze firmly trained on
Football Focus
. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dom pad into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, a bottle of Heineken in each hand.

‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks.’ It was a bit early, but Carlyle took a decent swig and gave a small but appreciative sigh.

‘Only I heard that you did.’ Dom grinned as he settled back into his seat.

‘Huh?’ Carlyle felt himself begin to blush.

‘You’re the talk of the station, Johnny boy,’ Dom cackled. ‘The word is that Sergeant Wollard gave you a right old roasting.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘At a crime scene, no less, you dirty little bugger!’

Bloody Donne,
Carlyle thought. He recalled the look on the constable’s face when he and Wollard had finally reappeared from inside Hilda Blair’s house – a mixture of annoyance and jealousy – and realised he should have known that the grapevine would soon be humming.

‘At least you’ve finally popped your cherry.’ Dom raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s a miracle!’

‘Fuck off!’ Blushing harder, Carlyle took another swig of his beer.

‘You didn’t tell me she was a granny,’ Dom teased.

‘Fuck right off. She is
not
a fucking granny.’

‘OK, OK.’ Dom held up a hand by way of apology. ‘But this is nothing compared to the stick you’re gonna get at work.’

Don’t I know it
, Carlyle thought miserably.

Trying to suppress a giggle, Dom lifted his bottle to his lips and forced down a mouthful of lager. ‘You didn’t do it on the old girl’s bed, did you?’

‘
Dom
. . . for fuck’s sake.’

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘From what I can see,’ Carlyle observed, ‘there isn’t really much of an investigation. The IRA guy did it; when they catch him, it will be case closed.’

‘Evidence?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘Dunno.’

Dom shook his head. ‘You really are shaping up to be one great fucking copper.’

‘Look,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not like it’s my investigation, is it? I’m just a bloody constable, after all.’

‘There’s a rumour that he was a Special Branch snitch.’

‘Who? The IRA guy?’

‘Yeah, Gerry Durkan.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘But if he worked for Special Branch, why did he try and blow up Thatcher?’

‘Maybe he was playing both sides.’ Dom waved his bottle airily in front of his face. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘I suppose,’ Carlyle replied, unconvinced.

‘Not that we’ll ever find out. You just know that when they corner the bugger, he’ll be shot resisting arrest.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Carlyle parroted.

‘Dom! What’re you doing?’ The bedroom door opened and out popped the head of Sam Hudson. Clocking Carlyle on the sofa, she scowled. ‘You coming back to bed, or what?’ Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the door shut and retreated back into the bedroom.

‘Just coming,’ Dom called after her. Getting to his feet, he gave Carlyle an apologetic shrug as he gestured towards the hallway. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ he quipped. ‘Duty calls.’

Carlyle jumped up. ‘No worries. I need to get going anyway.’

‘Off to the Cottage this afternoon?’

Carlyle nodded. In reality, Fulham were playing at Grimsby and he had no plans.

‘Dom!’

‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’

‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’

‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.

Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go – half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’

Or the next week at work,
Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’

Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend.
You’d better watch it mummy,
he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment,
or you could go the way of . . . well, the others.

Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’

Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’

‘You are?’

‘Er . . .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer – Martin Palmer.’

The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.

Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.

‘Reassigned.’

‘I see.’

The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’

‘Nice to meet you, sir . . . er, ma’am.’

‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’