What Dies Inside (10 page)

‘Want to buy a copy of
Workers Hammer
?’

‘Huh?’ Carlyle took a step sideways to avoid the swaying woman. Her eyes were glassy and she stank of booze.

‘It’s only 15p,’ the woman slurred, ‘I’ve got to sell my quota.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Wanker!’ the woman hissed, shuffling off towards the bar. Carlyle watched as she stumbled straight into one of the last remaining TPG guys and was promptly arrested. The woman started sobbing as her precious newspapers were thrown on the floor. Then she was cuffed and frogmarched out of the pub. Looking round, Carlyle realised that the place was now largely empty. The MI5 guy had long since slunk off back to Gower Street, a stream of abuse from Commander Craven ringing in his ears. Despite their best efforts, Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. All in all, the operation had been a right old cock-up.

At a nearby table, Jamie Donaldson sat slumped in a chair, savouring the delights of a Silk Cut while playing with a patch of peeling skin on his chin.

‘We’d better get going, Sarge.’

‘I’m in no rush to get back to the station.’ Taking another drag on his cigarette, Donaldson gestured towards the door. ‘All that’s going to happen is that we spend hours processing those wankers. By the time they’re all locked up, their fucking bleeding-heart liberal bastard-stroke-bitch lawyers will have arrived and we’ll have to let the cunts out again. Which means more fucking paperwork . . .’

Carlyle made a sympathetic grunt. ‘Fair point.’ He gestured towards a sign for the men’s bogs. ‘I’m going for a leak.’

*

Confronted by a row of stinking, blocked urinals, the constable retreated into the nearest stall, unzipped himself and let fly.

‘Aaahhh!’ Looking down, he contemplated the steady stream of dark yellow urine filling the bowl. Dehydrated after an afternoon in the back of a police van, he clearly needed some fluids. A small square of crumpled white paper floated on the surface of the water and he amused himself for a couple of moments by aiming at it before his flow began to slow.

Finishing up, Carlyle gave himself a quick shake and tidied himself away. Reaching forward, he grabbed the handle and flushed, watching as the piece of paper disappeared round the u-bend and then almost immediately reappeared, other side up. Peering into the bowl, Carlyle squinted at the photograph.
What the fuck?
From outside there was a shout and moments later, Donaldson pushed open the door of the gents.

‘Carlyle, c’mon, we’re off.’

‘Okay.’ Reaching down into the bowl, he cautiously removed the photo with the tips of his fingers. Keeping it at arm’s length, he waved it vigorously before drying it as best he could with a length of Izal Medicated toilet paper.

‘Carlyle!’ Donaldson bawled as he retreated down the hall. ‘Hurry up! You don’t want to be left in this shithole.’

‘Coming,’ he shouted, shoving the picture into his trouser pocket before jogging after the sergeant.

Finishing his Coke, Carlyle crushed the can in his hand and looked hopefully towards the bedroom door.

‘She’s not here.’ Dom flopped on to the sofa next to him and cracked open a can of his own.

‘Shame.’ An image of Samantha Hudson floating through the living room in her underwear slid across his brain.

‘We’re taking a break,’ Dom explained.

Are you mad?
Still contemplating the lovely Sam, Carlyle crossed his legs. ‘A break?’

‘I dumped her.’ Dom stared vacantly in the direction of the tattered poster of Clyde Best on the far wall, above the television set. ‘Well, she kinda dumped me – or, rather, it was a kinda of mutual thing.’

‘That clears it up,’ Carlyle observed sarkily.

‘Ah well.’ Dom took a sip of his drink. ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

‘You sound like you’ve been smoking too much of your own dope again.’

‘Hardly,’ Dom retorted. ‘Don’t have the time, these days. There’s just way too much on, business-wise.’

In no mood for another lecture on the infinite opportunities presented by the drugs trade, Carlyle gestured towards the copy of that morning’s
Guardian
lying on the coffee table. ‘Did you see the thing in the paper about the miners’ strike?’

‘Huh?’ Dom idly scratched at the logo of his red Adidas T-shirt.

‘The investigation into policing at the battle of Orgreave.’

‘Oh, that? Yeah.’ Dom shook his head sadly. ‘What kind of idiots were we? Weeks spent standing around amidst piles of rubble while every other bastard involved in the strike was playing their own silly fucking games.’

‘It looks like South Yorkshire Police could be in the frame for fitting people up and fabricating evidence.’

‘In the frame. Ha!’

‘There’s going to be an investigation.’

‘There’s going to be a cover-up, you mean.’ Dom sighed. ‘Something like this – the truth won’t come out for thirty years, if it ever does.’ He shot Carlyle a world-weary look. ‘The coal strike was a complete balls-ache. A bunch of poor bloody plods stuck in the middle, with wankers on all sides. All we can do is forget about it and move on.’

‘That’s actually what I came to talk to you about.’

‘What? Moving on?’ Dom pushed himself up into a sitting position. ‘You looking for a new job?’

‘No, no, no. The strike.’

‘Boring shit,’ Dom grumbled.

‘Remember the spook we came across that time?’

‘The MI5 guy? Sure. What about him?’

Carlyle shifted his weight forward, so that he was perched on the edge of his seat. ‘I’ve seen him again.’

‘Oh?’ Yawning, Dom made no effort to appear interested in the slightest.

‘And I think he killed that old woman up there.’

Dom thought about that for a moment. ‘The rose-grower who was found in the woods, minus her knickers?’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Yeah. Beatrice Slater.’

‘If I recall rightly, the prime suspect died in custody.’ Dom’s eyes narrowed as he returned his gaze to Clyde Best. ‘So why do you think the spook did it?’

Pulling the photograph from his pocket, Carlyle handed it to his mate. ‘Because he’s only gone and done it again.’

Dom listened patiently while Carlyle explained about the photograph and the connection between Beatrice Slater and Hilda Blair.

Martin Palmer.

‘Bloody hell,’ he marvelled, when Carlyle had finished his tale. ‘When did you turn into bloody Columbo?’

‘It was a complete accident – one of those weird pieces of luck. I found the photo when I went for a piss,’ Carlyle told him, blushing slightly.

‘I doesn’t prove that he did it, of course.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but it’s a lead.’

Dom got up and paced around. ‘Oh, it’s a hell of a lead all right.’

‘So, what should I do now?’

‘You’re asking
me
?’

‘Who else would I ask?’

‘I dunno.’ Dom spread his arms wide. ‘Your sergeant, maybe?’

Carlyle thought about Jamie Donaldson and shook his head. ‘Hardly.’ He looked at Dom expectantly.

‘Sorry, sunshine, I wouldn’t have a clue.’

‘So you were in the pub?’

‘Yes.’

‘Having a drink with public enemy number one, Gerry Durkan.’

‘Yes – well, no, not exactly. He was drinking, I wasn’t – obviously, seeing as I was on duty.’

‘And you just let the bastard walk right out of there, while half of the Territorial Support Group was standing on the street outside?’ The vein above Commander Brewster’s left temple was throbbing so violently that he wondered if she was about to have a seizure or some kind of stroke. That seemed the only way he would get out of here without a terrible thrashing.

Standing to attention in front of the Commander’s desk, Palmer felt a fat bead of sweat running down the length of his spine. His balls had retreated deep inside his body and his dick had shrivelled to nothing. He was melting rapidly, and her onslaught had barely started.

From somewhere in the back of his brain came the faint idea that attack would be the best form of defence. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, ‘We made some arrests. Thirty-seven, in fact.’

Brewster glared at him. ‘An operation that cost almost twenty thousand pounds to mount and we end up with a cell full of drunks. Not much of a result, is it?’

‘We nicked Rose Murray,’ Palmer protested feebly, ‘and Rebecca Andrews.’

‘Andrews?’ The Commander gave him a quizzical look. ‘Who the hell is she?’

‘A leading Trot – on our Most Wanted list,’ Palmer said, with the confidence of a man who had personally added the promiscuous newspaper-seller to said list immediately after her arrest. ‘A known terrorist sympathiser.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She’s definitely a player,’ he explained, getting into the lie now, ‘just not as big a name as Murray.’

‘Red Rosie?’ Brewster sniffed. ‘She’s a bloody name all right. The papers are all over it.’ Taking a copy of the
Evening Standard
from her desk, she hurled it past Palmer’s head, snarling, ‘Little Miss Murray was released from custody in less than an hour. She had a tearful reunion with her father on the steps of the police station and appears to have embraced the role of the Prodigal Daughter with gusto.’ The Commander gestured towards the newspaper lying next to Palmer’s feet. ‘The fact that she was consorting with a known terrorist barely gets a mention. The press are more interested in the fact that the spoiled, stuck-up bitch is now supposed to be doing a photo-shoot with fucking
Tatler
.’

‘I’m more a
Country Life
man, myself,’ Palmer muttered, bracing himself for another missile, ‘although surely we can celebrate a young life saved, whatever the details.’

Finding nothing suitable to aim at her underling’s head, Brewster reluctantly settled back in her chair. ‘How very philosophical of you, Palmer.’

‘I try,’ he smiled weakly.

‘In the meantime, her father’s lawyer – who, by the way, is a very good friend of our very own Director General – has made it clear that the family is considering taking legal action against the police for harassment and wrongful arrest.’ Camilla Brewster paused, trying to compose herself. ‘And then, there is the breaking and entering at her flat.’

‘Ah.’

‘It will all go away, of course. Baron Murray might rattle a few chains but he will want to put all of this behind him as quickly as possible, get Rose married off to some dull young man in the City and have her popping out a procession of sprogs asap.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still,’ Brewster reflected, ‘what you did was totally illegal.’

Oh God,
Palmer thought,
this is it. The slow boat to Port Stanley.
He idly wondered about possible pickings among the elderly female population on the island before quickly pushing the idea from his mind.

Sensing his discomfort, the Commander allowed herself the smallest of grins. ‘We cannot condone criminal acts.’

‘No.’

‘At least, not had they come to be exposed in public.’ Leaning across the desk, the Commander jabbed an index finger towards the quailing spook. ‘It was a clear error of judgement on your part.’

‘Yes.’ Bowing his head, Palmer clenched his arse cheeks.

‘
Another
clear error of judgement.’

Get on with it, you cow
. ‘Yes.’

‘A lot of people are telling me that you should be reassigned to duties on the Falklands.’

Here it comes.
Palmer fought back a sob as the image of a solitery penguin waddling down a windblown beach under slate-grey skies appeared in front of his eyes.

‘Fortunately for you, however, those positions have been filled.’

Looking up, Palmer released his buttocks, almost shitting himself with joy. ‘Oh?’ he squeaked.

‘Yes. I have decided to send Marchmain and Flyte. I think that the experience will do them good.’

Palmer stifled a nervous laugh. ‘Quite.’

‘And, anyway,’ Brewster continued, ‘I’ve got other plans for you.’

Lying on his bed, Carlyle stared at the ceiling, wondering why life had to be so bloody complicated. Without any warning, Sandra Wollard had upped and transferred to the Theydon Bois station, meaning that his love-life had returned to its usual uneventful state. With a sigh, he rolled over and reached under the bed, searching for his copy of
Penthouse
. Unable to grasp it, he stuck his head over the side of the bed.

Fuck.
Zipping up his jeans, he struggled to his feet. ‘Ma!’

Standing in front of a pile of dirty plates in the sink, Lorna Gordon was unapologetic. ‘I told you that I wouldn’t have that kind of filth in the house,’ she said firmly, when Carlyle confronted her about his missing stroke mag.

‘But—’

‘I’ve
told
you, John,’ his mother insisted, attacking the remains of a fried egg that was glued to a plate.

‘But, Ma,’ he persisted, ‘I had a photo in there!’

She shot him a stern look. ‘What?’

‘Not that kind of photo,’ Carlyle explained. ‘It was work.’

Lorna returned her attention to the scrubbing. ‘If it was for work, what was it doing in one of your . . . magazines?’

‘It was for safekeeping.’

‘Well,’ said his mother, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice, ‘I put out the rubbish yesterday. And the bin men have already been and gone.’ Stacking one plate on the draining board, she turned her attention to the next one. ‘So I guess you’ll just have to get yourself another photograph, won’t you?’

Beating a sullen retreat, Carlyle contemplated the loss of his one piece of evidence against the MI5 man. The photograph of Martin Palmer outside 179 Nelson Avenue was probably already lost under a mountain of smouldering domestic waste at the Smugglers Way dump.

‘And next time,’ his mother shouted after him, ‘show a bit more sense.’

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