What Dies Inside (2 page)

He was shaken from his reverie by the shrill, insistent ring of the phone on Commander Timothy Sorensen’s desk. Looking up, the Commander glared at Palmer, as if the call was his fault, before picking up the receiver.

‘Sorensen here.’

Palmer stared at his belly while the Commander nibbled on a gingersnap as he listened intently to an extended monologue from whoever was on the other end of the line. After a few moments, Palmer let his gaze lift to a copy of Bernard Safran’s 1953 portrait of the Queen that hung on the wall, next to a map of the British Empire circa 1920-something. He guessed that Her Majesty must have been in her late twenties when she sat for that picture. Something like that.
Not a bad-looking girl back then,
Palmer mused. But not really his type. He liked them older; a lot older.

‘I really don’t think that—’ Sorensen said finally, before being quickly cut off by the caller. ‘Yes, well. We’ll have to see what we could do about that.’ Looking up, he eyed Palmer with some distaste. ‘He’s here now. I was just about to brief him. Fine. Of course. Yes, sir. Jolly good. That is received and understood. Will do.’ Placing the receiver back on its cradle, he returned to his paperwork without another word.

Palmer felt a wave of despair wash over him. The timing of this meeting could hardly be worse. Granted, everyone was in a right old flap this morning, what with the bloody Paddys almost blowing the PM to Kingdom Come. But even so, a boy’s tea-break was sacred, surely? It was almost two hours since he’d enjoyed his post-breakfast snack – a bacon sandwich from the greasy spoon café on Store Street – and he was beginning to feel more than a little weak with hunger. By the time he made it back downstairs, Edna would be long gone and all sources of sustenance denied him until the canteen opened at 12.30.

Finally looking up from his report, Sorensen placed the remains of his gingersnap onto his saucer, next to his teacup. He was a small man, in his late fifties, a thirty-year veteran of the security service. Sorensen had become Palmer’s immediate boss in the wake of the latter’s triumphant return from Yorkshire during the mining strike, waging covert warfare against union operatives who had been dubbed ‘the enemy within’ by the PM herself. From being a nondescript analyst toiling away in the bowels of HQ, Palmer was now being fast-tracked as a management trainee. Life was good.

Until now.

‘No breakfast today?’ With his thinning hair slicked back over his scalp with an excess of Brylcreem and his thick NHS-frame glasses, Sorensen reminded Palmer of his grandfather.

‘No, sir,’ Palmer lied, playing with the knot of his tie. ‘It has been a really very busy morning.’

‘Quite.’ Sorensen gestured towards the plate with his finger. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Leaning forward, Palmer took a couple of chocolate digestives, slipping each one into his mouth in quick succession.

‘Now look here, Palmer,’ said Sorensen, closing the file and retreating into the gloom behind his desk. ‘There is quite a situation going on here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Palmer licked crumbs from around his lips.

‘As you can imagine,’ Sorensen continued, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, ‘the last few hours have seen frantic activity. No one could have imagined that the damn Republicans could have got so close to the Prime Minister.’

‘No.’

‘Various Cabinet ministers are in hospital, for God’s sake.’ The Commander shook his head. ‘The show must go on, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Palmer nodded vigorously.

‘Mrs Thatcher has already stood up at the Party conference and delivered her “no surrender” speech. In the meantime, Special Branch has been busy arresting every bloody Irishman they can lay their hands on.’

‘Good.’

‘The perpetrators have already been locked up – most of them, at least.’

Nodding again, Palmer reached for another biscuit, thinking better of it when he saw the scowl that passed across Sorensen’s face.

‘However,’ his boss went on, ‘while Special Branch have been making hay, questions have been asked about us.’

‘Oh?’

Sorensen looked pained as he said, ‘People are already asking whether MI5 shouldn’t have done more to prevent this outrage from happening in the first place.’

Not unreasonable,
Palmer thought,
under the circumstances.

‘Which was why I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving me an update on Gerald Durkan?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Palmer shifted in his seat. Gerry bloody Durkan. IRA bomber turned MI5 informant; the key ‘asset’ under the management of the rising star of the service. For the last two months, it had been Palmer’s job to meet up with Durkan in various grubby West London pubs, tentatively sipping pints of rancid lager while handing over cash in exchange for snippets of intelligence about Republican activity in London. In retrospect, it was obvious why Sorensen had dragged him in here this morning. Grimacing, Palmer cursed himself for obsessing about food when he should have been getting his story straight.

Sorensen eyed his young colleague carefully. ‘I don’t suppose he ever mentioned anything about a Brighton bomb?’

‘No,’ Palmer said. ‘I think I would have remembered that.’

‘Ye-es,’ Sorensen sighed. ‘When did you last meet him?’

‘Well, erm,’ Palmer scratched his head, ‘as you will have seen from my most recent report, we have not had any actual direct contact with Durkan for a few weeks now.’

Sorensen tapped the file on his desk angrily with his index finger. ‘It says here that there has been only one telephone conversation in the last month.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And?’

Palmer frowned. ‘And what?’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘Nothing much,’ the agent admitted. ‘Gerry said things were fairly quiet. As I recall, he didn’t even chase me for any money, which was unusual.’

‘But you didn’t think anything of it?’

‘Well,’ Palmer stammered, ‘I made my report, as per the usual protocol.’

‘So,’ Sorensen said drily, ‘if I were to tell you that a man matching the description of Gerry Durkan booked a room in the Grand Hotel in Brighton the day after you last spoke to him on the phone, what would you say?’

Oh dear
, thought Palmer, all thoughts of lunch suddenly abandoned.

Ignoring the bedraggled punter trying to spin her some complicated tale of woe, Sergeant Sandra Wollard shot Carlyle a sly grin as he slipped past the front desk. ‘You’re late!’

The harassed constable gestured towards the clock behind Wollard’s head. ‘Only a couple of minutes.’

‘That clock is slow,’ the desk sergeant retorted.

‘I had to wait ages for a 74,’ Carlyle explained with a shrug. ‘Then three buses turned up at once.’

‘Typical,’ Wollard sympathised.

‘Apparently, there was an accident on the Fulham Road.’

‘A van went into the back of a taxi,’ the punter joined in. He was a small bloke in a grey mac with straggly grey hair down to his shoulders. ‘There was a right old rumpus.’ Both officers quickly shot him a look that said
shut up
.

‘Donaldson’s looking for you,’ said Wollard, returning her attention to her colleague.

Carlyle groaned. The last thing he needed now was Sergeant Jamie Donaldson on his case. Suddenly, a morning spent patrolling the White City Estate seemed quite appealing. Donaldson was a first-class arsehole who thought that having three stripes on his arm before the age of thirty made him God’s gift to policing. The reality was somewhat different. Donaldson had a well-deserved reputation round the station for being idle, as well as a dullard. ‘What does
he
want?’

‘Dunno,’ Wollard shrugged. ‘He said it was urgent though.’

‘Great.’

‘Don’t worry, you can handle him.’ Pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Wollard looked him up and down wolfishly. Carlyle felt himself blush. It wasn’t the first time the sergeant had indicated that she had taken a fancy to her young colleague. The attention made him feel excited and embarrassed at the same time.

Like every other officer in Shepherd’s Bush police station, Carlyle knew that the much-admired Wollard, a voluptuous thirty-something blonde with a couple of kids and a wicked sense of humour, had just divorced her second husband. Being newly single, the sergeant was the subject of much idle speculation amongst the Bush’s male officers. One of the boys in the locker room was even running a book on which lucky so-and-so would get to bestow upon the sergeant her first post-divorce shag. Although Carlyle’s name was not currently in the running, the constable could see that he had caught the woman’s attention. Could he get lucky? Not for the first time, he wondered about the etiquette of putting a few quid on himself.

Sensing his discomfort, Wollard grinned widely. ‘A few of us are going down the Queen Adelaide at lunchtime . . . if you’d like to come.’

‘I’d better go and see what Donaldson wants,’ Carlyle prevaricated, fleeing towards the relative safety of the squad room.

A few officers were standing around, staring gormlessly at a TV perched on top of a filing cabinet. On the screen were pictures of firemen carefully working their way through the remains of the Grand Hotel, checking for any bomb survivors still left amidst the smouldering rubble. With the sound down, Jamie Donaldson was providing his own commentary for anyone who cared to listen.

‘Fucking bastards,’ he hissed, running a hand over his fresh number one buzz cut. ‘That’s why we should still have the death penalty.’

There were a few murmurs of assent.

Taking his hand from his head, Donaldson waved dismissively at the mini throng. ‘Go on, you lot, get on with your work.’ He waited for them to slowly disperse before turning his attention to the new arrival. ‘Ah, Mr Carlyle,’ he snarled. ‘How very nice of you to put in an appearance, today of all days.’

Carlyle stared at his boots. They could do with some attention. He made a mental note to get a tin of Kiwi Black shoe polish on the way home.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Donaldson demanded.

‘Sergeant Wollard told me you wanted to see me, Sarge,’ Carlyle smiled, ignoring the question.

Donaldson gestured towards the screen with his thumb. ‘This is gonna be a real fucking palaver.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s gonna cause us no end of aggravation. Lots of extra work. Like I said, we should just fuckin’ shoot the bastards.’

Grunting something that could be considered agreement, Carlyle waited patiently for his orders.

‘Don’t you think?’ Donaldson pressed. ‘Who gives a fuck about Northern Ireland anyway?’

‘Not me,’ Carlyle agreed, letting his mind return to the question of his chances of getting off with the experienced Sandra Wollard.

‘Dickheads, all of them.’ Finishing his coffee, Donaldson crushed the plastic cup in his fist and tossed it towards the waste-bin next to his desk. When the cup bounced off the rim and onto the worn burnt-orange carpet, he shook his head in disgust but made no effort to go and pick it up. ‘You ready to go?’

Carlyle nodded obediently. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Good!’ Suddenly launching himself towards the door, Donaldson gestured for Carlyle to follow. ‘Let’s get going then.’

Running south from the Uxbridge Road, 179 Nelson Avenue was a tumbledown three-storey Victorian terrace property which had long since seen better days. Sitting in the gloomy living room on the ground floor, Carlyle balanced a china cup and saucer on his knee as he perched on the edge of a dusty, over-stuffed sofa and contemplated the gratuitously offensive 1970s orange and brown wallpaper. The second hand on the carriage clock, which stood amidst a small collection of framed photographs on the mantelpiece, clicked round noisily. They had already been here far longer than fifteen minutes – not that Sergeant Donaldson appeared to be in any hurry to get on with whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. After getting over here in double-quick time, they had proceeded to do nothing but drink tea.

Hurry up and wait,
Carlyle thought sourly. It was a standard refrain in the Metropolitan Police.

‘Would you like a biscuit, dear?’ Hilda Blair shuffled into the room, carrying a plate piled high with chocolate digestives.

‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ Ignoring the dirty look from Donaldson, Carlyle reached forward and helped himself. Taking a polite nibble, he washed it down with a sip of his tea. ‘Very nice.’

‘I don’t get many visitors these days,’ the old lady confided, playing with the modest string of pearls around her neck. Dressed conservatively in a grey skirt and navy cardigan over a cream blouse, she stood five feet two and looked like she would struggle to tip eight stone on the scales. With neatly cut grey hair and sharp green eyes, she appeared to be about seventy, give or take.

‘No,’ Carlyle nodded. He glanced at Donaldson, looking for any indication of why they were here, but the sergeant, pushing back the lace curtain, was busy checking the road outside through the grimy window.

‘I have lived here for more than thirty years, you know,’ Mrs Blair said. Outside, there was the sound of a car horn, followed by angry voices.

‘Very nice,’ Carlyle mumbled.

‘It was a lot quieter when we first moved in. Now you get people shouting and screaming in the street at all times of the day and night.’

‘I can imagine.’

She looked him in the face. ‘Not that the police do anything about it.’

‘Well . . .’

‘My husband worked just down the road at Fuller’s Brewery for many years,’ the woman nattered on, quickly changing tack.

‘I see.’

‘The place was always a bit big for us on our own.’ She looked around sadly. ‘After he died, I decided to take in a lodger.’

‘Mm.’

‘It’s a bit of money. And the company’s nice.’

‘Yes.’ At a complete loss as to how to keep the conversation going, Carlyle was saved by the belated intervention of Donaldson.

‘Better late than never,’ the sergeant declared, letting the curtain drop and stepping away from the window. ‘He’s here.’

Who’s here?
Carlyle thought, increasingly irritated at being kept in the dark. A few moments later, the doorbell rang. Gesturing towards the hall, Donaldson smiled at their host.