What Dies Inside (8 page)

Tim?
‘I see,’ Palmer repeated. She had his full attention now.

The hard look was replaced by a malicious grin. ‘As I understand it, he has been sent to the Falkland Islands as a Liaison Officer to the Governor.’

Good God!
‘The Falklands?’

Brewster nodded. ‘This is the 1980s. We have to become a performance-driven organisation and the penalties for failure can be very severe indeed.’

‘I’m sure,’ he gulped.

‘According to the latest lists,’ she continued, ‘there are a number of other posts in Port Stanley still to be filled. And after recent events, more redeployments are, frankly, inevitable.’

He was about to mumble another ‘I see’, but managed to stop himself just in time. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. ‘Gerry Durkan.’

‘What about him?’ Brewster frowned.

‘He is –
was
my asset. While I am actively looking to recover him for the, er . . . benefit of the department, the opportunities for a move abroad must be quite limited.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brewster said tightly. Closing the folder, she sat back in her chair. ‘But tell me how your search for Durkan is going.’

‘Yes, well—’

‘In particular, I would be extremely grateful if you could explain to me exactly how Gerry Durkan managed to shoot dead a member of Special Branch using your weapon?’

Bruised by his encounter with his new boss, Palmer retreated across the road to the Brideshead café. Relieved to find it open on a Sunday morning, he promptly ordered a full English breakfast, toast and a mug of builder’s tea. The toast had just arrived when Freddie Flyte appeared, as if from nowhere, and slid into the booth beside him.

‘How did it go with the wicked witch of the west?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low even though there were no other customers in the place.

Original moniker
, Palmer thought morosely, licking a glob of margarine from his toast and nibbling daintily at a crust. ‘Wicked witch of the west?’ he grunted. ‘Is she from Fulham then?’

‘No idea,’ Flyte replied, clearly bemused. ‘That’s just what they’re calling her.’

‘I see,’ Palmer replied, eyeing the kitchen impatiently.

‘So,’ Flyte persisted, ‘how did it go?’

Palmer looked at his colleague suspiciously. Short and thin, he was too small for the Savile Row suit that enclosed his puny frame like a shroud. With a weak chin, small mouth and eyes that were too large for his face, Palmer had often wondered if he might not be somehow the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman. His hairline was rapidly receding, even though he had just turned twenty-three the month before. His only redeeming quality was that his actual father owned half of Gloucestershire. The good half, apparently, if there was such a thing.

‘Well?’

Palmer sighed. ‘It was fine.’ He hoped that was true. Brewster had seemed to accept his fictitious account of how Durkan had relieved him of the Browning, which he had written up in a report, leaving out any mention of Rose Murray and her pepper spray. There had been no reference to Hilda Blair in the discussion. Looking ahead, Palmer was reasonably confident that he would not be reassigned while Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. Hopefully, by the time the little Irish shit was caught, all the job vacancies in the South Atlantic would be well and truly filled.

Flyte checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice still further. ‘Did Brewster mention the Falklands?’

Palmer frowned. ‘No, not that I recall,’ he lied. ‘We were talking about Durkan. Why?’

‘Well,’ Flyte’s voice was now so low that Palmer had to strain to hear, ‘the word is that people are being sent down there on some kind of special assignment.’

‘That could be interesting.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Flyte spluttered. ‘It’s a total hole. Nothing to do – no clubs . . .’

Only the Penguin fucking Society,
Palmer mused. He glanced again towards the kitchen, annoyed to see no evidence of any frantic activity going on. He could feel his blood-sugar levels plummeting with every passing second. Where was his fucking breakfast? ‘Did you want something, Freddie?’

‘Ah, yes, right.’ Rummaging around in his jacket, Flyte pulled out a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. Palmer looked at it but didn’t pick it up.

‘What is this?’

‘You know that illegal tap you got us to run on Rose Murray’s phone?’

‘No, no, no,’ Palmer wagged a finger at his colleague, ‘not
illegal
.’

Flyte looked confused. ‘So you got a warrant then?’

Gritting his teeth, Palmer resisted the temptation to reach across and throttle the pedantic little shit. He was a spy, for God’s sake! Working on the streets; keeping them safe for ordinary, law-abiding citizens. The day he had to go and beg a judge to be allowed to listen to some damn terrorist bitch’s phone calls was the day that the job ceased to be worth a fig. ‘What have you got?’

‘Durkan called Murray about an hour ago,’ said Flyte, edging away from his colleague. ‘They arranged to meet up.’ He pointed at the bit of paper. ‘That’s the time and the place.’

‘OK, good.’ Palmer squinted at Flyte’s scribble. ‘The meeting – it’s going to be in a pub?’

‘An
Irish
pub,’ Flyte explained. ‘The McDermott Arms in Kilburn. Indian territory.’

‘Indian territory? But I thought you just said it was an Irish pub.’

‘Yes,’ Flyte nodded. ‘It might as well be in the Bogside.’

Bemusement turned to genuine annoyance as Palmer realised that he had not the foggiest idea what the little runt was talking about.

‘The Bogside,’ Flyte explained, sensing his colleague’s confusion. ‘The Catholic part of Derry.’

‘Londonderry,’ Palmer corrected him.

‘Yes.
London
derry. Where they had Bloody Sunday and all that.’

‘Tsk.’ At the best of times, Palmer found history of any description boring.
Irish
history was off-the-scale boring. Stupid buggers killing each other over stuff that might – or might not – have happened five hundred years ago. His contempt for them was infinite.

‘The point is that the neighbourhood is more or less a no-go area for the police and the security services.’ Flyte shot Palmer a knowing look. ‘Just like the rather unsavoury part of Kilburn in which the McDermott Arms resides.’

‘Rubbish!’ Palmer waved a dismissive hand across the table. He was about to mention that he had been in the McDermott Arms himself, and alone at that, but immediately thought better of it. ‘This is London, my dear fellow. There
are
no “no-go” areas here.’ Grabbing the scrap of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket, just as the kitchen door opened and the cook appeared, carrying his breakfast. Tucking a napkin under his chin, he turned to Flyte. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will deal with this in due course.’ As the heaving plate was placed in front of him, he sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘In the meantime, I have to attend to the rather more pressing matter of my food.’

Oh fuck.
Carlyle walked through the doors of Shepherd’s Bush police station to be confronted by the leering face of Jamie Donaldson.

‘I hear you’ve been shagging Sandra Wollard,’ he said in a loud voice, eliciting sniggers from a couple of secretaries squeezing past him in the corridor.

The constable took a deep breath and tried to smile. It was already becoming old news around the station and Carlyle knew that if he didn’t rise to the bait the ribbing would die away more quickly.

‘You little wanker,’ Donaldson hissed, not without feeling. ‘I had twenty quid on Donne to get in there first. He was supposed to be odds on.’

Donne?
Carlyle chuckled.
No wonder he was so pissed off, stuck outside guarding 179 Nelson Avenue when he expected to be inside getting his end away.

‘What’s so bloody funny?’ Donaldson asked. He sounded genuinely annoyed. Then again, twenty quid was the equivalent of half a week’s holiday in Spain.

‘Nothing, nothing. How was your holiday? Looks like you got a good tan.’

The sergeant put a hand to his chin and scowled. His red face looked like it had melted and then reset. ‘Overdid it a bit on the first day.’

‘Mm. But the family enjoyed it, did they?’

‘Wife moaned non-stop,’ Donaldson groaned. ‘So did the bloody kids. They don’t know they’re born, the little buggers. When I was a kid, if we got a weekend in bloody Southend we were lucky. Nowadays . . .’

Moving tentatively down the corridor, Carlyle cut him off. ‘I need to get going, Sarge. Get ready for my shift.’

‘Yes, you do.’ Donaldson looked him up and down. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes, then assemble in the canteen. We’ve got a job to do.’

Jesus Christ! If my father could see me now . . .
Arms folded, Rose Murray stood with her bum resting against the sink, a John Player Special dangling from her lower lip and the unmistakeable scent of Sentry floral disinfectant in her nostrils. From the bar next door, the sound of Prince’s ‘Let’s Go Crazy’, a current juke box favourite, began pounding through the walls. Not for the first time, Rose wondered about whether to go and see Prince’s new movie,
Purple Rain
. Once she’d finished here, she could catch a showing at the Marble Arch Odeon. On the one hand, everything about Prince was fey, pretentious and hopelessly bourgeois. On the other hand, the guy was clearly a total genius. And shouldn’t even the most ardent revolutionary have some free time?

Making a firm date with Prince, she turned her attention back to the slightly less than edifying scene in front of her. Sitting on the toilet seat in the nearest of two large cubicles, Gerry Durkan, jeans around his ankles, took a swig from a can of Carling Black label and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Placing the can on the cistern behind him, he then stuck a hand down the front of his grubby green Y-fronts and began vigorously scratching his balls. Lifting his gaze towards Murray, she could see that his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

‘Gerry,’ she sighed, ‘how much have you had to drink?’

‘Gerry,’ parroted a second, slurred, voice, ‘are we doing this, or what?’

‘Jesus!’ Pushing his underpants towards his knees, Durkan slid off the toilet. ‘You’re gonna put me off here, the both of ya. One thing at a time.’ He tried to grin at Murray but only managed to burp. ‘Gimme a minute and I’ll be right with you.’

A minute? That should be about the long and short of it.
Sticking a look of bored amusement on her face, Rose watched Durkan clawing at the backside of the woman crouching in front of him in the cubicle. The woman, a member of the London Spartacist League whose name Rose couldn’t quite recall, obligingly unzipped her jeans and began pushing them down. She was one of the McDermott Arm’s groupies, a brainless star-fucker in a place where the ‘stars’ either spouted dialectical materialism or threatened your kneecaps, or both. Kneeling on a thick pile of unsold copies of the
Workers Hammer
magazine, her eyes lowered to the floor, she studiously ignored Murray’s presence. Even from several feet away, Rose could smell the alcohol fumes coming from the woman’s mouth. Pressing herself more firmly against the basin, Rose wondered if the woman was going to throw up. The last thing she needed was to get covered in proletarian puke.

Still pulling at the woman’s clothes, Durkan looked up at her. ‘Enjoying the view?’

Saying nothing, Rose took a long drag on her cigarette.

‘You can join in if you want,’ he said, more in hope than expectation. ‘I’m up for a threesome.’

You and every bloke on the entire sodding planet.
‘Thanks – but no thanks.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Durkan whined. ‘I forgot you don’t do doggie-style.’

Taking the cigarette between her fingers, she jabbed an angry hand towards him. ‘For fuck’s sake, Gerry, it’s not like we haven’t got things to do here.’

‘But I’m in the mood. It’s not going to take long.’

I bet it’s not.
‘You’re supposed to be hiding.’

‘I
am
hiding,’ Durkan chuckled. ‘Hiding in plain sight.’

‘Hiding in plain sight and off your fucking face,’ she scolded, realising that she was sounding like his mum and hating herself for it, ‘with your bloody trousers down.’

Adjusting his position slightly, he contemplated the pimply white globes in front of his face. ‘Life goes on.’

‘Fucking Special Branch could kick the door down at any moment and stick an MP5 in your face.’

A shit-eating grin spread across Durkan’s face. ‘That just makes it all the more exciting.’ Spitting twice into his palm, he slipped his hand between his comrade’s buttocks and began moving it slowly up and down. ‘Doesn’t it, Becky?’

Drool trickling down her chin, the girl let out a confused laugh.

That was it, Rebecca Andrews.
Another trust-fund revolutionary – not, it had to be said, unlike Murray herself. Rose quickly shook that description from her head in favour of another:
Trotskyist slag
. She took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Never mind you, how much has
she
had to drink?’ she asked.

‘No idea,’ Durkan shrugged.

‘Fuck off,’ Andrews grumbled. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy here? Why don’t you piss off and go and blow one of your WSL pals.’

Intense irritation swept through Rose. ‘I left the Workers Socialist League months ago,’ she said sharply.

Andrews’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from the floor. ‘Well, why don’t you go and suck off that Special Branch bastard of yours, bitch?’

Fuck.
She looked at Durkan. If anything, he seemed to be aroused by the exchange.

‘She can’t do that,’ he laughed. ‘I shot the fucker.’

‘Ha!’ Andrews cackled. ‘Good for you, Gerry. Good for you.’ She eyed Rose malevolently. ‘Looks like you’ll have to find some other copper to blow, won’t you, you fucking tart?’

‘Piss off.’ Rose sent a half-hearted kick in the direction of Andrews’s head, without coming close to making contact.

‘Ladies, ladies!’ Durkan protested. ‘Calm down.’ He looked up at Rose more in hope than expectation. ‘Sure you don’t want to play?’

Half-turning, Murray dropped the butt of her cigarette into the sink behind her. ‘Fuck off, you wanker.’