What Dies Inside Part 3

Dom waved the notes across the table. 'The point is, what I do now is far more lucrative. I'm good at it and I'm my own boss. There was no point in hanging around being a hopeless plod for thirty years just so I could collect my pension.' Pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, Dom jumped to his feet and went over to the counter to pay for breakfast. 'No offence.'

'None taken.' Carlyle smiled limply.

Out on the street, Dom turned in the direction of his flat. 'I need to get going. Sam's waiting.'

'OK,' Carlyle said.

'What are you up to?'

Carlyle looked at his watch. 'I'm off to the Cottage this afternoon; taking my dad to see Fulham.'

'Oh yeah, who are they playing?' Dom's tone displayed a complete lack of interest. I wouldn't be interested in b.l.o.o.d.y football either, Carlyle thought, if I was heading off to cavort with Sam Hudson. Belatedly, he remembered why he'd come over to see his mate in the first place. Pulling the flyer out of the back pocket of his jeans, he unfolded it and handed it to Dom.

'Ever heard of this place?'

Dom looked at the picture of the bucking bronco and nodded. 'Yeah, I know the McDermott Arms.' He handed the flyer back to Carlyle. 'It's an Irish pub on Kilburn High Road. Not exactly home turf, but I've been known to do a little bit of business up there, now and again. Why do you ask?'

'It just came up in something I was looking at,' Carlyle replied vaguely.

'Well, constable,' Dom chuckled, 'be advised that the McDermott Arms is most definitely not the kind of place for a boy like you. Not unless you've got thirty mates from the Riot Squad with you, all tooled up and ready for a ruck.' He gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and started off down the road. 'See you soon.'

'Have fun,' Carlyle mumbled, the words sticking in his throat.

8.

Propping himself up with a pillow, Harry Cahill watched Rose Murray lean over the edge of the bed and unceremoniously spit his e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e into an empty coffee cup sitting on the bedside table. All pa.s.sion spent, a vague sense of irritation washed over him. 'Why can't you just swallow it?' he complained.

Wiping her chin on the crumpled bedsheet, Rose scowled. 'What's it to you?' she said. 'And, anyway, when was the last time your wife gave you any kind of b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, full stop?'

Good point, conceded Cahill. Oral s.e.x had never been on the menu at home at the best of times, and these were a long way from being the best of times.

Rose let an arm drop to the floor. Fumbling for a packet of John Player Special and a green Bic lighter, she placed a cigarette between her lips and offered one to Cahill.

'Nah.'

'Suit yourself.' Lighting up, she tossed the packet and the lighter on to the bed and took a firm drag on the cig.

He watched her send a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and fall back on the bed. 'So . . . how are things going at the moment?'

'Don't try and make small talk,' she admonished him, inhaling deeply for a second time. 'I know the drill: all you want to do is f.u.c.k me and then pump me for information.' Folding her arms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she shook her head angrily, 'Trust me to end up being blackmailed by some bent copper from Special Branch.'

'Those are the breaks,' he said, absentmindedly scratching his belly.

'Thanks a lot.' Taking a third long drag on her cigarette, she leaned over and dropped it into the coffee cup.

Staring at his midriff, Cahill wondered if there might be any life left down there. That was one of the problems of getting older his powers of recovery were definitely waning. 'As I've told you before,' he yawned, 'if you want to play at being a trust-fund terrorist, you've got to take the rough with the smooth.'

'f.u.c.k you!' Las.h.i.+ng out, she smacked him on the arm, before jumping from the bed like a scalded cat. Standing at the end of the bed, hands on hips, tears mingled with the hatred in her eyes. 'I don't owe you anything, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Looking her up and down, Cahill felt a pleasant warmth spread through his groin. Rolling off the bed, he thrust out an arm, letting his hand tighten around her throat as he marched her backwards.

'Ow! Get off me, you c.u.n.t!' She tried to direct a kick between his legs, but he dodged the blow, pulling her up as she stumbled backwards and slamming her into the wall.

'Now listen to me, you stupid b.i.t.c.h,' he hissed, trying to conceal the level of exertion in his voice. 'Just because you decided to disown your rich family in Knightsbridge and screw a bunch of mentally defective, sheep-s.h.a.gging terrorists, that doesn't make you Joan of f.u.c.king Arc.' Squirming, she tried to spit at him but he tightened his grip round her neck and the saliva barely managed to trickle down her chin. 'Trying to burgle your family home to raise funds for the armed struggle was one of the most stupid things I have ever seen in my life.'

'We're making a stand,' she panted, 'standing up to the power of the privileged elite.'

'Yeah,' Cahill scoffed, 'and that doorman you hit over the head with a hammer will be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.' She made one last attempt to wriggle free, but he could sense that the fight had gone out of her. That was the thing with rich kids, they had no stamina. She tried another curse, but all that came out was a fragile wail. 'If it wasn't for me,' Cahill continued, 'you would have got at least eight years in Holloway for what you did. You've got a f.u.c.king good deal out of me.' Releasing his grip, he took a step backwards.

Rubbing her neck, Rose dropped her gaze to his waist. 'It turns you on, doesn't it, you sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

Looking down at his restored erection, Cahill grinned. 'I guess it does.' He gestured back at the bed. 'Let's see how good you are at finis.h.i.+ng me off.'

Feeling totally spent, Cahill watched Rose grab a pair of grey knickers from a pile of clothes sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. After a moment's hesitation she tossed them on to the floor and fetched a clean pair from a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a st.u.r.dy-looking pearl-grey bra.

'I've got to get going,' she said, deftly stepping into her panties. 'You know what it's like places to go, people to see.'

'Sure.' Cahill made no immediate effort to rouse himself from the bed.

Rose fastened her bra and reached for a blouse. 'It would be good if you could make yourself scarce.'

'Yeah, yeah.' Cahill got up and padded across the carpet. 'I just need to take a p.i.s.s.'

When he returned from the bathroom, she was fully dressed. 'I'm off,' she said, coolly contemplating his still-naked form. 'You can let yourself out.'

'Just one thing,' Cahill said quietly, standing in the doorway, blocking her exit, 'before you go.'

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she sighed theatrically. 'What is it now?'

'Gerry Durkan.'

'Who?' she scowled.

'Don't try and bulls.h.i.+t me,' Cahill said sharply. 'I know he's one of your bad boy s.h.a.gs.'

The scowl grew deeper. 'So?'

'So,' he smiled, 'I need you to tell me where he is.'

'No idea,' she shrugged. 'I haven't seen Gerry for ages.'

Stepping away from the doorway, Cahill reached down to pick up his underpants. 'I know you're lying, but I couldn't give a f.u.c.k, one way or the other. You've got twenty-four hours to find the little w.a.n.ker for me.'

'How am I supposed to do that?' she sneered. 'He could be anywhere.'

'That's your problem,' Cahill replied, carefully sticking one leg into the pants, wobbling slightly but just about managing not to fall over. 'Find him, or it'll be time for me to see if they've got a spare cell in Holloway with your name on it.'

9.

Martin Palmer took a bite out of his jumbo iced finger and chewed happily. It was his second pastry in quick succession but he felt no sense of guilt. Sitting in the otherwise empty cafe in the middle of this desolate part of West London, it seemed to him that comfort-eating was entirely acceptable. Indeed, if it wasn't for the fact that his mother persisted with her ludicrous attempts at getting him to stick to a diet, he wouldn't even have given the matter a second thought. When would the stupid cow realise that he was still a growing lad with a naturally healthy appet.i.te? His increasing weight was a sign of rude good health. On the spot, he made a vow that the next time she tried to fob him off with a plate of fish and steamed vegetables, he would throw it back at her.

From behind the counter, a radio played Stevie Wonder's, 'I Just Called To Say I Love You.' Happily mumbling the chorus to himself, Palmer shoved the remains of the cake into his mouth, was.h.i.+ng it down with a swig of tea, and let his gaze return to the yellowing newspaper cutting lying on the table. The news story, from The Times, was the total sum of the intelligence MI5 had collected on Rose Murray in the last eighteen months.

English heiress turned IRA sympathiser given a suspended sentence ROSE MURRAY, daughter of an English Baron, was given a suspended six-year jail sentence at the Old Bailey yesterday after taking part in a bungled raid on her father's London flat in an attempt to raise funds for the IRA.

Murray and two accomplices were arrested by police in possession of a haul of Old Master paintings and a selection of other valuable artworks, after Clive Wilson, a doorman in the building, raised the alarm. Trying to make good their escape, gang member Terence Donovan attacked Healey with a hammer, causing him serious head injuries which have left him permanently disabled.

Donovan was given a ten year sentence, while Ivor Hogan was given eighteen years. Citing Murray's previous good character and taking account of evidence that she had been coerced into taking part in the attack by Donovan, her lover at the time, the judge, Sir Reginald Walsh, decided that the heiress should be spared jail. 'I trust,' he said, summing up, 'that you have learned a valuable lesson in all of this and that your dalliance with dangerous men like these is now over.'

Head bowed, a tearful Murray mouthed 'thank you' from the dock before she was whisked away to an unknown location.

Murray, 24, has enjoyed a privileged upbringing. Her father, Baron Murray of Sheffield, is a landowner descended from King Charles II and a staunch supporter of the government's fight against Republican terrorists. After attending the exclusive Latymer School for Girls in North London, where fees run to almost 700 a term, Murray went to Oxford, where she was captain of the university lacrosse team. It was at a debate at the Oxford Union that her radicalisation began. When Sinn Fein poster boy Brendan Keating turned up to support a motion calling for the end of the British 'occupation' of Ireland, Murray was swept off her feet. They had a short and tempestuous affair, at the end of which she had abandoned her studies, renounced her family and dived headlong in to the murky world of London's Irish community.

Rose's mother, the former debutante and stalwart of the Home Counties social scene Jacintha White, has loudly and publicly disowned her daughter on more than one occasion. Her father, however, has maintained a dignified silence. While friends say that the Baron is mortified by his daughter's antics, he hopes that things will eventually sort themselves out. Father and daughter had been estranged for several years before the botched robbery. There has been recent talk of a possible reconciliation, but this has yet to be confirmed.

Re-reading the piece, Palmer snorted with disgust. 'What a load of old nonsense!' The girl behind the counter gave him a funny look, but said nothing. As he slipped the article back into his pocket, he contemplated the deal that Murray was rumoured to have struck with Special Branch whereby, in exchange for staying out of jail, she had agreed to snitch on her terrorist chums.

It sounded plausible enough but begged one important question: if Rose was keeping up her end of the deal, why hadn't they caught Durkan yet?

By all accounts, as far as Rose Murray was concerned, Durkan was rather more than a 'chum'. According to the Gower Street gossip, the little so-and-so had gotten her pregnant. She hadn't kept the baby, but the couple were still an item. 'I'm sure that the Baron is delighted,' Palmer grunted to himself as he watched the backed-up traffic slowly grind to a halt on the road outside.

Finis.h.i.+ng his tea, he was contemplating asking for a third cake when he looked up just in time to see Murray herself appear from the front door of Harding Smith House. Pausing on the pavement, she seemed unsure which direction to take, before turning to her right and heading off towards the tube station at a brisk pace. Palmer hesitated. Should he follow the woman? Or should he search the flat? As he hummed and hawed, Murray disappeared down a side street and the decision was made for him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a selection of coins while peering at the bill that had been left under his plate. Carefully counting out the correct amount, plus a small tip, he placed the money on the table and struggled to his feet, heading for the door.

Named after a long-forgotten politician, Harding Smith House was a 28-storey, 198-unit North Kensington tower block designed in the 1960s by Hungarian architect Erno Goldfinger. A sinister-looking building, with a separate lift and service tower, it was built by the Greater London Council in the early 1970s as social housing, just at the time when tower blocks were going out of fas.h.i.+on. A familiar procession of horror stories about women being raped in lifts and children being offered drugs led to the block being described by the local MP as 'the worst place to live in London'. Under newly introduced 'right to buy' legislation, Mrs Thatcher's government was trying to sell the flats to tenants at rock-bottom prices, in the hope that that would lead residents to drive an improvement in living conditions.

As of right now, that hope was still to be realised. Like an intrepid explorer, Martin Palmer tentatively made his way through the lobby of the building, head down as he tried to avoid stepping in something unpleasant. Even breathing through his mouth, he was almost overwhelmed by the stench of ammonia that came from every corner. As he approached the lifts, Palmer nervously patted the Browning Hi-Power in the pocket of his jacket. If any of the natives came after him, at least he could defend himself. Rose Murray had a flat on the sixteenth floor. Relieved that the lifts were working, Palmer pressed the b.u.t.ton and waited patiently. When one finally arrived, the door shuddered open and an emaciated man scuttled out, head bowed. Ignoring the MI5 agent, he skipped towards the front door and disappeared on to the street. Just another junkie loser, Palmer thought grimly as he stepped inside, still breathing through his mouth.

Flat 113 was at the end of a long, dingy corridor that smelled only marginally better than the lobby downstairs. Contemplating the flimsy-looking door, Palmer considered the options. He had yet to be sent on the MI5 lock-picking course it was in his diary for later in the year, sandwiched between a session ent.i.tled An Introduction to Phone-Tapping and a residential course on communication skills.

Now is no time for subtlety, he told himself. Looking around, he determined to his own satisfaction that no one was watching, before giving the door a swift kick with the polished toe of his Foster & Son boot. The door buckled slightly, but did not give way. After another quick glance down the corridor, Palmer gave it another kick, harder this time, grunting with the effort. This time, there was the satisfying sound of the lock splintering and the door flew open.

Stepping inside, Palmer found himself in an open plan living room with a small kitchen behind a breakfast bar in the far corner. Closing the broken front door carefully behind him, he took a cautious sniff and was pleased to discover that the air in here was relatively breathable. Indeed, the flat looked tidy and well cared for, if a little shabby. A poster for the Yul Brynner sci-fi movie Westworld had been taped to the far wall, next to a calendar that was still showing the dates for June. 'A woman's loving touch,' Palmer mused aloud as he clocked a small bunch of flowers in a gla.s.s vase sitting on the coffee table. 'Nice.'

Then he set about tossing the place.

Forty minutes later, there was precisely nothing to show for his efforts, other than a couple of small joints, some green pills secured in plastic wrap and a pair of soiled grey panties, all of which had been placed in his pocket for closer inspection at a later date. Stalking into the kitchen, Palmer opened the fridge and looked inside. Disappointed to find nothing to eat other than a Vesta boil-in-the-bag chicken curry, he helped himself to a can of c.o.ke from the top shelf and shut the door.

Opening the can, the spook took a noisy slurp of cola, swallowed and let out a satisfied burp. Perching on a stool next to the breakfast bar, he considered his position. Time was running out in his search for Gerry Durkan and, so far, he had made precisely zero progress. A mood of self-pity overtook him as he let his gaze flit around the room. Stuck to the fridge door was a takeaway menu, a shopping list and a blurred photo of Murray and a guy who could have been Durkan laughing in a pub. In short, nothing that was going to get him very far. Wondering what to do next, Palmer finished his drink. Crus.h.i.+ng the can in his hand, he dropped it into a bin under the sink and headed for the front door.

Just as he was about to reach for the handle, Palmer heard someone cursing in the hallway outside. Before he could react, the door flew open and smacked him in the face.

'Ow!' Holding his mouth, the agent stumbled backwards, to be confronted by an angry-looking woman waving something in her hand.

'You f.u.c.ker!' By the time he recognised Rose Murray she was advancing towards him, arm outstretched. The next thing he knew, he was. .h.i.t full blast in the face by a stinging spray.

'Argh!' Palmer tried to cover his tearing eyes and his mouth, but it was too late. The pain was intense, the acute burning sensation on his skin and the choking in his throat forcing him to his knees, making it easier for her to put him down properly with a smart blow to the head.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, Martin Palmer gingerly edged himself away from the pool of slowly congealing vomit on the floor beside him and waited for his head to clear. The smell was terrible, but he wasn't quite ready to stand up yet. Instead, he concentrated on focusing on the tired-looking man sitting in an oversized armchair in a corner of the room. Wearing a pair of tatty jeans and a brown leather jacket over a khaki T-s.h.i.+rt, he dangled a leg over one arm of the chair, a Puma suede trainer hovering just above the carpet. Sporting a couple of days' worth of stubble on his sharp chin, he was nursing a can of Harp Lager, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

'You better clear that up,' Gerry Durkan grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with glee as he gestured towards the pool of sick, 'or Rose will be really p.i.s.sed off with you.'

'She seemed p.i.s.sed off enough already,' Palmer grumbled, trying to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. He looked around nervously. 'Where is she, by the way?'

'Don't worry,' Durkan laughed, 'she's gone out.'

Thank G.o.d for that. Palmer relaxed slightly.

'It was just as well I turned up when I did.' Dropping the cigarette on to the coffee table, Durkan took a mouthful of lager. 'G.o.d knows what Rose might have done while you were out for the count. You could have woken up with your b.a.l.l.s in your mouth and your d.i.c.k up your a.r.s.e.'

Palmer shuddered at the thought. 'What the h.e.l.l did she use on me?'

'Pepper spray,' Durkan explained. 'She thought you were a burglar.'

'But that's illegal!' Palmer protested, recalling what he'd learned in Gower Street about the Firearms Act of 1968 which banned 'any weapon of whatever description designed or adapted for the discharge of any noxious liquid, gas or other thing'. The only reason it had stuck in his porous mind was that there had been a demonstration of a pepper spray in action. Palmer had known better than to volunteer to take part and had been rewarded with the sight of Marchmain taking a shot in the face and rolling around on the floor, wailing like a baby.

'Illegal, but very effective,' Durkan said. 'We got sent a job lot by sympathisers in Boston last year.'

We meaning the IRA.

'Very handy little weapon,' he concluded.

'Not very clever if you get caught carrying one,' Palmer groused, edging further away from the mess he had created.

Durkan gestured at the four walls surrounding them. 'In this place you need all the protection you can get. The people in here are animals,' he shook his head, disgusted, 'complete and utter animals. Rose has been robbed three times in the last year alone. The stuff you find on the stairs . . . it's beyond belief. You people should spend your time sorting out the s.h.i.+te on your own doorstep, rather than trying to keep us under the cosh.'

'Spare me the political sermon, Gerry, I'm not in the mood.' Slowly, carefully, Palmer forced himself to his feet and tottered over to the stool by the breakfast bar.

'You'll find some cleaning equipment in one of those cupboards,' Durkan said helpfully.

'You've got to be kidding,' said Palmer with the righteous tone of a man who had never done any domestic ch.o.r.es in his life.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Durkan pulled out the spook's semi-automatic and placed it on the coffee table. 'I think you'd better get on with it. If Rose comes back and finds you still here, you might not get out alive.'