What Dies Inside Part 7

Leaning forward, Durkan gestured towards Palmer's sweat-stained s.h.i.+rt. 'Are you wearing a wire?' he whispered into the spook's ear.

'Hardly,' Palmer snorted. 'They tried to make me, but I refused. I don't want those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds hearing what we're saying any more than you do.'

'Good.' Durkan nodded, resuming his pose against the bar. 'Maybe you're not that stupid after all.'

Pointedly glancing at his watch, Palmer let the barb slide.

Placing his gla.s.s on the bar, Durkan recovered the fiver and handed it to the barman.

'Keep the change.'

'Thanks, Gerry.'

'No trouble.' Slowly, Durkan turned his attention back to Palmer. 'If you think I'm going out with you,' he laughed, 'you're crazy.' Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss on Rose's forehead. 'See you later, sweetheart. Sorry for leaving you in a mess like this.' Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Palmer by the arm and began marching him towards the back of the room. 'Come with me. Your five minutes are almost up.'

Blocking the entrance to the gentlemen's bogs, Palmer waited patiently while Gerry Durkan stepped up to the nearest of the two urinals and took a long p.i.s.s. Unperturbed that the p.i.s.soirs were blocked with a collection of paper towels, f.a.g ends, chewing gum and G.o.d knows what, Durkan watched his urine trickle over the edge of the porcelain and form a pool on the greasy floor.

Expecting the door to be kicked in at any moment, Palmer looked nervously behind him. 'Gerry-'

'OK,' said Durkan, half-looking over his shoulder as he gave himself a shake. 'Here's the plan. I'm going to walk out the back of here and through the building next door.' Zipping himself up, he told Palmer, 'When the stormtroopers arrive, you're gonna say that I thumped you and did a runner.'

'But you haven't hit me,' Palmer frowned.

'I have now.' Spinning round, Durkan took two steps towards the spy, slamming a fist into his gut.

'Oopfff!' Palmer doubled up in pain, grabbing his stomach as his eyes filled with tears. Adjusting his stance, Durkan elbowed him in the face and expertly raked a boot down the back of his calf.

'You are one f.u.c.king soft b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Durkan grunted as he watched Palmer slip to the floor. Taking a step backwards, he gave him a final swift kick in the ribs.

'Urgh.'

'C'mon, get up.' Durkan grabbed Palmer's collar and hauled him to his feet. 'We don't have time for this. Remember your lines. You don't know where I went.'

Wiping his nose, Palmer felt a faint flicker of defiance stirring in his breast. 'Why should I let you go?' he choked out.

'Because I know that you raped and killed Hilda Blair.' Pulling a photograph from the back pocket of his jeans, Durkan shoved it in front of Palmer's face. 'If things were different, I'd b.l.o.o.d.y kill you for it.'

Pus.h.i.+ng back his head, Palmer focused on the image of himself standing outside number 179 Nelson Avenue. How the h.e.l.l did you get that? He tried to organise the jumble of thoughts flying through his brain into something that offered the vaguest approximation of a plan. 'I visited the house. So what? I, like the rest of the world, was looking for you at the time.' He pushed the picture away with a dismissive hand. 'That proves nothing.'

'Maybe not,' Durkan replied, letting the photo fall to the floor as he took a step backwards. 'But I also have these . . .'

'Ah.' Palmer gazed at the dead woman's knickers, which Durkan was holding up, a crooked smile on his face like a courtroom prosecutor presenting his ace to a jury.

'. . . covered in your j.i.z.z, no doubt, you fat pervert.' Stuffing the underwear back into his jacket pocket, Durkan pushed Palmer aside and grabbed the door. 'So stick to your lines, or I'll make sure that you're done for.' Without waiting for a reply, he slipped out into the corridor and disappeared.

Waiting for his hands to stop shaking, Palmer leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. For a few moments, he simply concentrated on breathing. In . . . out. He was exhaling for the third time, when a large commotion started outside. The sounds of splintering wood and breaking gla.s.s, followed by a succession of screams, meant only one thing: the TPG had arrived. As the shouts got closer, Palmer dropped to one knee and retrieved the photo from the floor. Crumpling it into a ball, he stepped into the nearest cubicle, dropped it into the toilet bowl and flushed.

'Want to buy a copy of Workers Hammer?'

'Huh?' Carlyle took a step sideways to avoid the swaying woman. Her eyes were gla.s.sy and she stank of booze.

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

'No, thanks.'

'w.a.n.ker!' 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 c.o.c.k-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 w.a.n.kers. By the time they're all locked up, their f.u.c.king bleeding-heart liberal b.a.s.t.a.r.d-stroke-b.i.t.c.h lawyers will have arrived and we'll have to let the c.u.n.ts out again. Which means more f.u.c.king 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.

Finis.h.i.+ng 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 f.u.c.k? 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 s.h.i.+thole.'

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

15.

Finis.h.i.+ng his c.o.ke, 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-s.h.i.+rt.

'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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d involved in the strike was playing their own silly f.u.c.king games.'

'It looks like South Yorks.h.i.+re 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 b.a.l.l.s-ache. A bunch of poor b.l.o.o.d.y plods stuck in the middle, with w.a.n.kers 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 s.h.i.+t,' Dom grumbled.

'Remember the spook we came across that time?'

'The MI5 guy? Sure. What about him?'

Carlyle s.h.i.+fted 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.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he marvelled, when Carlyle had finished his tale. 'When did you turn into b.l.o.o.d.y Columbo?'

'It was a complete accident one of those weird pieces of luck. I found the photo when I went for a p.i.s.s,' Carlyle told him, blus.h.i.+ng 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 h.e.l.l 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, suns.h.i.+ne, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 thras.h.i.+ng.

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 b.a.l.l.s had retreated deep inside his body and his d.i.c.k 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 h.e.l.l is she?'