What Dies Inside: An Inspector Carlyle Novella

by James Craig

  ‘No,’ Carlyle lied.

  Wollard gestured for Donne to get across the road. ‘Ian will take over now.’

  ‘Any chance of a lift back to the station?’ Carlyle asked hopefully.

  ‘Sure.’ Wollard’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she got out and came over. She was in her uniform but he could see that her make-up had been freshly applied. And the smell of her perfume caused the smallest frisson of excitement to ripple through his chest. ‘I just need to check something inside for Sergeant Donaldson first.’

  ‘OK.’ Carlyle frowned. As far as he knew, Jamie Donaldson was in Majorca, on a one-week package holiday at the two-star Panorama Beach Hotel. It was costing thirty-nine pounds each for Donaldson and the wife, nineteen quid for the kids. Carlyle had been forced to listen to him drone on about it for weeks.

  On the front step, Wollard pulled out a key, raking it across the Police – Do Not Cross tape stuck to the front door. ‘Come on, Constable,’ she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘You can show me what I’m looking for.’ Feeling his heart-rate accelerate, Carlyle watched her stick the key in the lock, push open the door and disappear into the hall. Giving Donne an apologetic shrug, he quickly followed her inside.

  Sadly, Samantha Hudson was nowhere to be seen. As he watched the TV in Dominic Silver’s living room, Carlyle tried to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. The idea that she might be in bed, sprawled naked under the covers in the room next door, barely fifteen feet from where he was sitting, was just too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘So, did you get laid yet?’ Sitting at the far end of the sofa, Dom tossed this week’s copy of City Limits on to the coffee table and struggled to his feet.

  Carlyle grunted something noncommittal as he kept his gaze firmly trained on Football Focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dom pad into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, a bottle of Heineken in each hand.

  ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ It was a bit early, but Carlyle took a decent swig and gave a small but appreciative sigh.

  ‘Only I heard that you did.’ Dom grinned as he settled back into his seat.

  ‘Huh?’ Carlyle felt himself begin to blush.

  ‘You’re the talk of the station, Johnny boy,’ Dom cackled. ‘The word is that Sergeant Wollard gave you a right old roasting.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘At a crime scene, no less, you dirty little bugger!’

  Bloody Donne, Carlyle thought. He recalled the look on the constable’s face when he and Wollard had finally reappeared from inside Hilda Blair’s house – a mixture of annoyance and jealousy – and realised he should have known that the grapevine would soon be humming.

  ‘At least you’ve finally popped your cherry.’ Dom raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s a miracle!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Blushing harder, Carlyle took another swig of his beer.

  ‘You didn’t tell me she was a granny,’ Dom teased.

  ‘Fuck right off. She is not a fucking granny.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Dom held up a hand by way of apology. ‘But this is nothing compared to the stick you’re gonna get at work.’

  Don’t I know it, Carlyle thought miserably.

  Trying to suppress a giggle, Dom lifted his bottle to his lips and forced down a mouthful of lager. ‘You didn’t do it on the old girl’s bed, did you?’

  ‘Dom . . . for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’

  ‘From what I can see,’ Carlyle observed, ‘there isn’t really much of an investigation. The IRA guy did it; when they catch him, it will be case closed.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  Carlyle made a face. ‘Dunno.’

  Dom shook his head. ‘You really are shaping up to be one great fucking copper.’

  ‘Look,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not like it’s my investigation, is it? I’m just a bloody constable, after all.’

  ‘There’s a rumour that he was a Special Branch snitch.’

  ‘Who? The IRA guy?’

  ‘Yeah, Gerry Durkan.’

  Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘But if he worked for Special Branch, why did he try and blow up Thatcher?’

  ‘Maybe he was playing both sides.’ Dom waved his bottle airily in front of his face. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Carlyle replied, unconvinced.

  ‘Not that we’ll ever find out. You just know that when they corner the bugger, he’ll be shot resisting arrest.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Carlyle parroted.

  ‘Dom! What’re you doing?’ The bedroom door opened and out popped the head of Sam Hudson. Clocking Carlyle on the sofa, she scowled. ‘You coming back to bed, or what?’ Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the door shut and retreated back into the bedroom.

  ‘Just coming,’ Dom called after her. Getting to his feet, he gave Carlyle an apologetic shrug as he gestured towards the hallway. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ he quipped. ‘Duty calls.’

  Carlyle jumped up. ‘No worries. I need to get going anyway.’

  ‘Off to the Cottage this afternoon?’

  Carlyle nodded. In reality, Fulham were playing at Grimsby and he had no plans.

  ‘Dom!’

  ‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’

  ‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.

  Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go – half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’

  Or the next week at work, Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’

  12

  Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend. You’d better watch it mummy, he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment, or you could go the way of . . . well, the others.

  Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’

  Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer – Martin Palmer.’

  The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.

  Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.

  ‘Reassigned.’

  ‘I see.’

  The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’

&nbs
p; ‘Nice to meet you, sir . . . er, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’

  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. Londonderry. 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.’

  13

  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 insi
de 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?