James Craig - What Dies Inside

Shovelling everything into his holdall, he got to his feet just as The Bill was interrupted by a newsflash. After a few words from a newsreader, a mug shot of Harry Cahill appeared on the screen. Eyes down, Gerry Durkan upped his pace as he weaved his way through the tables and headed for the street.

Glancing at his watch, Carlyle calculated that there were three hours and seventeen minutes until the end of his shift. Precisely six minutes fewer than when he had last checked. With a heavy sigh, the constable looked along the deserted Nelson Avenue. The last forensic technician had left more than an hour ago, along with the bodies. Even the representatives of Her Majesty’s press, drawn to the scene of a double murder like flies to shit, had called it a night. The place was now totally empty.

Why he had to stand guard over a locked house was beyond Carlyle. He just hoped that the station would remember to send a replacement by the end of his shift. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’d totally forgotten about him. He would get the overtime, of course, but tonight he didn’t want the extra cash; he wanted to go to the cinema and park his brain for a couple of hours. Assuming he clocked off at the appointed time, he should just about be able to make a late showing of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom at the Shepherd’s Bush Pavilion.

Yawning, his thoughts drifted back to events inside the house. From what he’d picked up, Hilda Blair had been strangled and raped, while Cahill, the Special Branch officer, had been shot. The assumption was that Gerry Durkan, the IRA bomber, was responsible for both crimes. In his mind, Cahill replayed his recent visit to the house with Cahill and Donaldson, trying to recall any detail that might be important. Nothing sprang to mind.

He looked at his watch. Three hours and fifteen minutes. And counting.

A car slowly made its way along the road. A smile crossed Carlyle’s lips as he recognised the police vehicle. At least they’ve remembered I was here , he thought. The Austin Allegro slipped into a space between parked cars on the far side of the road and the engine was switched off. He tried not to grin as his replacement, a suitably pissed-off constable by the name of Donne, reluctantly got out of the passenger’s side and loitered on the pavement. After a moment, the driver’s door pushed open and Sergeant Sandra Wollard gave him a cheeky smile. ‘You thought we’d leave you here all night, didn’t you?’ she called.

‘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.