James Craig - What Dies Inside

‘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 jizz, 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 glass, 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 glassy and she stank of booze.

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

‘No, thanks.’

‘Wanker!’ 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 cock-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 wankers. By the time they’re all locked up, their fucking bleeding-heart liberal bastard-stroke-bitch lawyers will have arrived and we’ll have to let the cunts out again. Which means more fucking 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.

Finishing 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 fuck? 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 shithole.’

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

Finishing his Coke, 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-shirt.

‘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 bastard involved in the strike was playing their own silly fucking games.’

‘It looks like South Yorkshire 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 balls-ache. A bunch of poor bloody plods stuck in the middle, with wankers 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 shit,’ Dom grumbled.

‘Remember the spook we came across that time?’

‘The MI5 guy? Sure. What about him?’

Carlyle shifted 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.

‘Bloody hell,’ he marvelled, when Carlyle had finished his tale. ‘When did you turn into bloody Columbo?’

‘It was a complete accident — one of those weird pieces of luck. I found the photo when I went for a piss,’ Carlyle told him, blushing slightly.