James Craig: What Dies Inside

‘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 hell 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, sunshine, 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 bastard 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 thrashing.

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 balls had retreated deep inside his body and his dick 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 hell is she?’

‘A leading Trot — on our Most Wanted list,’ Palmer said, with the confidence of a man who had personally added the promiscuous newspaper-seller to said list immediately after her arrest. ‘A known terrorist sympathiser.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She’s definitely a player,’ he explained, getting into the lie now, ‘just not as big a name as Murray.’

‘Red Rosie?’ Brewster sniffed. ‘She’s a bloody name all right. The papers are all over it.’ Taking a copy of the Evening Standard from her desk, she hurled it past Palmer’s head, snarling, ‘Little Miss Murray was released from custody in less than an hour. She had a tearful reunion with her father on the steps of the police station and appears to have embraced the role of the Prodigal Daughter with gusto.’ The Commander gestured towards the newspaper lying next to Palmer’s feet. ‘The fact that she was consorting with a known terrorist barely gets a mention. The press are more interested in the fact that the spoiled, stuck-up bitch is now supposed to be doing a photo-shoot with fucking Tatler .’

‘I’m more a Country Life man, myself,’ Palmer muttered, bracing himself for another missile, ‘although surely we can celebrate a young life saved, whatever the details.’

Finding nothing suitable to aim at her underling’s head, Brewster reluctantly settled back in her chair. ‘How very philosophical of you, Palmer.’

‘I try,’ he smiled weakly.

‘In the meantime, her father’s lawyer — who, by the way, is a very good friend of our very own Director General — has made it clear that the family is considering taking legal action against the police for harassment and wrongful arrest.’ Camilla Brewster paused, trying to compose herself. ‘And then, there is the breaking and entering at her flat.’

‘Ah.’

‘It will all go away, of course. Baron Murray might rattle a few chains but he will want to put all of this behind him as quickly as possible, get Rose married off to some dull young man in the City and have her popping out a procession of sprogs asap.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still,’ Brewster reflected, ‘what you did was totally illegal.’

Oh God, Palmer thought, this is it. The slow boat to Port Stanley. He idly wondered about possible pickings among the elderly female population on the island before quickly pushing the idea from his mind.

Sensing his discomfort, the Commander allowed herself the smallest of grins. ‘We cannot condone criminal acts.’

‘No.’

‘At least, not had they come to be exposed in public.’ Leaning across the desk, the Commander jabbed an index finger towards the quailing spook. ‘It was a clear error of judgement on your part.’

‘Yes.’ Bowing his head, Palmer clenched his arse cheeks.

‘ Another clear error of judgement.’

Get on with it, you cow . ‘Yes.’

‘A lot of people are telling me that you should be reassigned to duties on the Falklands.’

Here it comes. Palmer fought back a sob as the image of a solitery penguin waddling down a windblown beach under slate-grey skies appeared in front of his eyes.

‘Fortunately for you, however, those positions have been filled.’

Looking up, Palmer released his buttocks, almost shitting himself with joy. ‘Oh?’ he squeaked.

‘Yes. I have decided to send Marchmain and Flyte. I think that the experience will do them good.’

Palmer stifled a nervous laugh. ‘Quite.’

‘And, anyway,’ Brewster continued, ‘I’ve got other plans for you.’

Lying on his bed, Carlyle stared at the ceiling, wondering why life had to be so bloody complicated. Without any warning, Sandra Wollard had upped and transferred to the Theydon Bois station, meaning that his love-life had returned to its usual uneventful state. With a sigh, he rolled over and reached under the bed, searching for his copy of Penthouse . Unable to grasp it, he stuck his head over the side of the bed.

Fuck. Zipping up his jeans, he struggled to his feet. ‘Ma!’

Standing in front of a pile of dirty plates in the sink, Lorna Gordon was unapologetic. ‘I told you that I wouldn’t have that kind of filth in the house,’ she said firmly, when Carlyle confronted her about his missing stroke mag.

‘But-’

‘I’ve told you, John,’ his mother insisted, attacking the remains of a fried egg that was glued to a plate.

‘But, Ma,’ he persisted, ‘I had a photo in there!’

She shot him a stern look. ‘What?’

‘Not that kind of photo,’ Carlyle explained. ‘It was work.’

Lorna returned her attention to the scrubbing. ‘If it was for work, what was it doing in one of your. . magazines?’

‘It was for safekeeping.’

‘Well,’ said his mother, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice, ‘I put out the rubbish yesterday. And the bin men have already been and gone.’ Stacking one plate on the draining board, she turned her attention to the next one. ‘So I guess you’ll just have to get yourself another photograph, won’t you?’

Beating a sullen retreat, Carlyle contemplated the loss of his one piece of evidence against the MI5 man. The photograph of Martin Palmer outside 179 Nelson Avenue was probably already lost under a mountain of smouldering domestic waste at the Smugglers Way dump.

‘And next time,’ his mother shouted after him, ‘show a bit more sense.’