by James Craig
Sorensen eyed his young colleague carefully. ‘I don’t suppose he ever mentioned anything about a Brighton bomb?’
‘No,’ Palmer said. ‘I think I would have remembered that.’
‘Ye-es,’ Sorensen sighed. ‘When did you last meet him?’
‘Well, erm,’ Palmer scratched his head, ‘as you will have seen from my most recent report, we have not had any actual direct contact with Durkan for a few weeks now.’
Sorensen tapped the file on his desk angrily with his index finger. ‘It says here that there has been only one telephone conversation in the last month.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And?’
Palmer frowned. ‘And what?’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Nothing much,’ the agent admitted. ‘Gerry said things were fairly quiet. As I recall, he didn’t even chase me for any money, which was unusual.’
‘But you didn’t think anything of it?’
‘Well,’ Palmer stammered, ‘I made my report, as per the usual protocol.’
‘So,’ Sorensen said drily, ‘if I were to tell you that a man matching the description of Gerry Durkan booked a room in the Grand Hotel in Brighton the day after you last spoke to him on the phone, what would you say?’
Oh dear, thought Palmer, all thoughts of lunch suddenly abandoned.
4
Ignoring the bedraggled punter trying to spin her some complicated tale of woe, Sergeant Sandra Wollard shot Carlyle a sly grin as he slipped past the front desk. ‘You’re late!’
The harassed constable gestured towards the clock behind Wollard’s head. ‘Only a couple of minutes.’
‘That clock is slow,’ the desk sergeant retorted.
‘I had to wait ages for a 74,’ Carlyle explained with a shrug. ‘Then three buses turned up at once.’
‘Typical,’ Wollard sympathised.
‘Apparently, there was an accident on the Fulham Road.’
‘A van went into the back of a taxi,’ the punter joined in. He was a small bloke in a grey mac with straggly grey hair down to his shoulders. ‘There was a right old rumpus.’ Both officers quickly shot him a look that said shut up.
‘Donaldson’s looking for you,’ said Wollard, returning her attention to her colleague.
Carlyle groaned. The last thing he needed now was Sergeant Jamie Donaldson on his case. Suddenly, a morning spent patrolling the White City Estate seemed quite appealing. Donaldson was a first-class arsehole who thought that having three stripes on his arm before the age of thirty made him God’s gift to policing. The reality was somewhat different. Donaldson had a well-deserved reputation round the station for being idle, as well as a dullard. ‘What does he want?’
‘Dunno,’ Wollard shrugged. ‘He said it was urgent though.’
‘Great.’
‘Don’t worry, you can handle him.’ Pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Wollard looked him up and down wolfishly. Carlyle felt himself blush. It wasn’t the first time the sergeant had indicated that she had taken a fancy to her young colleague. The attention made him feel excited and embarrassed at the same time.
Like every other officer in Shepherd’s Bush police station, Carlyle knew that the much-admired Wollard, a voluptuous thirty-something blonde with a couple of kids and a wicked sense of humour, had just divorced her second husband. Being newly single, the sergeant was the subject of much idle speculation amongst the Bush’s male officers. One of the boys in the locker room was even running a book on which lucky so-and-so would get to bestow upon the sergeant her first post-divorce shag. Although Carlyle’s name was not currently in the running, the constable could see that he had caught the woman’s attention. Could he get lucky? Not for the first time, he wondered about the etiquette of putting a few quid on himself.
Sensing his discomfort, Wollard grinned widely. ‘A few of us are going down the Queen Adelaide at lunchtime . . . if you’d like to come.’
‘I’d better go and see what Donaldson wants,’ Carlyle prevaricated, fleeing towards the relative safety of the squad room.
A few officers were standing around, staring gormlessly at a TV perched on top of a filing cabinet. On the screen were pictures of firemen carefully working their way through the remains of the Grand Hotel, checking for any bomb survivors still left amidst the smouldering rubble. With the sound down, Jamie Donaldson was providing his own commentary for anyone who cared to listen.
‘Fucking bastards,’ he hissed, running a hand over his fresh number one buzz cut. ‘That’s why we should still have the death penalty.’
There were a few murmurs of assent.
Taking his hand from his head, Donaldson waved dismissively at the mini throng. ‘Go on, you lot, get on with your work.’ He waited for them to slowly disperse before turning his attention to the new arrival. ‘Ah, Mr Carlyle,’ he snarled. ‘How very nice of you to put in an appearance, today of all days.’
Carlyle stared at his boots. They could do with some attention. He made a mental note to get a tin of Kiwi Black shoe polish on the way home.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Donaldson demanded.
‘Sergeant Wollard told me you wanted to see me, Sarge,’ Carlyle smiled, ignoring the question.
Donaldson gestured towards the screen with his thumb. ‘This is gonna be a real fucking palaver.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s gonna cause us no end of aggravation. Lots of extra work. Like I said, we should just fuckin’ shoot the bastards.’
Grunting something that could be considered agreement, Carlyle waited patiently for his orders.
‘Don’t you think?’ Donaldson pressed. ‘Who gives a fuck about Northern Ireland anyway?’
‘Not me,’ Carlyle agreed, letting his mind return to the question of his chances of getting off with the experienced Sandra Wollard.
‘Dickheads, all of them.’ Finishing his coffee, Donaldson crushed the plastic cup in his fist and tossed it towards the waste-bin next to his desk. When the cup bounced off the rim and onto the worn burnt-orange carpet, he shook his head in disgust but made no effort to go and pick it up. ‘You ready to go?’
Carlyle nodded obediently. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Good!’ Suddenly launching himself towards the door, Donaldson gestured for Carlyle to follow. ‘Let’s get going then.’
5
Running south from the Uxbridge Road, 179 Nelson Avenue was a tumbledown three-storey Victorian terrace property which had long since seen better days. Sitting in the gloomy living room on the ground floor, Carlyle balanced a china cup and saucer on his knee as he perched on the edge of a dusty, over-stuffed sofa and contemplated the gratuitously offensive 1970s orange and brown wallpaper. The second hand on the carriage clock, which stood amidst a small collection of framed photographs on the mantelpiece, clicked round noisily. They had already been here far longer than fifteen minutes – not that Sergeant Donaldson appeared to be in any hurry to get on with whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. After getting over here in double-quick time, they had proceeded to do nothing but drink tea.
Hurry up and wait, Carlyle thought sourly. It was a standard refrain in the Metropolitan Police.
‘Would you like a biscuit, dear?’ Hilda Blair shuffled into the room, carrying a plate piled high with chocolate digestives.
‘That’s very kind, thank you.’ Ignoring the dirty look from Donaldson, Carlyle reached forward and helped himself. Taking a polite nibble, he washed it down with a sip of his tea. ‘Very nice.’
‘I don’t get many visitors these days,’ the old lady confided, playing with the modest string of pearls around her neck. Dressed conservatively in a grey skirt and navy cardigan over a cream blouse, she stood five feet two and looked like she would struggle to tip eight stone on the scales. With neatly cut grey hair and sharp green eyes, she appeared to be about seventy, give or take.
‘No,’ Carlyle nodded. He glanced at Donaldson, looking for any indication of why t
hey were here, but the sergeant, pushing back the lace curtain, was busy checking the road outside through the grimy window.
‘I have lived here for more than thirty years, you know,’ Mrs Blair said. Outside, there was the sound of a car horn, followed by angry voices.
‘Very nice,’ Carlyle mumbled.
‘It was a lot quieter when we first moved in. Now you get people shouting and screaming in the street at all times of the day and night.’
‘I can imagine.’
She looked him in the face. ‘Not that the police do anything about it.’
‘Well . . .’
‘My husband worked just down the road at Fuller’s Brewery for many years,’ the woman nattered on, quickly changing tack.
‘I see.’
‘The place was always a bit big for us on our own.’ She looked around sadly. ‘After he died, I decided to take in a lodger.’
‘Mm.’
‘It’s a bit of money. And the company’s nice.’
‘Yes.’ At a complete loss as to how to keep the conversation going, Carlyle was saved by the belated intervention of Donaldson.
‘Better late than never,’ the sergeant declared, letting the curtain drop and stepping away from the window. ‘He’s here.’
Who’s here? Carlyle thought, increasingly irritated at being kept in the dark. A few moments later, the doorbell rang. Gesturing towards the hall, Donaldson smiled at their host.
‘Mr Cahill has arrived.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Hilda Blair nodded as she headed for the door. ‘I’ll go and let him in.’
Before Carlyle had a chance to ask who Mr Cahill was, the front door was opened and Mrs Blair had returned with a tall, middle-aged man in tow. Easily north of six feet, he was dressed in jeans, a pair of scuffed Dr Martens and a battered black leather jacket. Tired and haggard, he looked like a man who hadn’t seen much sleep recently.
‘Jamie,’ Cahill grinned. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine,’ Donaldson said genially. ‘Busy morning?’
‘Damn right.’ Ignoring Carlyle, Cahill turned to Mrs Blair. ‘Your boy Gerry has been up to his old tricks again.’
The old woman looked at each of her guests in turn. ‘All that I can say, Inspector,’ she said finally, ‘is that I have always found Gerald to be a very polite and personable young man. And a very satisfactory tenant.’
A crooked grin passed across Cahill’s face. ‘So why did he try to blow up Maggie Thatcher, then?’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the landlady huffed.
Carlyle glanced again at Donaldson, but the sergeant’s expression was still giving nothing away.
‘No one’s saying you do, Hilda,’ Cahill said calmly. ‘But it looks like he’s really dropped himself in it, this time.’
This time? Finishing his tea, Carlyle took another bite of his biscuit before placing his cup and saucer carefully on the carpet.
‘If Special Branch is so sure about that,’ the woman replied, a defiant smirk on her lined face, ‘why haven’t you picked him up yet? I heard on the radio this morning that there had been more than thirty arrests, so far, all over the country.’
‘We will,’ Cahill said wearily. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is?’
‘I’m not his keeper,’ she snapped.
‘When did you last see him?’ Donaldson asked.
The woman made a show of thinking about it for a moment. ‘It would be about a week ago. I thought he was staying with his girlfriend.’
Carlyle fumbled for his notebook. ‘Who’s his girlfriend?’
Shooting Donaldson a quizzical look, Cahill held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry about that, son,’ he said, smiling at Carlyle. ‘We’ll come back to it later. Time is of the essence at the moment.’ He turned his attention back to their host. ‘Has anyone else been asking about Gerry?’
Hilda had a ponder then shook her head.
‘And presumably he didn’t say anything about what he was up to?’
‘I don’t pry,’ she told Cahill smartly. ‘I’m not one of your informers.’
Donaldson snickered. Carlyle stared at his feet, careful not to kick over his cup.
‘Ah well,’ Cahill said philosophically, ‘I suppose we’d better go upstairs and take a look at his room.’
‘Do you have a warrant?’ Hilda demanded.
‘Come on now. Why are you giving me such a hard time?’
‘It was a perfectly reasonable question.’ She drew herself up.
‘And this is a matter of national security,’ Cahill retorted. ‘I could have had a dozen armed officers kick the door in and ransack the place. Instead, it’s just a cup of tea and a quiet chat.’
‘But no warrant,’ the woman said obstinately.
‘Hilda,’ Cahill gestured towards Carlyle, ‘do you really want this young constable to take you down to the station, so that you can sit in the cells for the rest of the day? Maybe even longer?’
Glaring at each of them in turn, the landlady headed back towards the door. ‘Fine. Come with me, but please, no mess.’
‘You know me, Hilda,’ Cahill said, pushing a thin strand of sandy hair from his face. ‘Always super tidy.’
‘We’ll see,’ the landlady harrumphed, disappearing into the hall. Carlyle jumped to his feet, only to feel Donaldson’s hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
‘You wait here,’ the sergeant instructed, ‘while we go upstairs.’
‘But what should I be doing?’ Carlyle asked, irked at being left to feel like a spare part.
‘If a grubby Irish gobshite walks through the front door,’ Cahill sniggered, gesturing towards the street, ‘make sure you nick the bastard!’
As he listened to the two officers bundle up the stairs, Carlyle reached forward to retrieve the remains of his biscuit. As he did so, he caught sight of something under the sofa. Pitching forward onto his knees, he stuck out an arm and grabbed hold of a badly printed A5 flyer advertising something called ‘Rodeo Night’ at a pub called the McDermott Arms. Carlyle thought about it for a moment, but the name of the pub didn’t ring any bells; he was fairly sure that it wasn’t local. Under a drawing of a cowboy on a bucking bronco was the promise of lager for 75p a pint and spirits at doubles for a pound. Flipping it over, he saw that someone had scrawled the words Becky 7pm in blue biro. From upstairs came the sound of doors banging, followed by muffled voices and laughter. Standing up, Carlyle carefully folded the flyer into quarters and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Just as he sat back down, Mrs Blair reappeared.
‘I don’t know what they think they’ll find up there,’ she tutted. ‘Gerald is always so clean and tidy. He’s one of the nicest guests I’ve ever had.’
Carlyle smiled but said nothing. He idly wondered how much Mrs Blair charged for a week’s rent. It looked like she would soon be in the market for a new lodger. Surely even he could afford a room on Nelson Avenue?
‘I expect they’ll just create a lot of mess,’ she continued, staring unhappily towards the ceiling, ‘and then I’ll have to clear it all up.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind.’ Stepping in front of Carlyle, she reached down and deftly scooped up his cup and saucer. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
6
Outside, the horns got louder as the traffic backed up along the Camden Road. Inside, the McDermott Arms was empty apart from a couple of long-haired youths in the back, drinking pints of lager and playing snooker. Sitting at a table near the door, perched upright on his stool, Martin Palmer sipped daintily at his gin and tonic while fishing the occasional crisp out of the packet of salt ’n’ vinegar. The young spook wasn’t a big imbiber – and certainly not at this early hour – but it had been a trying day and he needed one, or maybe even two, stiff drinks to help him try and think straight.
Palmer thought back to this morning’s meeting with his boss and shuddered. Commander Sorensen had made it clear that this was a career-defining moment. He had been give
n until the end of the day to find Gerry Durkan or face the consequences. ‘The consequences’ meant being sent back to analyst duties, alongside the chinless wonders Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain. Nibbling unhappily on a crisp, Palmer seethed at the complete unfairness of it all. After a stellar start to his time in the service, it looked like his career was going into reverse. Demotion beckoned – he could see himself rejoining the ranks of the graduate drones who did nothing all day but sit and read boring letters intercepted from Irish navvies, trying to glean hidden messages about upcoming terror attacks. He took another sip of his drink. It was so totally unfair! Hadn’t he proved himself in the field? In the grim fields of Yorkshire, no less, during the mineworkers strike? There, right in the middle of what was effectively an armed insurrection against the elected government of the day, he had been directly responsible for taking out a leading activist, as well as dealing with various troublesome Communist agitators.
Yorkshire. What a dump! On the plus side, it had allowed him to escape from his mother for a while, and develop a few peccadilloes of his own at the same time. The recollection of some of his more outrageous behaviour sent a gentle shiver of excitement through his loins.
In London, it had been harder to indulge his passions. All the same, returning to his Gower Street cubbyhole, Martin was pleased to discover that his sterling work in the field had been rewarded with a Certificate of Commendation and a discretionary £75 performance bonus. Having demonstrated an ability to use his initiative, he had been taken off desk duties and handed an important agency asset to manage. With the benefit of hindsight, that had clearly been a step too far, too fast. Not only had the slippery Irish git played him for a fool, he had disappeared off the face of the planet. An afternoon spent touring Durkan’s usual haunts in Kilburn, Cricklewood and now Camden Town had drawn a complete blank. He was back to square one.