by James Craig
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Durkan pulled out the spook’s semi-automatic and placed it on the coffee table. ‘I think you’d better get on with it. If Rose comes back and finds you still here, you might not get out alive.’
‘Fucking bitch,’ Palmer mumbled under his breath.
‘Apart from anything else,’ Durkan grinned, ‘she wasn’t very impressed about you stealing her dirty panties, you little pervert.’
Palmer patted his pockets. Empty.
‘She wasn’t for letting you keep them.’
‘Fair enough.’ Palmer shrugged.
‘But I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Where did the other pair of knickers come from? Do you go round stealing women’s underwear to wank off in?’
The other pair? It took Palmer a second to recall the soiled undergarments that he had torn from the battered, lifeless body of Hilda Blair.
‘Don’t worry,’ the Irishman laughed. ‘Your sordid little secret is safe with me.’
Palmer gave Durkan a questioning look.
‘Why should I care what you get up to, ya fuckin’ eejit? Just don’t bring your shite to my door.’
‘No.’
‘And clean that fucking mess up – right now.’
Finishing his lager, Durkan watched Palmer with a wry smile. The MI5 man was on his knees, making a half-hearted effort to remove the last of his vomit from the carpet with a wet cloth doused in disinfectant while grumbling to himself like an old dosser with early onset Alzheimer’s.
‘You missed a bit.’
‘Sod off!’ the spy grunted, dropping the cloth into the green plastic bucket by his side and struggling to his feet. ‘There, that’s the best I can do.’
Durkan looked less than impressed with his handler’s efforts, but his own interest in domestic cleaning was limited and he no longer had any wish to pursue the point. ‘What the hell were you doing here, anyway?’
‘What do you think I was doing here?’ Palmer responded, dancing round the bucket and sticking his hands under the tap in the sink. ‘I was looking for you. The whole of bloody London is looking for you.’ Giving his hands a quick rinse, he looked around for something to dry them with. Finding nothing, he wiped them on the arse of his trousers. ‘You’ve really fucked up here, Gerry.’
‘We were unlucky,’ the bomber said sulkily.
‘“We”?’ Palmer spluttered. ‘What’s this “we”? You’re supposed to be working for us, remember?’
‘Ah, well, Marty,’ Durkan said slowly, ‘what you’ve got to remember yourself, is that this is a very complicated situation that we’re both trying to operate in here.’
You’re telling me, Palmer thought, nervously eyeing the Browning. Suddenly dealing with a bunch of raggedy-arsed lefties in the provinces seemed like child’s play compared to this. Turning the tap back on, he drank from his hands, rinsing the bile from his mouth. When he’d had enough, he again dried his hands, cleared his throat and gave Durkan what he hoped was a penetrating stare. ‘You’ve got to let me take you in,’ he said firmly. ‘Before Special Branch track you down.’
‘You’ve got to be feckin’ kidding,’ Durkan snorted, turning up the Irish accent for effect. Reaching over to the coffee table, he picked up the Browning, waving it airily at Palmer. ‘I’ve had enough of all this bollocks. You tell that cunt Cahill that if he comes after me again, I’ll use your gun to put a bullet right between his bastard eyes.’
Who the bloody hell is Cahill? Mesmerised by the barrel of the semi-automatic, Palmer felt the bile creeping back up his throat.
‘Understand?’
The spy nodded dutifully.
10
Cleaning out Martin Palmer’s wallet as well as his pockets gleaned Durkan the princely sum of ten pounds and eighteen pence. Ten fucking quid! He shook his head angrily. That would barely get you to Birmingham. In order to make good his escape, the Irishman knew that he would need considerably more funds than that. Sadly, Rose was no use; since she had been disowned by her family, she was even more skint than he was himself. Much as he appreciated her willingness to travel the path less trodden – and her enthusiasm in bed – he found himself wondering if she might not have been a little cannier when it came to keeping her father onside and the funds flowing.
Unable to rely on the largesse of the ruling classes, Durkan realised that he would have to make a surreptitious return to Nelson Avenue to recover the emergency cash he had carefully stashed in the fireplace of his room. After a couple of quick glasses of Powers in the nearby Mowlam Arms, he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his green woollen hat (à la Mike Nesmith in the Monkees), shoved his hands in his pockets and set off down the street. Walking past number 179, he turned the corner into Pearse Road, confident that the place was no longer under surveillance. Just to be on the safe side, he walked on, taking another right into Colbert Road, running parallel to Nelson Avenue with the same three-storey Victorian terraces on either side of the road. Counting down the houses, he came to the property that should back onto Hilda Blair’s house. The lights were on and he could see the flicker of a television screen from the living room on the ground floor. No good. Moving on, Durkan turned his attention to the property next door, which was shrouded in darkness. Skipping through the gate and up the path, he hardly broke his stride as he walked up to the front door and smashed the small pane of glass next to the lock with the walnut grip of the Browning that he had taken from Palmer. A second blow cleared enough of a hole for him to stick a hand inside and unlock the door. Shoving the semiautomatic into the back of his jeans, he slipped inside, closing the door behind him before moving towards the back of the house, heading for the garden.
In the gloom, he took a moment to get his bearings. Hilda Blair’s garden, with its tiny, dilapidated greenhouse, was to his right, where it should be. Durkan took a deep breath. It was too late to worry about anyone seeing him now. Scrambling over the fence, he landed in the flowerbed of 181 and quickly vaulted over the adjoining wall, on to the muddy lawn of 179. In the distance, a dog started barking. No one, however, seemed to be taking any notice of the Brighton bomber who was running around their back gardens. Regaining his breath, he stepped over to the back door of the house, which opened into the kitchen. From experience, he knew that his landlady rarely locked it. He had remonstrated with her about it on several occasions. Their conversation would always go the same way; it had a ritualistic element that they both enjoyed.
‘This is a big, bad city, Hilda,’ he would smile, gesturing towards the wider world outside their four walls. ‘There are lots of sick and nasty individuals out there. Times have changed. You never know who might walk in, bash you over the head and steal all your valuables.’
‘Ah, but I do, Gerald,’ she would reply, a twinkle in her eye, her smile even wider than his. ‘After more than thirty years, I know that nothing bad is ever going to happen to me here.’ She would pause, so that they could both anticipate her punch line. ‘And, anyway, it’s not like I have any valuables to steal.’
Turning the handle, he felt the door open, the familiar squeak of its hinges reminding him that he had never made good on his promise to oil them with some WD-40. Well done, Hilda, he thought, closing the door quietly behind him. The kitchen was cold and dark. His landlady was probably in the front room, enjoying Crimewatch. Quality television, Durkan thought as he trod quietly through the hallway. Reaching the stairs, however, he realised that the living room was empty and the whole house was in darkness. Durkan frowned. The old lady rarely left the house, other than to do her shopping and collect her pension, and she was always home after five o’clock in the afternoon.
Hovering on the bottom step of the stairs, he called out, ‘Hilda, are you in?’ He listened to the sound of traffic on the street outside for several moments, waiting for a reply that never came. A sudden thought popped into his head. How old was she? ‘Hilda!’
Bounding up the stairs, he stepped on to the
landing, pushed open her bedroom door and switched on the light.
‘Jesus!’ Standing in the doorway, Durkan stifled a sob. However Hilda Blair had died, it wasn’t of natural causes. Lying on the bed, she looked up at the ceiling as if pleading for some divine intervention that never came. Her face was battered and bruised and her skirt had been pushed up so that it was almost under her chin. Embarrassed by her nakedness, he stepped over to the wardrobe in the corner and pulled out a blanket, carefully draping it over her. Standing at the bottom of the bed, he felt his shock turning to anger.
‘What kind of sick fuck . . .’ Gerry Durkan let the question trail away as he recalled that he had urgent business to attend to. ‘I’m sorry, Hilda,’ he mumbled, switching off the light as he stumbled out on to the landing.
‘What the fuck has been going on next door?’
‘Huh?’ Gerry Durkan looked up from the stack of tenners he was busily stuffing into a battered Gola shoulder bag to see a large bloke in a leather jacket standing in his bedroom doorway. Slowly getting to his feet, he retreated to the corner of the room. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘You know your biggest problem?’ Harry Cahill kept one hand in his pocket as he gestured towards Durkan with the other. ‘Apart from the fact that you’ve just been nicked, of course.’
‘Copper?’ Durkan asked, feeling the Browning against his spine as he backed up against the wall.
‘Special Branch,’ Cahill confirmed, enjoying his moment of victory. ‘We’ve been after you for a while.’
‘I can imagine,’ Durkan grinned, wondering if the guy was armed and if he was alone. A quick glance out of the window showed no evidence of any back-up. As for being armed, well, he would just have to take his chances.
‘What you need to imagine,’ Cahill observed, ‘is what’s going to happen to you when people realise that the Brighton bomber is also a granny-fucking rapist. That really isn’t going to help much with the Gerry Durkan legend. I don’t expect you’ll last too long in prison.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Durkan said quietly. ‘She was my landlady – a nice old girl.’
‘Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.’ The inspector made a disgusted face as he pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver from the pocket of his jacket. ‘But the way I see it, it’s just another easy win.’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Now turn round and get back on to your knees, so I can cuff you.’
‘Anything you say,’ Durkan shrugged.
‘Turn around,’ the inspector repeated.
‘You’re the boss, copper.’ Then as Cahill fumbled for the handcuffs with his free hand, Durkan pulled the Browning from the waistband of his trousers, lifting the barrel to chest height in one smooth motion. ‘Or, then again, maybe not.’
‘Holy fucking shit!’ The inspector jumped backwards like a scalded cat. Letting the cuffs fall to the floor, he barely managed to keep a grip on the Smith & Wesson in his other hand. Realising the enormity of his mistake, Cahill tried to consider his options. Nothing immediately came to mind. All that registered in his brain was the blood pounding in his ears and the lack of spittle in his mouth. Licking his lips, he stared into the smirking face of Gerry Durkan.
Is this bastard the last thing I am going to see in this life?
Clenching his buttocks tightly together, Cahill took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. ‘Now, son, let’s not do anything hasty.’
‘Don’t “son” me, you bastard,’ Durkan sneered. Adjusting his feet, he wrapped both hands around the Browning’s grip. ‘This is one pissing contest that you’ve lost.’ Pulling hard on the heavy trigger, he heard the bang and felt the recoil travelling up his arms. ‘So fuck you.’
Hit smack in the middle of his chest, Cahill dropped his weapon and staggered back through the door, collapsing on to the landing. Retrieving the man’s revolver from the carpet, Durkan tossed it into the bag containing his cash. Standing over the policeman, he listened to Cahill’s rasping breath as the blood seeped through his shirt and on to the carpet. His face was white and his eyes had lost their focus. He was clearly on the way out. No need to waste another bullet.
‘Thanks for the gun,’ Durkan hissed, as he fell to his knees next to Cahill. ‘All contributions to the struggle gratefully received.’ He gestured towards the leather jacket. ‘Let’s just see what else you’ve got before I go, shall we?’ Slapping away the dying man’s feeble blows, he quickly began going through his pockets.
The Mowlam Arms had filled up in the last couple of hours, but not by much. Gerry Durkan dropped his holdall next to the footrail and placed a pound note and a selection of coins on the bar. Catching the barman’s eye, he signalled towards the bottle of Powers Gold Label sitting amongst a random selection of spirits on a shelf above the cash register. ‘Make it a double.’ Nodding, the barman reached for a less than clean-looking shot glass. The TV on the far end of the bar was showing an episode of The Bill. For a few moments, Durkan allowed himself to be distracted by the new cop show, but he wasn’t really that interested. He had sat with Hilda and watched one of the first episodes a few weeks earlier, quickly concluding that it wouldn’t last for long. The life of your average British plod just wasn’t interesting enough to sustain a long-running television series. In his book, there hadn’t been a decent cop show on the telly since Target.
At least the television’s sound was down, so the lame drama wouldn’t distract the serious drinkers scattered around the bar. As ITV went into a commercial break, the barman handed Durkan his drink. Not waiting on ceremony, he downed the whiskey in one. It didn’t taste great but he asked for another anyway. The adrenalin from his encounter with Harry Cahill was wearing off and he felt weary. Taking his new drink, he paid the barman, grabbed his bag and retreated to a table in a lonely spot at the back of the pub. Here, he sat and contemplated the rather unfortunate turn of events and asked himself where things would likely go from here. Clearly, the Special Branch man would be found soon enough. Once that happened, the police search for him would only intensify.
Should he run? Or should he go to ground in the city? The police, along with the other organs of the state, had the resources to deal with either scenario. Durkan could feel the tiredness eating into his bones. For several moments, he stared vacantly into the middle distance. Still undecided as to his next move, he pulled Cahill’s wallet from his jacket and began rifling through its contents. Aside from a warrant card, two five-pound notes and a small foil wrapper containing a single Durex Elite condom, there was a crumpled photograph which had been folded several times before being shoved into the wallet. Taking another sip of his drink, Durkan flattened the picture out on the table and studied it carefully.
Without doubt, it was a surveillance photograph, taken with a long-distance lens. It took him a few seconds to recognise the MI5 man, Martin Palmer, from whom he’d removed the Browning after he’d been caught snooping in Rose Murray’s flat. Durkan made a face. Why would Special Branch trail an MI5 man? Then again, he reasoned, why not? The bastards spy on everyone else.
In the picture, Palmer was leaving Hilda Blair’s house. He looked pleased with himself and he was grasping something in his left hand. With his nose less than an inch from the table, Durkan squinted at the image for several seconds before giving up. The image was too fuzzy. It was impossible to make out what the spy was holding.
What did he take from Hilda’s house?
‘Aaah . . .’
Slowly, slowly, Durkan realised just what the picture was showing him. He thought back to his conversation with Palmer in Rose Murray’s flat: ‘Where did the other pair of knickers come from? Do you go round stealing women’s underwear to wank off in?’
Finishing his drink, Durkan slumped back in his chair. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘I didn’t know the half of it, did I?’ Images of Hilda’s battered body fluttered through his brain and a wave of revulsion filled his stomach. ‘You sick fucker,’ he groaned, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘I hope you get what you truly deserv
e.’
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.
11
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.