What Dies Inside (inspector carlyle), page 1
part #1 of Inspector Carlyle Series
What Dies Inside
( Inspector Carlyle )
James Craig
James Craig
What Dies Inside
‘The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.’
Albert Einstein
1
London, October 1984
The city was asleep. Most of the city, anyway. Standing by the window, Gerry Durkan scratched the two-day-old stubble on his chin and looked down at the traffic speeding along the Great West Road. Breathing in, he exhaled slowly and listened to his heartbeat, calm and steady. He smiled; it was the heartbeat of a man in control of his own destiny. He yawned as a succession of taxis sped past on the dual carriageway below. Where were people driving to at this time of night? To the airport? He gazed towards the orange horizon in the west. Maybe I should have left the country, Durkan mused. Caught some sun in Spain for a few weeks. Got pissed up in Alicante and fucked a succession of hairdressers on holiday from Newcastle or Liverpool. That sounded like a plan.
You should have thought of that earlier, he told himself. Now it was too late to run. Sticking it out in England would be tricky. Even with the protection he would get, Durkan knew that he would have to keep his wits about him.
Scratching his balls through his Y-fronts, he squeezed out a lacklustre fart and wondered if he might have a smoke. Almost immediately, the idea was nixed by a cough from the bed, followed by a drowsy, unhappy voice.
‘Gerry, for fuck’s sake. What’s the time? Come back to bed. I’ve got things to do in the morning.’
Me too, he thought. Me too. ‘Don’t fret,’ he replied soothingly. ‘I’m coming.’ Padding quietly across the cold linoleum floor, he slipped back under the electric blanket, pulling it tightly up beneath his chin. As he felt a warm arm snaking around his chest, he glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep would not come now, wondering if things had gone to plan.
2
The clock on the wall said 8.58. Shuffling into the kitchen, still wearing his preferred night time attire — striped pyjama trousers and a Stiff Little Fingers Inflammable Material T-shirt — young John Carlyle yawned theatrically. He knew that there wasn’t really time for any breakfast this morning, but his rumbling stomach had other ideas. His shift at Shepherd’s Bush police station was due to start at ten. He would need to get on with it.
Outside, the rain lashed against the window above the sink as ominous black clouds scudded across the grey London sky. The relentless descent into winter had begun. With a long day pounding the streets of W12 in front of him, he made a mental note to wear his long johns.
Inside the family home, the atmosphere was equally chilly. With her back to the sink, arms folded, Lorna Gordon — she had never relinquished her maiden name — eyed her son suspiciously as he sat down. ‘What is that, John?’ she asked, uncoiling a bony finger from round the mug of tea that was clamped to her chest and pointing it at the well-thumbed copy of Penthouse magazine lying on the table, next to that morning’s Daily Mirror and an outsized box of Rice Krispies.
Carlyle glanced at his dad as he reached for the cereal, but the old fella was keeping his head down as he munched slowly on his toast. Very wise. Carlyle was pleased to note that his dad had a job at the moment, working in the warehouse of a new supermarket that had opened down the road during the summer. Shaved, with his hair neatly combed, he was dressed in a shirt and tie and had that air of a man with business to attend to. Most important of all, he was in his wife’s good books for once; he might as well try and stay there for a while.
‘Well?’ Lorna demanded.
‘Dom lent it to me,’ Carlyle replied casually, deciding that nonchalance was the only way forward. Opening the cereal packet, he half filled his bowl and carefully added some milk.
‘Tsk.’ His mother stared into her tea like it was toxic. ‘That Dominic Silver is a right one; always leading you astray.’
‘Dom’s a good bloke,’ Carlyle protested.
‘And the worst thing is that you seem more than happy to let him drag you this way and that.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Carlyle retorted, acutely aware that he sounded like a whiny five year old.
‘You pair need to grow up,’ his mother complained. ‘Otherwise you’ll never make the most of yourselves.’
‘We’re doing fine,’ Carlyle grunted, scratching at the neck of his T-shirt. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that Dom had already packed in the police force — less than two years after the two of them had gone through officer training together — abandoning life in uniform for a far more lucrative career. . as a drug dealer. Dom had already made it clear that there was a position for Carlyle in this new business venture but Carlyle had refused. His long-term career prospects in the Met might not look great, but that didn’t mean he shared Dominic’s insouciance about becoming a career criminal.
‘What do you need a magazine like that for, anyway?’ she huffed.
What do you think, Ma? The same as everyone else.
Shaking her head, Lorna turned her attention to her husband. ‘I found it shoved under a pile of football magazines, when I was cleaning his room.’
Looking up, Alexander Carlyle gave a nod but said nothing.
‘Well,’ Lorna said firmly, ‘you’re not having that kind of thing in my house.’
Staring at his breakfast, Carlyle muttered something non-committal.
‘When you’ve got a place of your own, you can do what you like.’
‘Mm.’ He wondered if he would ever be able to afford a flat. On current evidence, it didn’t seem very likely. Dom, of course, had his own place but then his circumstances were rather different. Realising that he needed a spoon, Carlyle got slowly back to his feet and stepped over to the drawer by the sink, switching on the radio as he did so. The voice of the newsreader was sombre, all Home Counties stiff upper lip and repressed fury:
‘There has been a direct bomb attack on members of the British Government at the Conservative Party conference in Brighton. At least two people have been killed and many others seriously injured, including two senior Cabinet ministers.
‘The blast tore apart the Brighton Grand Hotel where members of the Cabinet have been staying for the Conservative Party conference. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and her husband Denis narrowly escaped injury.’
‘Holy shit!’
‘There’s no need for that kind of language,’ his mother snapped but he could see that even she was shocked by the news.
‘Apparently, it was the IRA,’ his dad explained, his face breaking into a wry smile as he wiped some crumbs from his chin. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’
‘Alexander! What a thing to say, shame on you.’
Carlyle waved his spoon angrily as he sat back down. ‘Ssh!’
‘The bomb went off at just before 3 a.m. this morning. The Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility several hours later. In a statement, the IRA said: ‘Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once; you will have to be lucky always.’ Detectives are now beginning a major investigation into who was behind the bombing and how such a major breach in security occurred.’
Alexander reached for another slice of toast. ‘I guess you’ll be fairly busy today, then, son.’
‘It’s hardly going to change my life,’ Carlyle observed through a mouthful of Rice Krispies, ‘is it?’
‘Everywhere’ll be on high alert,’ his father observed.
‘You be careful, John,’ his mother chipped in.
‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I don’t think the shoplifters down Shepherd’s Bush Green are going to be any more dangerous than usual.’ Shovelling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, he pushed away from the table. ‘I’d better get going or I’ll be late for my shift.’ Getting to his feet, he grabbed the copy of Penthouse from the table and beat a hasty retreat.
3
The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.
What rot! Wiping his hands on the knees of his new Marks amp; Spencer suit, Martin Palmer let his gaze slip across his boss’s desk, from the small picture frame containing the ‘motivational’ quote to the plate of biscuits nearby. According to the clock on the wall, he had been sitting here for more than five minutes. That was the thing about the good fellows of Gower Street: even when they panicked, they panicked in slow motion.
Palmer waited patiently for his boss to look up and acknowledge his presence. The young MI5 officer could kill for a Jammie Dodger right now. Three floors below them, where Palmer had his cubbyhole, Edna the tea lady would be doing the rounds with her elevenses trolley. His chums Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain would be busy cleaning the old girl out of her supplies of iced fingers and chocolate tea cakes while discussing last night’s escapades at the Kennington Club and generally ignoring their assignments for the day. Palmer sighed unhappily. His club membership had been stuck in the works now for more than six months and he was beginning to wonder if he had been blackballed. He couldn’t think why, but then again, stranger things had happened.
He was shaken from his reverie by the shrill, insistent ring of the phone on Commander Timothy Sorensen’s desk. Looking up, the Commander glared at Palmer, as if the call was his fault, before picking up the receiver.
‘Sorensen here.’
Palmer stared at his belly while the Commander nibbled on a gingersnap as he listened intently to an e
‘I really don’t think that-’ Sorensen said finally, before being quickly cut off by the caller. ‘Yes, well. We’ll have to see what we could do about that.’ Looking up, he eyed Palmer with some distaste. ‘He’s here now. I was just about to brief him. Fine. Of course. Yes, sir. Jolly good. That is received and understood. Will do.’ Placing the receiver back on its cradle, he returned to his paperwork without another word.
Palmer felt a wave of despair wash over him. The timing of this meeting could hardly be worse. Granted, everyone was in a right old flap this morning, what with the bloody Paddys almost blowing the PM to Kingdom Come. But even so, a boy’s tea-break was sacred, surely? It was almost two hours since he’d enjoyed his post-breakfast snack — a bacon sandwich from the greasy spoon cafe on Store Street — and he was beginning to feel more than a little weak with hunger. By the time he made it back downstairs, Edna would be long gone and all sources of sustenance denied him until the canteen opened at 12.30.
Finally looking up from his report, Sorensen placed the remains of his gingersnap onto his saucer, next to his teacup. He was a small man, in his late fifties, a thirty-year veteran of the security service. Sorensen had become Palmer’s immediate boss in the wake of the latter’s triumphant return from Yorkshire during the mining strike, waging covert warfare against union operatives who had been dubbed ‘the enemy within’ by the PM herself. From being a nondescript analyst toiling away in the bowels of HQ, Palmer was now being fast-tracked as a management trainee. Life was good.
Until now.
‘No breakfast today?’ With his thinning hair slicked back over his scalp with an excess of Brylcreem and his thick NHS-frame glasses, Sorensen reminded Palmer of his grandfather.
‘No, sir,’ Palmer lied, playing with the knot of his tie. ‘It has been a really very busy morning.’
‘Quite.’ Sorensen gestured towards the plate with his finger. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Leaning forward, Palmer took a couple of chocolate digestives, slipping each one into his mouth in quick succession.
‘Now look here, Palmer,’ said Sorensen, closing the file and retreating into the gloom behind his desk. ‘There is quite a situation going on here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Palmer licked crumbs from around his lips.
‘As you can imagine,’ Sorensen continued, bringing his hands together as if in prayer, ‘the last few hours have seen frantic activity. No one could have imagined that the damn Republicans could have got so close to the Prime Minister.’
‘No.’
‘Various Cabinet ministers are in hospital, for God’s sake.’ The Commander shook his head. ‘The show must go on, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Palmer nodded vigorously.
‘Mrs Thatcher has already stood up at the Party conference and delivered her “no surrender” speech. In the meantime, Special Branch has been busy arresting every bloody Irishman they can lay their hands on.’
‘Good.’
‘The perpetrators have already been locked up — most of them, at least.’
Nodding again, Palmer reached for another biscuit, thinking better of it when he saw the scowl that passed across Sorensen’s face.
‘However,’ his boss went on, ‘while Special Branch have been making hay, questions have been asked about us.’
‘Oh?’
Sorensen looked pained as he said, ‘People are already asking whether MI5 shouldn’t have done more to prevent this outrage from happening in the first place.’
Not unreasonable, Palmer thought, under the circumstances.
‘Which was why I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving me an update on Gerald Durkan?’
‘Ah, yes.’ Palmer shifted in his seat. Gerry bloody Durkan. IRA bomber turned MI5 informant; the key ‘asset’ under the management of the rising star of the service. For the last two months, it had been Palmer’s job to meet up with Durkan in various grubby West London pubs, tentatively sipping pints of rancid lager while handing over cash in exchange for snippets of intelligence about Republican activity in London. In retrospect, it was obvious why Sorensen had dragged him in here this morning. Grimacing, Palmer cursed himself for obsessing about food when he should have been getting his story straight.
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.
