‘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 amp; 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 amp; 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 deserve.’
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.