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.
‘No,’ Carlyle lied.
Wollard gestured for Donne to get across the road. ‘Ian will take over now.’
‘Any chance of a lift back to the station?’ Carlyle asked hopefully.
‘Sure.’ Wollard’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she got out and came over. She was in her uniform but he could see that her make-up had been freshly applied. And the smell of her perfume caused the smallest frisson of excitement to ripple through his chest. ‘I just need to check something inside for Sergeant Donaldson first.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle frowned. As far as he knew, Jamie Donaldson was in Majorca, on a one-week package holiday at the two-star Panorama Beach Hotel. It was costing thirty-nine pounds each for Donaldson and the wife, nineteen quid for the kids. Carlyle had been forced to listen to him drone on about it for weeks.
On the front step, Wollard pulled out a key, raking it across the Police — Do Not Cross tape stuck to the front door. ‘Come on, Constable,’ she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘You can show me what I’m looking for.’ Feeling his heart-rate accelerate, Carlyle watched her stick the key in the lock, push open the door and disappear into the hall. Giving Donne an apologetic shrug, he quickly followed her inside.
Sadly, Samantha Hudson was nowhere to be seen. As he watched the TV in Dominic Silver’s living room, Carlyle tried to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. The idea that she might be in bed, sprawled naked under the covers in the room next door, barely fifteen feet from where he was sitting, was just too terrible to contemplate.
‘So, did you get laid yet?’ Sitting at the far end of the sofa, Dom tossed this week’s copy of City Limits on to the coffee table and struggled to his feet.
Carlyle grunted something noncommittal as he kept his gaze firmly trained on Football Focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dom pad into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, a bottle of Heineken in each hand.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ It was a bit early, but Carlyle took a decent swig and gave a small but appreciative sigh.
‘Only I heard that you did.’ Dom grinned as he settled back into his seat.
‘Huh?’ Carlyle felt himself begin to blush.
‘You’re the talk of the station, Johnny boy,’ Dom cackled. ‘The word is that Sergeant Wollard gave you a right old roasting.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘At a crime scene, no less, you dirty little bugger!’
Bloody Donne, Carlyle thought. He recalled the look on the constable’s face when he and Wollard had finally reappeared from inside Hilda Blair’s house — a mixture of annoyance and jealousy — and realised he should have known that the grapevine would soon be humming.
‘At least you’ve finally popped your cherry.’ Dom raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s a miracle!’
‘Fuck off!’ Blushing harder, Carlyle took another swig of his beer.
‘You didn’t tell me she was a granny,’ Dom teased.
‘Fuck right off. She is not a fucking granny.’
‘OK, OK.’ Dom held up a hand by way of apology. ‘But this is nothing compared to the stick you’re gonna get at work.’
Don’t I know it, Carlyle thought miserably.
Trying to suppress a giggle, Dom lifted his bottle to his lips and forced down a mouthful of lager. ‘You didn’t do it on the old girl’s bed, did you?’
‘Dom. . for fuck’s sake.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘From what I can see,’ Carlyle observed, ‘there isn’t really much of an investigation. The IRA guy did it; when they catch him, it will be case closed.’
‘Evidence?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Dunno.’
Dom shook his head. ‘You really are shaping up to be one great fucking copper.’
‘Look,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not like it’s my investigation, is it? I’m just a bloody constable, after all.’
‘There’s a rumour that he was a Special Branch snitch.’
‘Who? The IRA guy?’
‘Yeah, Gerry Durkan.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘But if he worked for Special Branch, why did he try and blow up Thatcher?’
‘Maybe he was playing both sides.’ Dom waved his bottle airily in front of his face. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘I suppose,’ Carlyle replied, unconvinced.
‘Not that we’ll ever find out. You just know that when they corner the bugger, he’ll be shot resisting arrest.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ Carlyle parroted.
‘Dom! What’re you doing?’ The bedroom door opened and out popped the head of Sam Hudson. Clocking Carlyle on the sofa, she scowled. ‘You coming back to bed, or what?’ Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the door shut and retreated back into the bedroom.
‘Just coming,’ Dom called after her. Getting to his feet, he gave Carlyle an apologetic shrug as he gestured towards the hallway. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ he quipped. ‘Duty calls.’
Carlyle jumped up. ‘No worries. I need to get going anyway.’
‘Off to the Cottage this afternoon?’
Carlyle nodded. In reality, Fulham were playing at Grimsby and he had no plans.
‘Dom!’
‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’
‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’
‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.
Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go — half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’
Or the next week at work, Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
12
Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend. You’d better watch it mummy, he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment, or you could go the way of. . well, the others.
Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’
Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’
‘You are?’
‘Er. .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer — Martin Palmer.’