The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.
Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.
‘Reassigned.’
‘I see.’
The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’
‘Nice to meet you, sir. . er, ma’am.’
‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’
Tim? ‘I see,’ Palmer repeated. She had his full attention now.
The hard look was replaced by a malicious grin. ‘As I understand it, he has been sent to the Falkland Islands as a Liaison Officer to the Governor.’
Good God! ‘The Falklands?’
Brewster nodded. ‘This is the 1980s. We have to become a performance-driven organisation and the penalties for failure can be very severe indeed.’
‘I’m sure,’ he gulped.
‘According to the latest lists,’ she continued, ‘there are a number of other posts in Port Stanley still to be filled. And after recent events, more redeployments are, frankly, inevitable.’
He was about to mumble another ‘I see’, but managed to stop himself just in time. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. ‘Gerry Durkan.’
‘What about him?’ Brewster frowned.
‘He is — was my asset. While I am actively looking to recover him for the, er. . benefit of the department, the opportunities for a move abroad must be quite limited.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brewster said tightly. Closing the folder, she sat back in her chair. ‘But tell me how your search for Durkan is going.’
‘Yes, well-’
‘In particular, I would be extremely grateful if you could explain to me exactly how Gerry Durkan managed to shoot dead a member of Special Branch using your weapon?’
Bruised by his encounter with his new boss, Palmer retreated across the road to the Brideshead cafe. Relieved to find it open on a Sunday morning, he promptly ordered a full English breakfast, toast and a mug of builder’s tea. The toast had just arrived when Freddie Flyte appeared, as if from nowhere, and slid into the booth beside him.
‘How did it go with the wicked witch of the west?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low even though there were no other customers in the place.
Original moniker, Palmer thought morosely, licking a glob of margarine from his toast and nibbling daintily at a crust. ‘Wicked witch of the west?’ he grunted. ‘Is she from Fulham then?’
‘No idea,’ Flyte replied, clearly bemused. ‘That’s just what they’re calling her.’
‘I see,’ Palmer replied, eyeing the kitchen impatiently.
‘So,’ Flyte persisted, ‘how did it go?’
Palmer looked at his colleague suspiciously. Short and thin, he was too small for the Savile Row suit that enclosed his puny frame like a shroud. With a weak chin, small mouth and eyes that were too large for his face, Palmer had often wondered if he might not be somehow the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman. His hairline was rapidly receding, even though he had just turned twenty-three the month before. His only redeeming quality was that his actual father owned half of Gloucestershire. The good half, apparently, if there was such a thing.
‘Well?’
Palmer sighed. ‘It was fine.’ He hoped that was true. Brewster had seemed to accept his fictitious account of how Durkan had relieved him of the Browning, which he had written up in a report, leaving out any mention of Rose Murray and her pepper spray. There had been no reference to Hilda Blair in the discussion. Looking ahead, Palmer was reasonably confident that he would not be reassigned while Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. Hopefully, by the time the little Irish shit was caught, all the job vacancies in the South Atlantic would be well and truly filled.
Flyte checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice still further. ‘Did Brewster mention the Falklands?’
Palmer frowned. ‘No, not that I recall,’ he lied. ‘We were talking about Durkan. Why?’
‘Well,’ Flyte’s voice was now so low that Palmer had to strain to hear, ‘the word is that people are being sent down there on some kind of special assignment.’
‘That could be interesting.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Flyte spluttered. ‘It’s a total hole. Nothing to do — no clubs. .’
Only the Penguin fucking Society, Palmer mused. He glanced again towards the kitchen, annoyed to see no evidence of any frantic activity going on. He could feel his blood-sugar levels plummeting with every passing second. Where was his fucking breakfast? ‘Did you want something, Freddie?’
‘Ah, yes, right.’ Rummaging around in his jacket, Flyte pulled out a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. Palmer looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
‘What is this?’
‘You know that illegal tap you got us to run on Rose Murray’s phone?’
‘No, no, no,’ Palmer wagged a finger at his colleague, ‘not illegal.’
Flyte looked confused. ‘So you got a warrant then?’
Gritting his teeth, Palmer resisted the temptation to reach across and throttle the pedantic little shit. He was a spy, for God’s sake! Working on the streets; keeping them safe for ordinary, law-abiding citizens. The day he had to go and beg a judge to be allowed to listen to some damn terrorist bitch’s phone calls was the day that the job ceased to be worth a fig. ‘What have you got?’
‘Durkan called Murray about an hour ago,’ said Flyte, edging away from his colleague. ‘They arranged to meet up.’ He pointed at the bit of paper. ‘That’s the time and the place.’
‘OK, good.’ Palmer squinted at Flyte’s scribble. ‘The meeting — it’s going to be in a pub?’
‘An Irish pub,’ Flyte explained. ‘The McDermott Arms in Kilburn. Indian territory.’
‘Indian territory? But I thought you just said it was an Irish pub.’
‘Yes,’ Flyte nodded. ‘It might as well be in the Bogside.’
Bemusement turned to genuine annoyance as Palmer realised that he had not the foggiest idea what the little runt was talking about.
‘The Bogside,’ Flyte explained, sensing his colleague’s confusion. ‘The Catholic part of Derry.’
‘Londonderry,’ Palmer corrected him.
‘Yes. Londonderry. Where they had Bloody Sunday and all that.’
‘Tsk.’ At the best of times, Palmer found history of any description boring. Irish history was off-the-scale boring. Stupid buggers killing each other over stuff that might — or might not — have happened five hundred years ago. His contempt for them was infinite.
‘The point is that the neighbourhood is more or less a no-go area for the police and the security services.’ Flyte shot Palmer a knowing look. ‘Just like the rather unsavoury part of Kilburn in which the McDermott Arms resides.’
‘Rubbish!’ Palmer waved a dismissive hand across the table. He was about to mention that he had been in the McDermott Arms himself, and alone at that, but immediately thought better of it. ‘This is London, my dear fellow. There are no “no-go” areas here.’ Grabbing the scrap of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket, just as the kitchen door opened and the cook appeared, carrying his breakfast. Tucking a napkin under his chin, he turned to Flyte. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will deal with this in due course.’ As the heaving plate was placed in front of him, he sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘In the meantime, I have to attend to the rather more pressing matter of my food.’