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
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
Similar Books
