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.
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.
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