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.
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
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.
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
Similar Books
