What Dies Inside (5 page)

Rubbing her neck, Rose dropped her gaze to his waist. ‘It turns you on, doesn’t it, you sick bastard?’

Looking down at his restored erection, Cahill grinned. ‘I guess it does.’ He gestured back at the bed. ‘Let’s see how good you are at finishing me off.’

Feeling totally spent, Cahill watched Rose grab a pair of grey knickers from a pile of clothes sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. After a moment’s hesitation she tossed them on to the floor and fetched a clean pair from a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a sturdy-looking pearl-grey bra.

‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said, deftly stepping into her panties. ‘You know what it’s like – places to go, people to see.’

‘Sure.’ Cahill made no immediate effort to rouse himself from the bed.

Rose fastened her bra and reached for a blouse. ‘It would be good if you could make yourself scarce.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Cahill got up and padded across the carpet. ‘I just need to take a piss.’

When he returned from the bathroom, she was fully dressed. ‘I’m off,’ she said, coolly contemplating his still-naked form. ‘You can let yourself out.’

‘Just one thing,’ Cahill said quietly, standing in the doorway, blocking her exit, ‘before you go.’

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she sighed theatrically. ‘What is it now?’

‘Gerry Durkan.’

‘Who?’ she scowled.

‘Don’t try and bullshit me,’ Cahill said sharply. ‘I know he’s one of your bad boy shags.’

The scowl grew deeper. ‘So?’

‘So,’ he smiled, ‘I need you to tell me where he is.’

‘No idea,’ she shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen Gerry for ages.’

Stepping away from the doorway, Cahill reached down to pick up his underpants. ‘I know you’re lying, but I couldn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. You’ve got twenty-four hours to find the little wanker for me.’

‘How am I supposed to do that?’ she sneered. ‘He could be anywhere.’

‘That’s your problem,’ Cahill replied, carefully sticking one leg into the pants, wobbling slightly but just about managing not to fall over. ‘Find him, or it’ll be time for me to see if they’ve got a spare cell in Holloway – with your name on it.’

Martin Palmer took a bite out of his jumbo iced finger and chewed happily. It was his second pastry in quick succession but he felt no sense of guilt. Sitting in the otherwise empty café in the middle of this desolate part of West London, it seemed to him that comfort-eating was entirely acceptable. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that his mother persisted with her ludicrous attempts at getting him to stick to a diet, he wouldn’t even have given the matter a second thought. When would the stupid cow realise that he was still a growing lad with a naturally healthy appetite? His increasing weight was a sign of rude good health. On the spot, he made a vow that the next time she tried to fob him off with a plate of fish and steamed vegetables, he would throw it back at her.

From behind the counter, a radio played Stevie Wonder’s, ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You.’ Happily mumbling the chorus to himself, Palmer shoved the remains of the cake into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of tea, and let his gaze return to the yellowing newspaper cutting lying on the table. The news story, from
The Times
, was the total sum of the intelligence MI5 had collected on Rose Murray in the last eighteen months.

English heiress turned IRA sympathiser given a suspended sentence

ROSE MURRAY
, daughter of an English Baron, was given a suspended six-year jail sentence at the Old Bailey yesterday after taking part in a bungled raid on her father’s London flat in an attempt to raise funds for the IRA.

Murray and two accomplices were arrested by police in possession of a haul of Old Master paintings and a selection of other valuable artworks, after Clive Wilson, a doorman in the building, raised the alarm. Trying to make good their escape, gang member Terence Donovan attacked Healey with a hammer, causing him serious head injuries which have left him permanently disabled.

Donovan was given a ten year sentence, while Ivor Hogan was given eighteen years. Citing Murray’s previous good character and taking account of evidence that she had been coerced into taking part in the attack by Donovan, her lover at the time, the judge, Sir Reginald Walsh, decided that the heiress should be spared jail. ‘I trust,’ he said, summing up, ‘that you have learned a valuable lesson in all of this and that your dalliance with dangerous men like these is now over.’

Head bowed, a tearful Murray mouthed ‘thank you’ from the dock before she was whisked away to an unknown location.

Murray, 24, has enjoyed a privileged upbringing. Her father, Baron Murray of Sheffield, is a landowner descended from King Charles II and a staunch supporter of the government’s fight against Republican terrorists. After attending the exclusive Latymer School for Girls in North London, where fees run to almost £700 a term, Murray went to Oxford, where she was captain of the university lacrosse team. It was at a debate at the Oxford Union that her radicalisation began. When Sinn Féin poster boy Brendan Keating turned up to support a motion calling for the end of the British ‘occupation’ of Ireland, Murray was swept off her feet. They had a short and tempestuous affair, at the end of which she had abandoned her studies, renounced her family and dived headlong in to the murky world of London’s Irish community.

Rose’s mother, the former debutante and stalwart of the Home Counties social scene Jacintha White, has loudly and publicly disowned her daughter on more than one occasion. Her father, however, has maintained a dignified silence. While friends say that the Baron is mortified by his daughter’s antics, he hopes that things will eventually sort themselves out. Father and daughter had been estranged for several years before the botched robbery. There has been recent talk of a possible reconciliation, but this has yet to be confirmed.

Re-reading the piece, Palmer snorted with disgust. ‘What a load of old nonsense!’ The girl behind the counter gave him a funny look, but said nothing. As he slipped the article back into his pocket, he contemplated the deal that Murray was rumoured to have struck with Special Branch whereby, in exchange for staying out of jail, she had agreed to snitch on her terrorist chums.

It sounded plausible enough but begged one important question:
if Rose was keeping up her end of the deal, why hadn’t they caught Durkan yet?

By all accounts, as far as Rose Murray was concerned, Durkan was rather more than a ‘chum’. According to the Gower Street gossip, the little so-and-so had gotten her pregnant. She hadn’t kept the baby, but the couple were still an item. ‘I’m sure that the Baron is delighted,’ Palmer grunted to himself as he watched the backed-up traffic slowly grind to a halt on the road outside.

Finishing his tea, he was contemplating asking for a third cake when he looked up just in time to see Murray herself appear from the front door of Harding Smith House. Pausing on the pavement, she seemed unsure which direction to take, before turning to her right and heading off towards the tube station at a brisk pace. Palmer hesitated. Should he follow the woman? Or should he search the flat? As he hummed and hawed, Murray disappeared down a side street and the decision was made for him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a selection of coins while peering at the bill that had been left under his plate. Carefully counting out the correct amount, plus a small tip, he placed the money on the table and struggled to his feet, heading for the door.

Named after a long-forgotten politician, Harding Smith House was a 28-storey, 198-unit North Kensington tower block designed in the 1960s by Hungarian architect Ernö Goldfinger. A sinister-looking building, with a separate lift and service tower, it was built by the Greater London Council in the early 1970s as social housing, just at the time when tower blocks were going out of fashion. A familiar procession of horror stories about women being raped in lifts and children being offered drugs led to the block being described by the local MP as ‘the worst place to live in London’. Under newly introduced ‘right to buy’ legislation, Mrs Thatcher’s government was trying to sell the flats to tenants at rock-bottom prices, in the hope that that would lead residents to drive an improvement in living conditions.

As of right now, that hope was still to be realised. Like an intrepid explorer, Martin Palmer tentatively made his way through the lobby of the building, head down as he tried to avoid stepping in something unpleasant. Even breathing through his mouth, he was almost overwhelmed by the stench of ammonia that came from every corner. As he approached the lifts, Palmer nervously patted the Browning Hi-Power in the pocket of his jacket. If any of the natives came after him, at least he could defend himself. Rose Murray had a flat on the sixteenth floor. Relieved that the lifts were working, Palmer pressed the button and waited patiently. When one finally arrived, the door shuddered open and an emaciated man scuttled out, head bowed. Ignoring the MI5 agent, he skipped towards the front door and disappeared on to the street.
Just another junkie loser
, Palmer thought grimly as he stepped inside, still breathing through his mouth.

Flat 113 was at the end of a long, dingy corridor that smelled only marginally better than the lobby downstairs. Contemplating the flimsy-looking door, Palmer considered the options. He had yet to be sent on the MI5 lock-picking course – it was in his diary for later in the year, sandwiched between a session entitled An Introduction to Phone-Tapping and a residential course on communication skills.

Now is no time for subtlety
, he told himself. Looking around, he determined to his own satisfaction that no one was watching, before giving the door a swift kick with the polished toe of his Foster & Son boot. The door buckled slightly, but did not give way. After another quick glance down the corridor, Palmer gave it another kick, harder this time, grunting with the effort. This time, there was the satisfying sound of the lock splintering and the door flew open.

Stepping inside, Palmer found himself in an open plan living room with a small kitchen behind a breakfast bar in the far corner. Closing the broken front door carefully behind him, he took a cautious sniff and was pleased to discover that the air in here was relatively breathable. Indeed, the flat looked tidy and well cared for, if a little shabby. A poster for the Yul Brynner sci-fi movie
Westworld
had been taped to the far wall, next to a calendar that was still showing the dates for June. ‘A woman’s loving touch,’ Palmer mused aloud as he clocked a small bunch of flowers in a glass vase sitting on the coffee table. ‘Nice.’

Then he set about tossing the place.

Forty minutes later, there was precisely nothing to show for his efforts, other than a couple of small joints, some green pills secured in plastic wrap and a pair of soiled grey panties, all of which had been placed in his pocket for closer inspection at a later date. Stalking into the kitchen, Palmer opened the fridge and looked inside. Disappointed to find nothing to eat other than a Vesta boil-in-the-bag chicken curry, he helped himself to a can of Coke from the top shelf and shut the door.

Opening the can, the spook took a noisy slurp of cola, swallowed and let out a satisfied burp. Perching on a stool next to the breakfast bar, he considered his position. Time was running out in his search for Gerry Durkan and, so far, he had made precisely zero progress. A mood of self-pity overtook him as he let his gaze flit around the room. Stuck to the fridge door was a takeaway menu, a shopping list and a blurred photo of Murray and a guy who could have been Durkan laughing in a pub. In short, nothing that was going to get him very far. Wondering what to do next, Palmer finished his drink. Crushing the can in his hand, he dropped it into a bin under the sink and headed for the front door.

Just as he was about to reach for the handle, Palmer heard someone cursing in the hallway outside. Before he could react, the door flew open and smacked him in the face.

‘Ow!’ Holding his mouth, the agent stumbled backwards, to be confronted by an angry-looking woman waving something in her hand.

‘You fucker!’ By the time he recognised Rose Murray she was advancing towards him, arm outstretched. The next thing he knew, he was hit full blast in the face by a stinging spray.

‘Argh!’ Palmer tried to cover his tearing eyes and his mouth, but it was too late. The pain was intense, the acute burning sensation on his skin and the choking in his throat forcing him to his knees, making it easier for her to put him down properly with a smart blow to the head.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, Martin Palmer gingerly edged himself away from the pool of slowly congealing vomit on the floor beside him and waited for his head to clear. The smell was terrible, but he wasn’t quite ready to stand up yet. Instead, he concentrated on focusing on the tired-looking man sitting in an oversized armchair in a corner of the room. Wearing a pair of tatty jeans and a brown leather jacket over a khaki T-shirt, he dangled a leg over one arm of the chair, a Puma suede trainer hovering just above the carpet. Sporting a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his sharp chin, he was nursing a can of Harp Lager, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘You better clear that up,’ Gerry Durkan grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with glee as he gestured towards the pool of sick, ‘or Rose will be
really
pissed off with you.’

‘She seemed pissed off enough already,’ Palmer grumbled, trying to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. He looked around nervously. ‘Where is she, by the way?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Durkan laughed, ‘she’s gone out.’

Thank God for that.
Palmer relaxed slightly.

‘It was just as well I turned up when I did.’ Dropping the cigarette on to the coffee table, Durkan took a mouthful of lager. ‘God knows what Rose might have done while you were out for the count. You could have woken up with your balls in your mouth and your dick up your arse.’

Palmer shuddered at the thought. ‘What the hell did she use on me?’