first.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle frowned. As far as he knew, Jamie Donaldson was in Majorca, on a one-week package holiday at the two-star Panorama Beach Hotel. It was costing thirty-nine pounds each for Donaldson and the wife, nineteen quid for the kids. Carlyle had been forced to listen to him drone on about it for weeks.
On the front step, Wollard pulled out a key, raking it across the
Police – Do Not Cross
tape stuck to the front door. ‘Come on, Constable,’ she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘You can show me what I’m looking for.’ Feeling his heart-rate accelerate, Carlyle watched her stick the key in the lock, push open the door and disappear into the hall. Giving Donne an apologetic shrug, he quickly followed her inside.
Sadly, Samantha Hudson was nowhere to be seen. As he watched the TV in Dominic Silver’s living room, Carlyle tried to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. The idea that she might be in bed, sprawled naked under the covers in the room next door, barely fifteen feet from where he was sitting, was just too terrible to contemplate.
‘So, did you get laid yet?’ Sitting at the far end of the sofa, Dom tossed this week’s copy of
City Limits
on to the coffee table and struggled to his feet.
Carlyle grunted something noncommittal as he kept his gaze firmly trained on
Football Focus
. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dom pad into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, a bottle of Heineken in each hand.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ It was a bit early, but Carlyle took a decent swig and gave a small but appreciative sigh.
‘Only I heard that you did.’ Dom grinned as he settled back into his seat.
‘Huh?’ Carlyle felt himself begin to blush.
‘You’re the talk of the station, Johnny boy,’ Dom cackled. ‘The word is that Sergeant Wollard gave you a right old roasting.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘At a crime scene, no less, you dirty little bugger!’
Bloody Donne,
Carlyle thought. He recalled the look on the constable’s face when he and Wollard had finally reappeared from inside Hilda Blair’s house – a mixture of annoyance and jealousy – and realised he should have known that the grapevine would soon be humming.
‘At least you’ve finally popped your cherry.’ Dom raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s a miracle!’
‘Fuck off!’ Blushing harder, Carlyle took another swig of his beer.
‘You didn’t tell me she was a granny,’ Dom teased.
‘Fuck right off. She is
not
a fucking granny.’
‘OK, OK.’ Dom held up a hand by way of apology. ‘But this is nothing compared to the stick you’re gonna get at work.’
Don’t I know it
, Carlyle thought miserably.
Trying to suppress a giggle, Dom lifted his bottle to his lips and forced down a mouthful of lager. ‘You didn’t do it on the old girl’s bed, did you?’
‘
Dom
. . . for fuck’s sake.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘From what I can see,’ Carlyle observed, ‘there isn’t really much of an investigation. The IRA guy did it; when they catch him, it will be case closed.’
‘Evidence?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Dunno.’
Dom shook his head. ‘You really are shaping up to be one great fucking copper.’
‘Look,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not like it’s my investigation, is it? I’m just a bloody constable, after all.’
‘There’s a rumour that he was a Special Branch snitch.’
‘Who? The IRA guy?’
‘Yeah, Gerry Durkan.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘But if he worked for Special Branch, why did he try and blow up Thatcher?’
‘Maybe he was playing both sides.’ Dom waved his bottle airily in front of his face. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘I suppose,’ Carlyle replied, unconvinced.
‘Not that we’ll ever find out. You just know that when they corner the bugger, he’ll be shot resisting arrest.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ Carlyle parroted.
‘Dom! What’re you doing?’ The
‘OK.’ Carlyle frowned. As far as he knew, Jamie Donaldson was in Majorca, on a one-week package holiday at the two-star Panorama Beach Hotel. It was costing thirty-nine pounds each for Donaldson and the wife, nineteen quid for the kids. Carlyle had been forced to listen to him drone on about it for weeks.
On the front step, Wollard pulled out a key, raking it across the
Police – Do Not Cross
tape stuck to the front door. ‘Come on, Constable,’ she said, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘You can show me what I’m looking for.’ Feeling his heart-rate accelerate, Carlyle watched her stick the key in the lock, push open the door and disappear into the hall. Giving Donne an apologetic shrug, he quickly followed her inside.
Sadly, Samantha Hudson was nowhere to be seen. As he watched the TV in Dominic Silver’s living room, Carlyle tried to banish all thoughts of her from his mind. The idea that she might be in bed, sprawled naked under the covers in the room next door, barely fifteen feet from where he was sitting, was just too terrible to contemplate.
‘So, did you get laid yet?’ Sitting at the far end of the sofa, Dom tossed this week’s copy of
City Limits
on to the coffee table and struggled to his feet.
Carlyle grunted something noncommittal as he kept his gaze firmly trained on
Football Focus
. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dom pad into the kitchen. Moments later, he reappeared, a bottle of Heineken in each hand.
‘Here you go.’
‘Thanks.’ It was a bit early, but Carlyle took a decent swig and gave a small but appreciative sigh.
‘Only I heard that you did.’ Dom grinned as he settled back into his seat.
‘Huh?’ Carlyle felt himself begin to blush.
‘You’re the talk of the station, Johnny boy,’ Dom cackled. ‘The word is that Sergeant Wollard gave you a right old roasting.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘At a crime scene, no less, you dirty little bugger!’
Bloody Donne,
Carlyle thought. He recalled the look on the constable’s face when he and Wollard had finally reappeared from inside Hilda Blair’s house – a mixture of annoyance and jealousy – and realised he should have known that the grapevine would soon be humming.
‘At least you’ve finally popped your cherry.’ Dom raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘It’s a miracle!’
‘Fuck off!’ Blushing harder, Carlyle took another swig of his beer.
‘You didn’t tell me she was a granny,’ Dom teased.
‘Fuck right off. She is
not
a fucking granny.’
‘OK, OK.’ Dom held up a hand by way of apology. ‘But this is nothing compared to the stick you’re gonna get at work.’
Don’t I know it
, Carlyle thought miserably.
Trying to suppress a giggle, Dom lifted his bottle to his lips and forced down a mouthful of lager. ‘You didn’t do it on the old girl’s bed, did you?’
‘
Dom
. . . for fuck’s sake.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘From what I can see,’ Carlyle observed, ‘there isn’t really much of an investigation. The IRA guy did it; when they catch him, it will be case closed.’
‘Evidence?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Dunno.’
Dom shook his head. ‘You really are shaping up to be one great fucking copper.’
‘Look,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not like it’s my investigation, is it? I’m just a bloody constable, after all.’
‘There’s a rumour that he was a Special Branch snitch.’
‘Who? The IRA guy?’
‘Yeah, Gerry Durkan.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘But if he worked for Special Branch, why did he try and blow up Thatcher?’
‘Maybe he was playing both sides.’ Dom waved his bottle airily in front of his face. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘I suppose,’ Carlyle replied, unconvinced.
‘Not that we’ll ever find out. You just know that when they corner the bugger, he’ll be shot resisting arrest.’
‘Stranger things have happened,’ Carlyle parroted.
‘Dom! What’re you doing?’ The
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