Read Online What Dies Inside by James Craig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Craig
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he gulped.
‘According to the latest lists,’ she continued, ‘there are a number of other posts in Port Stanley still to be filled. And after recent events, more redeployments are, frankly, inevitable.’
He was about to mumble another ‘I see’, but managed to stop himself just in time. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. ‘Gerry Durkan.’
‘What about him?’ Brewster frowned.
‘He is –
was
my asset. While I am actively looking to recover him for the, er . . . benefit of the department, the opportunities for a move abroad must be quite limited.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brewster said tightly. Closing the folder, she sat back in her chair. ‘But tell me how your search for Durkan is going.’
‘Yes, well—’
‘In particular, I would be extremely grateful if you could explain to me exactly how Gerry Durkan managed to shoot dead a member of Special Branch using your weapon?’
Bruised by his encounter with his new boss, Palmer retreated across the road to the Brideshead café. Relieved to find it open on a Sunday morning, he promptly ordered a full English breakfast, toast and a mug of builder’s tea. The toast had just arrived when Freddie Flyte appeared, as if from nowhere, and slid into the booth beside him.
‘How did it go with the wicked witch of the west?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low even though there were no other customers in the place.
Original moniker
, Palmer thought morosely, licking a glob of margarine from his toast and nibbling daintily at a crust. ‘Wicked witch of the west?’ he grunted. ‘Is she from Fulham then?’
‘No idea,’ Flyte replied, clearly bemused. ‘That’s just what they’re calling her.’
‘I see,’ Palmer replied, eyeing the kitchen impatiently.
‘So,’ Flyte persisted, ‘how did it go?’
Palmer looked at his colleague suspiciously. Short and thin, he was too small for the Savile Row suit that enclosed his puny frame like a shroud. With a weak chin, small mouth and eyes that were too large for his face, Palmer had often wondered if he might not be somehow the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman. His hairline was rapidly receding, even though he had just turned twenty-three the month before. His only redeeming quality was that his actual father owned half of Gloucestershire. The good half, apparently, if there was such a thing.
‘Well?’
Palmer sighed. ‘It was fine.’ He hoped that was true. Brewster had seemed to accept his fictitious account of how Durkan had relieved him of the Browning, which he had written up in a report, leaving out any mention of Rose Murray and her pepper spray. There had been no reference to Hilda Blair in the discussion. Looking ahead, Palmer was reasonably confident that he would not be reassigned while Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. Hopefully, by the time the little Irish shit was caught, all the job vacancies in the South Atlantic would be well and truly filled.
Flyte checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice still further. ‘Did Brewster mention the Falklands?’
Palmer frowned. ‘No, not that I recall,’ he lied. ‘We were talking about Durkan. Why?’
‘Well,’ Flyte’s voice was now so low that Palmer had to strain to hear, ‘the word is that people are being sent down there on some kind of special assignment.’
‘That could be interesting.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Flyte spluttered. ‘It’s a total hole. Nothing to do – no clubs . . .’
Only the Penguin fucking Society,
Palmer mused. He glanced again towards the kitchen, annoyed to see no evidence of any frantic activity going on. He could feel his blood-sugar levels plummeting with every passing second. Where was his fucking breakfast? ‘Did you want something, Freddie?’
‘Ah, yes, right.’ Rummaging around in his jacket, Flyte pulled out a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. Palmer looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
‘What is this?’
‘You know that illegal tap
‘According to the latest lists,’ she continued, ‘there are a number of other posts in Port Stanley still to be filled. And after recent events, more redeployments are, frankly, inevitable.’
He was about to mumble another ‘I see’, but managed to stop himself just in time. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. ‘Gerry Durkan.’
‘What about him?’ Brewster frowned.
‘He is –
was
my asset. While I am actively looking to recover him for the, er . . . benefit of the department, the opportunities for a move abroad must be quite limited.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brewster said tightly. Closing the folder, she sat back in her chair. ‘But tell me how your search for Durkan is going.’
‘Yes, well—’
‘In particular, I would be extremely grateful if you could explain to me exactly how Gerry Durkan managed to shoot dead a member of Special Branch using your weapon?’
Bruised by his encounter with his new boss, Palmer retreated across the road to the Brideshead café. Relieved to find it open on a Sunday morning, he promptly ordered a full English breakfast, toast and a mug of builder’s tea. The toast had just arrived when Freddie Flyte appeared, as if from nowhere, and slid into the booth beside him.
‘How did it go with the wicked witch of the west?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low even though there were no other customers in the place.
Original moniker
, Palmer thought morosely, licking a glob of margarine from his toast and nibbling daintily at a crust. ‘Wicked witch of the west?’ he grunted. ‘Is she from Fulham then?’
‘No idea,’ Flyte replied, clearly bemused. ‘That’s just what they’re calling her.’
‘I see,’ Palmer replied, eyeing the kitchen impatiently.
‘So,’ Flyte persisted, ‘how did it go?’
Palmer looked at his colleague suspiciously. Short and thin, he was too small for the Savile Row suit that enclosed his puny frame like a shroud. With a weak chin, small mouth and eyes that were too large for his face, Palmer had often wondered if he might not be somehow the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman. His hairline was rapidly receding, even though he had just turned twenty-three the month before. His only redeeming quality was that his actual father owned half of Gloucestershire. The good half, apparently, if there was such a thing.
‘Well?’
Palmer sighed. ‘It was fine.’ He hoped that was true. Brewster had seemed to accept his fictitious account of how Durkan had relieved him of the Browning, which he had written up in a report, leaving out any mention of Rose Murray and her pepper spray. There had been no reference to Hilda Blair in the discussion. Looking ahead, Palmer was reasonably confident that he would not be reassigned while Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. Hopefully, by the time the little Irish shit was caught, all the job vacancies in the South Atlantic would be well and truly filled.
Flyte checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice still further. ‘Did Brewster mention the Falklands?’
Palmer frowned. ‘No, not that I recall,’ he lied. ‘We were talking about Durkan. Why?’
‘Well,’ Flyte’s voice was now so low that Palmer had to strain to hear, ‘the word is that people are being sent down there on some kind of special assignment.’
‘That could be interesting.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Flyte spluttered. ‘It’s a total hole. Nothing to do – no clubs . . .’
Only the Penguin fucking Society,
Palmer mused. He glanced again towards the kitchen, annoyed to see no evidence of any frantic activity going on. He could feel his blood-sugar levels plummeting with every passing second. Where was his fucking breakfast? ‘Did you want something, Freddie?’
‘Ah, yes, right.’ Rummaging around in his jacket, Flyte pulled out a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. Palmer looked at it but didn’t pick it up.
‘What is this?’
‘You know that illegal tap
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