What Dies Inside

by James Craig

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

London, October 1984: Irish terrorists have blown up British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in a hotel near London. Gerry Durkan, the prime suspect, is on the run in west London and Constable John Carlyle is drafted in to join the hunt to find him. The increasingly frantic search exposes rivalries in the security services as up and coming MI5 agent Martin Palmer goes up against Special Branch veteran Mark Cahill. Palmer needs to find Durkan first, or see his embryonic career go into reverse. But the young spook has a dirty secret of his own, one that he will kill to keep.

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 71

Sample

The clock on the wall said 8.58. Shuffling into the kitchen, still wearing his preferred night time attire – striped pyjama trousers and a Stiff Little Fingers Inflammable Material T-shirt – young John Carlyle yawned theatrically. He knew that there wasn’t really time for any breakfast this morning, but his rumbling stomach had other ideas. His shift at Shepherd’s Bush police station was due to start at ten. He would need to get on with it.

Outside, the rain lashed against the window above the sink as ominous black clouds scudded across the grey London sky. The relentless descent into winter had begun. With a long day pounding the streets of W12 in front of him, he made a mental note to wear his long johns.

Inside the family home, the atmosphere was equally chilly. With her back to the sink, arms folded, Lorna Gordon – she had never relinquished her maiden name – eyed her son suspiciously as he sat down. ‘What is that, John?’ she asked, uncoiling a bony finger from round the mug of tea that was clamped to her chest and pointing it at the well-thumbed copy of Penthouse magazine lying on the table, next to that morning’s Daily Mirror and an outsized box of Rice Krispies.

Carlyle glanced at his dad as he reached for the cereal, but the old fella was keeping his head down as he munched slowly on his toast. Very wise. Carlyle was pleased to note that his dad had a job at the moment, working in the warehouse of a new supermarket that had opened down the road during the summer. Shaved, with his hair neatly combed, he was dressed in a shirt and tie and had that air of a man with business to attend to. Most important of all, he was in his wife’s good books for once; he might as well try and stay there for a while.

‘Well?’ Lorna demanded.

‘Dom lent it to me,’ Carlyle replied casually, deciding that nonchalance was the only way forward. Opening the cereal packet, he half filled his bowl and carefully added some milk.

‘Tsk.’ His mother stared into her tea like it was toxic. ‘That Dominic Silver is a right one; always leading you astray.’

‘Dom’s a good bloke,’ Carlyle protested.

‘And the worst thing is that you seem more than happy to let him drag you this way and that.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Carlyle retorted, acutely aware that he sounded like a whiny five year old.

‘You pair need to grow up,’ his mother complained. ‘Otherwise you’ll never make the most of yourselves.’

‘We’re doing fine,’ Carlyle grunted, scratching at the neck of his T-shirt. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that Dom had already packed in the police force – less than two years after the two of them had gone through officer training together – abandoning life in uniform for a far more lucrative career . . . as a drug dealer. Dom had already made it clear that there was a position for Carlyle in this new business venture but Carlyle had refused. His long-term career prospects in the Met might not look great, but that didn’t mean he shared Dominic’s insouciance about becoming a career criminal.

‘What do you need a magazine like that for, anyway?’ she huffed.

What do you think, Ma? The same as everyone else.

Shaking her head, Lorna turned her attention to her husband. ‘I found it shoved under a pile of football magazines, when I was cleaning his room.’

Looking up, Alexander Carlyle gave a nod but said nothing.

‘Well,’ Lorna said firmly, ‘you’re not having that kind of thing in my house.’

Staring at his breakfast, Carlyle muttered something non-committal.

‘When you’ve got a place of your own, you can do what you like.’

‘Mm.’ He wondered if he would ever be able to afford a flat. On current evidence, it didn’t seem very likely. Dom, of course, had his own place but then his circumstances were rather different. Realising that he needed a spoon, Carlyle got slowly back to his feet and stepped over to the drawer by the sink, switching on the radio as he did so. The voice of the newsreader was sombre, all Home Counties stiff upper lip and repressed fury:

‘There has been a direct bomb attack on members of the British Government at the Conservative Party conference in Brighton. At least two people have been killed and many others seriously injured, including two senior Cabinet ministers.

‘The blast tore apart the Brighton Grand Hotel where members of the Cabinet have been staying for the Conservative Party conference. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and her husband Denis narrowly escaped injury.’

‘Holy shit!’

‘There’s no need for that kind of language,’ his mother snapped but he could see that even she was shocked by the news.

‘Apparently, it was the IRA,’ his dad explained, his face breaking into a wry smile as he wiped some crumbs from his chin. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’

‘Alexander! What a thing to say, shame on you.’

Carlyle waved his spoon angrily as he sat back down. ‘Ssh!’

‘The bomb went off at just before 3 a.m. this morning. The Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility several hours later. In a statement, the IRA said: ‘Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once; you will have to be lucky always.’ Detectives are now beginning a major investigation into who was behind the bombing and how such a major breach in security occurred.’

Alexander reached for another slice of toast. ‘I guess you’ll be fairly busy today, then, son.’

‘It’s hardly going to change my life,’ Carlyle observed through a mouthful of Rice Krispies, ‘is it?’

‘Everywhere’ll be on high alert,’ his father observed.

‘You be careful, John,’ his mother chipped in.

‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I don’t think the shoplifters down Shepherd’s Bush Green are going to be any more dangerous than usual.’ Shovelling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, he pushed away from the table. ‘I’d better get going or I’ll be late for my shift.’ Getting to his feet, he grabbed the copy of Penthouse from the table and beat a hasty retreat.

The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.

What rot! Wiping his hands on the knees of his new Marks & Spencer suit, Martin Palmer let his gaze slip across his boss’s desk, from the small picture frame containing the ‘motivational’ quote to the plate of biscuits nearby. According to the clock on the wall, he had been sitting here for more than five minutes. That was the thing about the good fellows of Gower Street: even when they panicked, they panicked in slow motion.

Palmer waited patiently for his boss to look up and acknowledge his presence. The young MI5 officer could kill for a Jammie Dodger right now. Three floors below them, where Palmer had . . .