Free What Dies Inside by James Craig

you got us to run on Rose Murray’s phone?’
    ‘No, no, no,’ Palmer wagged a finger at his colleague, ‘not
illegal
.’
    Flyte looked confused. ‘So you got a warrant then?’
    Gritting his teeth, Palmer resisted the temptation to reach across and throttle the pedantic little shit. He was a spy, for God’s sake! Working on the streets; keeping them safe for ordinary, law-abiding citizens. The day he had to go and beg a judge to be allowed to listen to some damn terrorist bitch’s phone calls was the day that the job ceased to be worth a fig. ‘What have you got?’
    ‘Durkan called Murray about an hour ago,’ said Flyte, edging away from his colleague. ‘They arranged to meet up.’ He pointed at the bit of paper. ‘That’s the time and the place.’
    ‘OK, good.’ Palmer squinted at Flyte’s scribble. ‘The meeting – it’s going to be in a pub?’
    ‘An
Irish
pub,’ Flyte explained. ‘The McDermott Arms in Kilburn. Indian territory.’
    ‘Indian territory? But I thought you just said it was an Irish pub.’
    ‘Yes,’ Flyte nodded. ‘It might as well be in the Bogside.’
    Bemusement turned to genuine annoyance as Palmer realised that he had not the foggiest idea what the little runt was talking about.
    ‘The Bogside,’ Flyte explained, sensing his colleague’s confusion. ‘The Catholic part of Derry.’
    ‘Londonderry,’ Palmer corrected him.
    ‘Yes.
London
derry. Where they had Bloody Sunday and all that.’
    ‘Tsk.’ At the best of times, Palmer found history of any description boring.
Irish
history was off-the-scale boring. Stupid buggers killing each other over stuff that might – or might not – have happened five hundred years ago. His contempt for them was infinite.
    ‘The point is that the neighbourhood is more or less a no-go area for the police and the security services.’ Flyte shot Palmer a knowing look. ‘Just like the rather unsavoury part of Kilburn in which the McDermott Arms resides.’
    ‘Rubbish!’ Palmer waved a dismissive hand across the table. He was about to mention that he had been in the McDermott Arms himself, and alone at that, but immediately thought better of it. ‘This is London, my dear fellow. There
are
no “no-go” areas here.’ Grabbing the scrap of paper, he stuffed it in his pocket, just as the kitchen door opened and the cook appeared, carrying his breakfast. Tucking a napkin under his chin, he turned to Flyte. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will deal with this in due course.’ As the heaving plate was placed in front of him, he sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘In the meantime, I have to attend to the rather more pressing matter of my food.’

13
    Oh fuck.
Carlyle walked through the doors of Shepherd’s Bush police station to be confronted by the leering face of Jamie Donaldson.
    ‘I hear you’ve been shagging Sandra Wollard,’ he said in a loud voice, eliciting sniggers from a couple of secretaries squeezing past him in the corridor.
    The constable took a deep breath and tried to smile. It was already becoming old news around the station and Carlyle knew that if he didn’t rise to the bait the ribbing would die away more quickly.
    ‘You little wanker,’ Donaldson hissed, not without feeling. ‘I had twenty quid on Donne to get in there first. He was supposed to be odds on.’
    Donne?
Carlyle chuckled.
No wonder he was so pissed off, stuck outside guarding 179 Nelson Avenue when he expected to be inside getting his end away.
    ‘What’s so bloody funny?’ Donaldson asked. He sounded genuinely annoyed. Then again, twenty quid was the equivalent of half a week’s holiday in Spain.
    ‘Nothing, nothing. How was your holiday? Looks like you got a good tan.’
    The sergeant put a hand to his chin and scowled. His red face looked like it had melted and then reset. ‘Overdid it a bit on the first day.’
    ‘Mm. But the family enjoyed it, did they?’
    ‘Wife moaned non-stop,’ Donaldson groaned. ‘So did the bloody kids. They