What Dies Inside: An Inspector Carlyle Novella by Craig James

Author:Craig, James [Craig, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781472107435
Publisher: Constable & Robinson
Published: 2013-06-05T16:00:00+00:00

10

Cleaning out Martin Palmer’s wallet as well as his pockets gleaned Durkan the princely sum of ten pounds and eighteen pence. Ten fucking quid! He shook his head angrily. That would barely get you to Birmingham. In order to make good his escape, the Irishman knew that he would need considerably more funds than that. Sadly, Rose was no use; since she had been disowned by her family, she was even more skint than he was himself. Much as he appreciated her willingness to travel the path less trodden – and her enthusiasm in bed – he found himself wondering if she might not have been a little cannier when it came to keeping her father onside and the funds flowing.

Unable to rely on the largesse of the ruling classes, Durkan realised that he would have to make a surreptitious return to Nelson Avenue to recover the emergency cash he had carefully stashed in the fireplace of his room. After a couple of quick glasses of Powers in the nearby Mowlam Arms, he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his green woollen hat (à la Mike Nesmith in the Monkees), shoved his hands in his pockets and set off down the street. Walking past number 179, he turned the corner into Pearse Road, confident that the place was no longer under surveillance. Just to be on the safe side, he walked on, taking another right into Colbert Road, running parallel to Nelson Avenue with the same three-storey Victorian terraces on either side of the road. Counting down the houses, he came to the property that should back onto Hilda Blair’s house. The lights were on and he could see the flicker of a television screen from the living room on the ground floor. No good. Moving on, Durkan turned his attention to the property next door, which was shrouded in darkness. Skipping through the gate and up the path, he hardly broke his stride as he walked up to the front door and smashed the small pane of glass next to the lock with the walnut grip of the Browning that he had taken from Palmer. A second blow cleared enough of a hole for him to stick a hand inside and unlock the door. Shoving the semiautomatic into the back of his jeans, he slipped inside, closing the door behind him before moving towards the back of the house, heading for the garden.

In the gloom, he took a moment to get his bearings. Hilda Blair’s garden, with its tiny, dilapidated greenhouse, was to his right, where it should be. Durkan took a deep breath. It was too late to worry about anyone seeing him now. Scrambling over the fence, he landed in the flowerbed of 181 and quickly vaulted over the adjoining wall, on to the muddy lawn of 179. In the distance, a dog started barking. No one, however, seemed to be taking any notice of the Brighton bomber who was running around their back gardens. Regaining his breath, he stepped over to the back door of the house, which opened into the kitchen.

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