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Rose grab a pair of grey knickers from a pile of clothes sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. After a moment’s hesitation she tossed them on to the floor and fetched a clean pair from a chest of drawers in the corner, along with a sturdy-looking pearl-grey bra.
    ‘I’ve got to get going,’ she said, deftly stepping into her panties. ‘You know what it’s like – places to go, people to see.’
    ‘Sure.’ Cahill made no immediate effort to rouse himself from the bed.
    Rose fastened her bra and reached for a blouse. ‘It would be good if you could make yourself scarce.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Cahill got up and padded across the carpet. ‘I just need to take a piss.’
    When he returned from the bathroom, she was fully dressed. ‘I’m off,’ she said, coolly contemplating his still-naked form. ‘You can let yourself out.’
    ‘Just one thing,’ Cahill said quietly, standing in the doorway, blocking her exit, ‘before you go.’
    Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she sighed theatrically. ‘What is it now?’
    ‘Gerry Durkan.’
    ‘Who?’ she scowled.
    ‘Don’t try and bullshit me,’ Cahill said sharply. ‘I know he’s one of your bad boy shags.’
    The scowl grew deeper. ‘So?’
    ‘So,’ he smiled, ‘I need you to tell me where he is.’
    ‘No idea,’ she shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen Gerry for ages.’
    Stepping away from the doorway, Cahill reached down to pick up his underpants. ‘I know you’re lying, but I couldn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. You’ve got twenty-four hours to find the little wanker for me.’
    ‘How am I supposed to do that?’ she sneered. ‘He could be anywhere.’
    ‘That’s your problem,’ Cahill replied, carefully sticking one leg into the pants, wobbling slightly but just about managing not to fall over. ‘Find him, or it’ll be time for me to see if they’ve got a spare cell in Holloway – with your name on it.’

9
    Martin Palmer took a bite out of his jumbo iced finger and chewed happily. It was his second pastry in quick succession but he felt no sense of guilt. Sitting in the otherwise empty café in the middle of this desolate part of West London, it seemed to him that comfort-eating was entirely acceptable. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that his mother persisted with her ludicrous attempts at getting him to stick to a diet, he wouldn’t even have given the matter a second thought. When would the stupid cow realise that he was still a growing lad with a naturally healthy appetite? His increasing weight was a sign of rude good health. On the spot, he made a vow that the next time she tried to fob him off with a plate of fish and steamed vegetables, he would throw it back at her.
    From behind the counter, a radio played Stevie Wonder’s, ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You.’ Happily mumbling the chorus to himself, Palmer shoved the remains of the cake into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of tea, and let his gaze return to the yellowing newspaper cutting lying on the table. The news story, from
The Times
, was the total sum of the intelligence MI5 had collected on Rose Murray in the last eighteen months.
    English heiress turned IRA sympathiser given a suspended sentence
    ROSE MURRAY , daughter of an English Baron, was given a suspended six-year jail sentence at the Old Bailey yesterday after taking part in a bungled raid on her father’s London flat in an attempt to raise funds for the IRA.
    Murray and two accomplices were arrested by police in possession of a haul of Old Master paintings and a selection of other valuable artworks, after Clive Wilson, a doorman in the building, raised the alarm. Trying to make good their escape, gang member Terence Donovan attacked Healey with a hammer, causing him serious head injuries which have left him permanently disabled.
    Donovan was given a ten year sentence, while Ivor Hogan was given eighteen years. Citing Murray’s previous good character and taking account of evidence that she