by James Craig
After reheating her coffee in the office kitchen microwave, Rose walked into the small dark room and nodded at the technician sitting behind a small editing desk, who was recording the proceedings in interview room number 2 next door. From behind the 6mm acrylic two-way mirror, Rose could watch the interview unobserved. Merrett was sitting at a table, head down, scribbling in a notebook. Next to him was a laptop. He was facing a fat, pasty-faced woman with dark rings under her eyes. She wore a navy-blue cardigan over a white T-shirt, and had a thin gold chain round her neck. Her long dark hair was badly dyed, with grey showing at the roots. It looked like she was in her mid to late forties, but Rose guessed that she could be considerably younger.
The woman sat forward in her chair, playing nervously with her hands. ‘Can I have a smoke?’
Merrett finished what he was writing and looked up. ‘No.’ He pointed at the No Smoking sign on the wall, and the small red light that had just come on next to it. ‘The light,’ he explained, ‘means that this conversation is now being recorded, and we are about to begin a formal interview. I am Detective Simon Merrett, based in West End Central. Please state your name.’
The woman thought about that for a moment, while Merrett waited patiently. Rose could see from the look on his face that he was in no particular hurry.
‘Sandra,’ the woman said finally. ‘Sandra Scott.’
‘And, Sandra, you can confirm that you have declined the offer of a lawyer?’ Merrett said it softly but clearly, like it was a matter of no interest to him whatsoever.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Next door, the technician let out a small chuckle. ‘You really know how to find them,’ he remarked.
Saying nothing, Rose took a sip of her coffee and winced. After ninety seconds in the microwave, it was still too hot to drink. Jesus, woman, she thought to herself, how difficult is it to get yourself a cup of coffee at the right temperature?
On the other side of the mirror, Merrett moved quickly through his remaining preliminaries. ‘Your address is 135 Howard Road, E14 6XJ?’
‘You know it is,’ the woman said quietly. ‘That’s where you arrested me.’
‘I’ll take that as a ‘‘yes’’.’ Merrett dropped his pen on the desk and leaned back in his chair, eyeing the woman carefully. ‘Do you understand who we are?’
She frowned. ‘You’re the police.’
‘We are the people who got the police to arrest you,’ Merrett said, leaning forward. ‘This is CEOP.’
Sandra Scott looked at him blankly.
‘The Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre. Ever heard of it?’
She shook her head.
‘We protect kids from evil adults like you. We are the people who will be sending you to prison for many, many years.’
Rose smiled. Merrett liked to lay it on thick with suspects, sometimes. He joked that it was considerably less satisfying than smacking the shit out of them, but it generated less paperwork.
Scott let her eyes fall to the table. ‘I did nothing!’ she whined.
‘Oh, yes?’ Merrett hit a button on the laptop and a video started playing on the screen.
Not again, thought Rose, finally giving up on her coffee and dumping the cup in the bin.
Sandra Scott watched the images retrieved from the security camera inside the London Eye capsule while Merrett doodled on his pad. Rose closed her eyes, but those images were still playing on the inside of her eyelids. The man in the expensive suit; the tired and sullen-looking girl kneeling on the bench in the middle of the pod; the man grabbing the child by the hair; the man grinning for the camera. .
Scott watched the clip with dead eyes. Rose got the impression that she had clearly seen it before. After about five minutes, Merrett paused the video. ‘Well?’
The woman folded her arms and gave him a look intended to suggest defiance. ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’
Merrett paused, for effect, and then started laughing. ‘Sandra, for fuck’s sake — we found a dozen copies of this video burned onto DVDs in your flat. We have your emails sending it to your sick friends.’
Scott harrumphed vaguely but said nothing.
‘You work in the security room at the London Eye,’ Merrett continued, ‘and we know that, after making these copies, you erased the original recording. You are therefore an accessory to child rape. A fucking sex-offender. It’s jail for you.’
Don’t overdo it, Simon, Rose thought. So far, all they had was this video. She wasn’t at all sure what they would be able to end up charging Sandra Scott with.
‘You are going to jail for a very long time,’ Merrett repeated. ‘Maybe for the rest of your shitty little life.’
Scott thought about that for a while. ‘What do I get if I help you?’
Merrett made a face like the thought had never crossed his mind. ‘That depends. .’
For the first time, Rose thought she saw a spark of life in the woman’s eyes, as she tried to calculate the odds. ‘What do you want?’
‘Who is the man in the video?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What about the kid?’
‘Dunno.’
Merrett closed his notebook and placed the pen behind his ear. ‘Well, then, Sandra, you are fucked. You are totally fucked.’ He closed the laptop and stood up.
Sandra Scott spread her hands out on the table. ‘But I do know something.’
‘And what might that be?’ Not rushing to take the bait, Merrett unplugged the laptop and stuck it under his arm.
Scott grinned nervously. ‘I know when they’ll be coming back.’
TWELVE
On the third floor of Charing Cross police station, Joe Szyszkowski sat at his desk munching a bacon roll, making sure the brown sauce dripped on to the carpet, rather than on his jeans. He chewed slowly, while putting off writing up a report on the mugging of a Chinese tourist outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square, a report that he should have completed the day before. There was no real hurry. The clean-up rate for that type of crime was so low that the Home Office kept the numbers to themselves; in the official Recorded Crime Statistics they were included under the catch-all of ‘robbery’. The Metropolitan Police definition of mugging or ‘street crime’ was a combination of theft or attempted theft (or robbery) from the person plus assault against the person. The unlucky tourist had been hit over the head with a rolled-up newspaper and relieved of the?100 in his wallet. Sadder and wiser, he should be back in Shanghai by now; meanwhile the money itself would have immediately been spent on booze or dope; and the case was closed as far as everyone apart from the statisticians were concerned. There was no way that the sergeant was going to waste his day looking through dozens of different CCTV images in a futile attempt to identify the perpetrator. The report was a purely bureaucratic requirement — which somehow made it harder work.
Sticking the last of the roll in his mouth, Joe wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin and dropped it in the cardboard box that he used as a bin. All the waste bins in the station had been removed as part of an initiative to encourage recycling. Inspector Carlyle had responded by bringing in a couple of empty boxes from a nearby off-licence the next day — the cleaners still emptied them and everyone remained happy. Glancing over at the empty desk next to his, Joe wondered what his boss was up to. Carlyle had made himself scarce over the last few days, which presumably meant he was off chasing after the young girl he had found in the park. If he ever needed something he would call. Until then, Joe was more than happy to wait.
Letting out a loud burp, he looked around guiltily to see if anyone had heard. Happily, no one else on the floor at that time of the morning showed any indication of noticing. Joe stood up and stretched. He would make a cup of tea and then get down to his report. Definitely.
As he stepped towards the kitchen, the phone on Carlyle’s desk started to ring. Joe looked at it warily. The phone kept ringing. Eventually, Joe picked it up. ‘Inspector Carlyle’s phone. .’
‘Carlyle?’
Joe didn’t recognise the voice, but the woman sounded agitated. ‘The inspector isn’t here at the moment. I am one of his colleagues. Can I be of any assistance?’
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked suspiciously.
‘Joe Szyszkowski.’
‘And you work with Carlyle?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe, wishing now that he’d never picked the bloody thing up. ‘I’m his sergeant.’
‘Can you get a message to him?’
‘Of course,’ Joe replied testily. He was regretting that he hadn’t bought a second bacon roll.
‘It’s urgent,’ the woman hissed. ‘He’ll want to speak to me.’
‘Okay.’ Joe grabbed a pencil and a Post-it note from the desk. ‘Fire away.’
‘Tell him to call Alexa Matthews immediately.’
‘Will he know what it’s about?’ Joe asked, in his best bureaucratic tone, but the line had already gone dead.
‘You can trust Joe.’
‘Why should I trust him? I sure as shit don’t trust you.’
Carlyle glanced at Joe and grinned. ‘Alexa is one of my favourite ex-colleagues.’
Joe Szyszkowski took a sip of his London Pride and said nothing.
Alexa Matthews didn’t smile. She’d emptied her umpteenth double gin and tonic and wanted another. And also a smoke. ‘Carlyle always was an annoying little shit,’ she observed grimly, to no one in particular.
The three police officers were sitting in the snug bar of the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street, north of Soho. The Fitzroy was famous for having been a haunt of intellectuals like Dylan Thomas and George Orwell in the early to mid twentieth century. Now it was a generic, brewery-owned public house with more than its fair share of tourists and all the atmosphere of a bus station.
In short, it was a perfect location for their present rendezvous.
Matthews thrust her empty glass at the sergeant. ‘Get me another drink, will ya?’
Reluctantly, Joe took the glass and stood up. He shot Carlyle a reproachful look and headed for the bar without enquiring if he, too, wanted a refill.
‘Make it a double,’ Matthews called to Joe’s retreating back.
He pretended not to hear.
She turned to Carlyle. ‘What did you bring him here for?’
Carlyle finished his Jameson, and felt the whiskey’s warmth spread through his stomach. Hopefully Joe would do the decent thing and bring him another. ‘I need the help,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it all on my own.’
‘I’m not sure I want him to know about this business.’
‘Alexa,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘Joe works with me. I’ve known him a long time. I came to you because I wanted to sort out the mess in SO14.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘I will do that — with Joe’s help. And, of course, with your help as well.’
Matthews gave him a look. They both knew that to be a very ambitious statement.
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’
Joe reappeared from behind a gaggle of students and carefully placed the fresh drinks on the table. Carlyle grabbed the Jameson gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Joe sat down on a stool and waited expectantly.
‘Okay, okay.’ Matthews took a swig of her gin. ‘Things have recently gone to shit in a big way.’
When Matthews had finished explaining about her run-in with Tommy Dolan and her subsequent carpeting by Charlie Adam, she drained the rest of her gin.
Carlyle glanced at Joe, but neither man said anything.
‘So. .’ Matthews said, staring into her glass, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
What am I going to do about it? Carlyle asked himself.
‘I’m worried that they’ll kill me next time,’ Matthews continued, ‘or else hurt Heather.’
For the first time she seemed the worse for drink and Carlyle wondered how much she’d had before arriving at the Fitzroy. ‘Nothing like that’s going to happen,’ he said soothingly. ‘Adam might be a bit of a knob, but he’s not going to do anything that stupid.’
‘He’s just a little shit,’ Matthews mumbled. ‘Anyway, it’s not him I’m worried about.’
‘Dolan,’ said Joe quietly.
‘Exactly,’ said Matthews, waving her empty glass at him. ‘Tommy fucking Dolan. Cunt-in-Chief.’
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ said Carlyle, taking the glass out of her hand and placing it carefully on the table. ‘I remember Dolan from my time in the Unit. He’s just a spiv who wants a quiet life. I’m surprised he had you beaten up, but he won’t go any further than that.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Matthews sat back, closed her eyes and sighed deeply. ‘There’s too much money involved. People have died already.’
Carlyle gave her a quizzical look. ‘What?’
‘You know how it is in SO14. Everyone works for Dolan. Joe Dalton worked for him.’
Joe made a so what? face. ‘The guy in the taxi? That was a clear suicide, no doubt at all.’
Matthews opened her eyes and started rubbing at her temples. ‘Christ!’ She turned to Carlyle. ‘Does this one ever catch any crooks? Why did Joe Dalton feel the need to rip his own head off? That is the bloody question.’
‘Which we have already asked ourselves,’ Carlyle said evenly. He didn’t like being talked down to by Alexa Matthews, but he needed her help now, so he would let it slide.
‘But not yet answered,’ Matthews shot back at him.
‘No,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘Dolan runs an investment company called United 14,’ Matthews said wearily. ‘It takes money from their various different enterprises, in order to provide a pension ‘‘top-up’’ for the boys.’
‘There’s nothing new in that,’ Carlyle remarked.
‘No, but the economy is currently in the shit. It has been harder and harder for them to make a decent return.’
‘Markets go down, they go up,’ Carlyle said airily.
‘Dolan can’t sit around and wait. His glory days at SO14 may be coming to an end.’
‘Why?’ Joe asked.
‘There is talk of bringing in another 150 armed protection officers to cut back on overtime. That means more than thirty grand a year to the likes of Dolan.’
Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Bummer.’
‘Dolan is steaming. He blames Princess Cheyenne.’
Joe and Carlyle exchanged quizzical looks. ‘Who?’ they asked in unison.
‘The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Colchester,’ Matthews sneered. ‘She’s something like tenth or eleventh in line to the throne. She’s at some crappy northern university studying the history of modern art, or some useless pile of wank like that. The annual protection bill for her alone is about four hundred grand.’
‘A bargain,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.
‘That’s nothing,’ Matthews went on. ‘The little genius now wants to go and study in America. That means two officers providing twenty-four-hour cover and a bill that could easily top a million. The papers are on to it and the top brass are running scared. They hope that if they can just get the overtime bill down, no one will notice that the overall bill keeps going up. The Commissioner has said the government already needs to find another twenty million a year to cover all the costs.’
‘Royalty doesn’t do belt-tightening,’ Carlyle commented. ‘Cuts, like taxes, are for the little people — people like us. Buckingham Palace has always refused to allow any cuts. They argue that the police and the state have a duty to protect both the Queen and the line of succession.’
Joe yawned, as he often did when his boss got on his soapbox. ‘Coming back to Dolan,’ he interjected.
‘Dolan has had to diversify.’
‘Into what?’ Joe asked.
‘Into things that some people can’t live with,’ Matthews said cryptically.
‘Be more specific,’ Carlyle demanded.
Matthews tried to stand up, wobbled, and fell
back into her seat. ‘That’s all I’m going to say until I get myself out of there.’
Carlyle changed tack. ‘Is Adam himself in on it?’
‘He turns a blind eye. Can you get me out of there?’
‘I’ll speak to my boss,’ Carlyle said. ‘Why are you telling me all this now?’
‘Because, annoying little shit though you are, you’re my best bet for getting out of this whole mess and keeping my job.’ This time Matthews made it successfully to her feet.
Carlyle tried one last time. ‘What do they do?’
‘Get me out and I’ll give you more. Otherwise, that’s your lot for now.’
‘Dalton was in on it?’ Joe persisted.
‘Dalton couldn’t take it any more. He couldn’t hack it. He was a bit lame that way.’ She brushed past Carlyle, and paused while trying to work out a path through the throng towards the door. ‘Have you seen Allcock yet?’
‘Who?’
‘Dalton’s girlfriend.’
Carlyle was embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t got round to that yet. ‘Not yet.’
Matthews gave him a crooked grin as she pushed her way past another group of drinkers. ‘Better get on with it then, hadn’t you?’
‘Here you go.’
Helen tossed the brochure on to his lap and flopped down on the sofa.
‘I thought it might bring back lots of happy memories,’ she said with a smirk, picking up the remote control and switching on the television.
Carlyle looked down at the Buckingham Palace: Official Souvenir Guide, and made a face. ‘Thanks a lot. When did you get that?’
‘When we went on the tour there last year,’ Helen said, flicking rapidly through a succession of channels in search of her nightly fix of audiovisual dross. ‘Alice wanted it for a school project she had to do.’
Carlyle turned the thin volume over in his hands, looking for the price. ‘How much did it cost?’
Helen shrugged. ‘Dunno. . eight quid, something like that.’
‘So,’ Carlyle felt a wave of parsimony wash over him, ‘all in all, with the tickets and everything, the whole visit cost you what — fifty quid?’