by James Craig
Rose turned away from the arrivals gate and took a few steps towards the only restaurant in the terminal that was still open. ‘Remember,’ she said quietly into the microphone boom, ‘let her come all the way through. She’s bound to be picked up. We want both of them.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Haddon teased.
She turned back to the arrivals gate. Passengers had started appearing, and Rose felt her heartbeat accelerate till she was conscious of the pulse in her neck. She had a sudden need to pee and grimaced — that would just have to wait.
‘She’s here.’
Rose spotted the girl immediately among the grey morass of business travellers. Her name was Yulia Boyko. Looking older than thirteen, but not by much, she was travelling on a fake Italian passport in the name of Camilla Gaggioli. Left Simferopol at 7 a.m. this morning, travelling to Milan and on to Basel before catching the SwissAir flight into City.
Welcome to the East End of London, thought the CEOP officer. You think you’re coming here to work as an au pair and study English. She shook her head sadly. Don’t they all. .
Yulia was pretty, if tired-looking and a little thin. Moving slowly, she tried to look like she knew where she was going and who she would be meeting. Passing barely five feet in front of Rose, she walked tentatively to the front entrance of the terminal building and looked out into the grubby darkness. Seeing nothing to comfort her, the girl turned and headed back in Rose’s direction. Rose wanted to reach out and stop the girl, and give her a hug. But she knew that she couldn’t do that now; she couldn’t do that ever. What was she going to give her? A one-way ticket back to the Ukraine, and to God knows what problems back home. Just make her someone else’s problem. That was all that mattered.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man in his twenties walk up to the girl. He had curly black hair, and wore a dark suit with a pale blue shirt open at the neck.
‘He’s here.’ Rose watched as he took Yulia Boyko by the arm, leaning towards her to say something. The girl nodded.
‘Let’s go.’
Haddon walked casually over to join Rose. Together they watched the man validate his parking ticket and lead the girl out of the terminal.
‘He’s heading for the short-stay car park. We are fifteen feet behind him. We will be there in two minutes.’
A reassuring voice came out of the darkness: ‘Understood.’
Rose winced as they stepped outside into a sharp wind. She zipped up her parka as she moved forward. Looking up, she realised that there was no one else on the pathway between them and their quarry. For no apparent reason, the man looked round and stared directly at them. Rose fought to avoid making eye-contact. Haddon quickly slipped his hand into hers. ‘Keep walking,’ he said quietly, a casual grin plastered over his face. ‘If we walk past them it’s not a problem.’
Clasping her fingers in his, she felt the ring on his wedding finger. Embarrassed, she tried to remember the last time she had held the hand of anyone other than her daughter. The man turned away from them and took the girl by the arm. Haddon let Rose’s hand drop as he whispered into his microphone. ‘Almost there. .’
‘We have you covered. We will follow your lead.’
Reaching the car park, the man ducked in between two vehicles, and the girl followed. Just then, Haddon broke into a jog. Falling in step behind him, Rose realised that he had unholstered his Glock 17. Suddenly she felt extremely vulnerable. They slipped behind a green Toyota and watched the man walk across the car park, the girl in tow, towards a large black BMW SUV parked next to the perimeter fence. The scene was illuminated by floodlights from the sugar refinery next door. Rose peered into the shadows. Where were those Armed Response guys?
‘It’s the BMW,’ Haddon hissed.
‘Got it.’
As Rose and Haddon began to walk across the car park, they heard the beep of the SUV’s doors unlocking. The young man hustled the girl into the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. Walking around the front of the car, he opened the driver’s door and slipped inside. The two officers were about five yards away when they heard the engine purr into life and the BMW started edging out of its parking space. Without waiting for Haddon, Rose ran up to the back and hammered on the rear door. ‘Hey!’
The brake-lights came on and the BMW stopped.
‘Watch where you’re going!’ Rose shouted into the wind. Haddon stepped round behind her, keeping on the driver’s blind side.
‘Moving in. .’
The driver rolled down the window and craned his neck to look back at Rose.
She gave him a pained expression. ‘You could have run me over here!’
‘Get out of the way,’ he snarled. The BMW started rolling backwards again.
Rose stepped out of its path just in time to see one of the Armed Response Unit step up to the driver’s door and stick the barrel of his G36 through the window. ‘Turn the engine off NOW!’
Another armed officer appeared on the passenger side.
The driver did a double-take and slowly did as he was told.
The tension drained out of the scene.
‘Step out of the vehicle.’
Slowly, the young man got out of the car and allowed himself to be placed face-down on the tarmac and cuffed.
Yulia Boyko sat silently in the passenger seat, tears rolling down her face.
Rose smiled at Haddon, who looked relieved to be reholstering his Glock. ‘Thanks.’
‘Our pleasure.’ He smiled weakly. ‘It’s nice when it all works.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Rose gestured towards the SUV. ‘I’ll get these two back to CEOP.’
‘Let me know how it goes.’
‘Will do.’ But she was talking to the back of his head. Haddon was already heading back to the terminal, this messy little scene in the airport car park no longer his problem.
‘Sit down, please.’
Keeping his gaze focused on a spot somewhere outside the window, Carlyle took the spare chair in front of Simpson’s desk and waited to be introduced to the fat, thirty-something man with the receding hairline sitting next to him.
Tapping at the keys on her mobile, Simpson studiously ignored them both.
After ten or so seconds had crept past, the man let out a large sigh and turned to introduce himself. ‘Ambrose Watson.’
Carlyle stared at the outstretched hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, shook it limply.
‘IIC,’ Watson explained. Loosening his tie, he wiped a bead of sweat from his pink brow.
Carlyle grunted noncommittally. In the wake of Alexa Matthews and her girlfriend getting barbecued, it was no surprise that he’d been called in for a chat with Internal Investigations Command.
Still not looking up, Simpson cursed under her breath as she struggled to complete her text message.
Watson glanced at his watch and sighed again. ‘I’m looking into the Matthews killing,’ he remarked, to no one in particular, ‘and I was wondering where the inspector was on the night in question?’
Berk, Carlyle thought. Why would I ever do anything to Matthews? He tried to look nonplussed. ‘I was at home.’
Watson coughed. ‘Alone?’
Simpson finally completed her message and hit the send button. ‘Ambrose,’ she said, suddenly looking up, ‘for goodness’ sake, we don’t have time for this nonsense.’
Carlyle, taken aback by this evidence of his boss’s clear support, suppressed a smirk and said nothing. Indeed, he felt a small stab of affection for the commander that, until recently, he wouldn’t have thought possible.
‘But,’ Ambrose huffed, going even pinker in the face, ‘I have to-’
‘You have to deal with a difficult situation,’ Simpson cut him off, ‘and we understand that. The reason why we are all here is not because the inspector might be a suspect,’ she gave Carlyle the briefest of looks, ‘but because he might be able to assist you in getting to the bottom of this.’ She placed her mobile carefully on the desk. ‘D
on’t burn your bridges before you’ve even started.’
Failing to hide his annoyance, Watson dropped his eyes to his lap.
‘It’s not like the IIC are ever particularly popular.’ Simpson grinned.
Fuck me, Carlyle thought, she’s even taking the piss. Seeing the glint in her eye, he wondered if she might have found a boyfriend while her old man was inside. That might explain her good mood.
Watson started chewing his lower lip, and Carlyle almost felt sorry for him. The reality was that he didn’t really have any particular views of the Internal Affairs guys. He took coppers — from traffic cops to the commissioner himself — like he took criminals: in other words, just as he found them. One of the biggest mistakes you could make was to mark someone’s card just because of their job. For Carlyle, it was a basic fact of life that any group of individuals, whether collected together by profession, religion or, rather more importantly, allegiance to a particular football team, would provide a mixed bunch: good, bad and indifferent. ‘All things are relative,’ his father would always say, ‘and all people, too.’ Alexander Carlyle had arrived in London from Glasgow in the 1950s, escaping de-industrialisation and relentless economic decline at home. Pragmatic to the core, he had taken a variety of jobs to keep the family unit together. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ he would also tell his son over the dinner-table, ‘and don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.’ It was sound advice that the inspector had often taken to heart. That, as much as anything else, made him happy to be his father’s son.
Watson hadn’t made a great first impression, but Carlyle realised that he had to give him a chance to redeem himself. ‘This is down to Dolan,’ he declared evenly. ‘There have now been two violent deaths in SO14, and Tommy Dolan is the connection between them.’
‘But PC Dalton was suicide,’ Watson argued.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but why did he kill himself? Dolan was involved in something that Dalton couldn’t stomach being caught up in any longer.’
Watson made a face like he was constipated. ‘So he decapitated himself with some nylon rope?’
‘I think. .’ Carlyle looked at Simpson who gave a slight nod, signalling that he should proceed, ‘that Dolan is running some kind of prostitution service. Working with various colleagues, he is providing a range of girls to top-end clients. He may even be using some of the rooms at Buckingham Palace for such entertaining. The income goes into an investment company called United 14, which is a secret pension fund for Tommy himself and his cronies.’
Watson sat in silence for some moments, looking like a hungry man who had missed his lunch. ‘Do you,’ he said finally, his voice weak, ‘have any. . evidence?’
‘Nothing that we are in a position to share at this time,’ Carlyle said quickly, while avoiding Simpson’s gaze.
Relieved that this was just a kite-flying exercise, Watson perked up a bit. ‘How could Dolan have done all this?’ he asked.
‘He’s been there a long time.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘He knows everybody who works in the Palace, and knows everything that goes on there. He has an eye for a fast buck. Also he’s no fool.’
‘But still,’ Watson pushed back, ‘what about his commanding officer? Surely this type of thing couldn’t be going on behind his back.’
‘Charlie Adam is a fool,’ Carlyle said. ‘I don’t think he’s involved but, whether he knows about it or not, I don’t think he could actually do anything to stop it.’
‘Have you spoken to Dolan?’
‘He’s hiding behind his union rep,’ Carlyle said, ‘and saying nothing. I don’t suppose he personally torched Matthews and her girlfriend. Someone else will have done the dirty work.’
How had this meeting gone so badly wrong? Watson wondered. He shifted in his seat, keen to get out of the room.
‘How do you suggest we proceed?’ Simpson said swiftly, before he could bolt.
Carlyle nodded at the unhappy fat man. ‘Ambrose needs to speak to Dolan. Make it known to him that he’s being investigated. That will help undermine any union investigation into Joe and me.’
‘But. .’
Carlyle stood up and gave Watson a comforting pat on the shoulder. ‘Look into United 14. Then give me a call when you’ve got something. But keep it discreet. I don’t want it known that we’re working together.’
‘We are?’ Watson looked at Simpson pleadingly. All he got in return was a smile.
‘Keep that to yourself,’ Carlyle joked. ‘I have enough image problems as it is without people knowing that I’m working alongside internal affairs.’
‘What will you be up to now?’ Watson asked wearily, ready to play along in order to get this conversation over with.
Carlyle was already at the door. ‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ he said over his shoulder, grinning at the back of the IIC man’s head. ‘Don’t forget to keep me in the loop.’
Five minutes after leaving Simpson and Watson, Carlyle crossed Praed Street and made his way under the arch leading to the old section of St Mary’s Hospital. Letting his mind wander, the inspector contemplated the three things he knew about St Mary’s. Charles Romley Alder Wright, an English chemist, first synthesised heroin there in 1874; Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin there in 1928; and, in 1954, Elvis Costello was born there. Two of those three things he felt very grateful for; as another singer once said, two out of three ain’t bad.
Stepping inside the main hospital building, however, he immediately felt oppressed by the sense of gloom and despair that he always associated with hospitals: patients and family members shuffling about as if they had the world on their shoulders, which they probably had; or members of staff rushing around as if they were trying to juggle impossible workloads, which they probably were.
Being both squeamish and morbid, it took a lot to get the inspector inside one of these places. Today, driven by more than a little guilt, he took the elevator to the third floor, where Warren Shen was enjoying the delights of a small private room, paid for by the Police Federation.
When he arrived at Shen’s door, Carlyle was pleased to see the superintendent propped up in bed, talking happily to a petite dark woman who was sitting beside the bed. Appearing tired and drawn, she looked far more in need of a lie-down than Shen himself. Or, at least, she would have done if it wasn’t for the various tubes coming out of Shen’s arm, and the large swathes of bandages visible under his pyjama jacket.
As Carlyle gave a gentle knock on the door, the woman whispered something in Shen’s ear, then shuffled out of the room without acknowledging Carlyle’s presence.
Shen smiled weakly. ‘John,’ he croaked, ‘come in.’
Carlyle took the vacated seat, and watched the woman give him another dirty look before stalking down the corridor. He turned to Shen. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal. My wife isn’t very fond of policemen at the moment.’
Carlyle unbuttoned his jacket. ‘That’s understandable.’
Shen slowly lifted a plastic mug from his bedside table and sucked some water through a straw. ‘Yes, it is.’ His gaze darkened. ‘I think Maria’s going through some form of post-traumatic stress about what happened. Thank God for her mother — and that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say — looking after the kids.’
‘Mm. .’ Carlyle didn’t know what else to say.
‘She wants me to quit.’
‘The mother-in-law?’
‘No.’ Shen half-laughed, half-coughed. ‘Well maybe her, too, but Maria is hassling me to pack it in.’
Carlyle watched an attractive young nurse walk past the door. ‘Will you?’
‘No, of course not. What else could I do? I could get some kind of pension but it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to get the kids through university, assuming that they want to go. Besides, I’m too young. Anyway, I’ve told her that I’m not likely to run into Ihor Chepoyak again, so what’s the problem?’
Carlyle tho
ught about the nurse — very blonde, very pretty. ‘I’m sorry. .’
‘Ah!’ Shen held up a hand. ‘These things happen. It was my own fault. Maria knows that. I think that’s why she’s so freaked about the whole thing.’
‘What about your friend Ihor?’ Carlyle asked.
Shen let out a long breath. ‘I would assume he’d made it back to Kiev about the time I was coming out of surgery. He’ll never be caught.’
‘No.’
‘But look on the bright side. That probably means he’ll eventually end up face-down in a muddy field somewhere minus the back of his head.’ Shen took another sip of water. ‘At least, that’s what I hope happens to the bastard.’
‘And what’s happening on your patch?’
Shen grimaced. ‘Ah, well, it’s a good time to be off sick. That will be a mess for a while. Lots of arguments, lots of violence until the next alpha male scumbag emerges, just like Ihor did a few years ago.’
‘And the girl. . Olga?’
‘No idea.’ Shen yawned. ‘Look, John, thanks for coming, but Maria will be back in a minute and-’
‘No problem.’ Carlyle stood up. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to ask Shen why one of Falkirk’s clients had his phone number written on the back of a ticket for the London Eye. After all, that same phone number had got Simon Merrett killed. He looked down at Shen happily playing the victim in his hospital bed. What were the chances of getting a straight answer? The inspector turned to the door. ‘See you later. And you let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Thanks. Let me know how you get on with the investigation.’
‘I will.’ As the words came out, Carlyle was already halfway through the door, happy to avoid another encounter with the formidable-looking Mrs Shen.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there He put the man whom He had formed.’
Sitting on the otherwise empty terrace of the Grand Restaurant, located within the Central Botanical Gardens of the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Ihor Chepoyak drank deeply from his bottle of Lvivske Premium beer and gazed north, past the domes of the Mikhailovsky Cathedral, towards the city. Although the cold wind made his eyes water, Ihor had no desire to go inside. It was good to be home.