by James Craig
‘Thank you.’ Bell bowed slightly. ‘We also do our own original research, looking into the effects of military service on the health and wellbeing of personnel when they leave the military and take up civilian careers.’
‘Or not,’ Carlyle interrupted.
‘Or not.’ Bell’s smile faded even further. ‘Civilian careers are hard enough to find at the moment, even for civilians.’
‘Adrian Gasparino,’ said Carlyle, ‘seems to have fallen through the net very quickly.’
‘It doesn’t take long,’ said Umar.
Carlyle glared at him to shut up. He didn’t schlep all the way out to Limehouse to listen to the thoughts of his bloody sergeant.
‘Soldiers, sailors, airmen and -women are the same as everyone else,’ Bell went on. ‘They fall victim to homelessness for various prosaic reasons ranging from psychological disorders to alcohol and drug abuse or family breakdown. Once you are on the street, however, for whatever reason, it is hard to get back to something approximating what we might think of as a “normal” life.’
‘Very true,’ Umar nodded.
‘Aside from the cold and hunger,’ Bell continued, ‘violence is commonplace. Those on the streets are either prey or predators.’
Spare me the homilies, the inspector thought wearily.
‘We are no longer honouring the military covenant,’ Umar said solemnly.
The what? Carlyle struggled to ignore an overwhelming desire to give his man a firm slap.
Sensing the inspector’s confusion, Bell told him how, in the nineteenth century, the government had pledged to support and provide care for all service personnel in return for the sacrifices they made for their country.
‘There are many,’ Umar chipped in, ‘amongst the media, senior military figures and politicians, who feel that the Ministry of Defence has abandoned these people.’
‘Yes,’ Bell nodded. ‘Recently, Edgar Carlton himself spoke out about the covenant in the House of Commons, stating that it was an unbreakable common bond of identity, loyalty and responsibility, which has sustained the Army throughout its history.’
That doesn’t stop him from doing fuck all about repairing it, Carlyle reflected. His mobile started buzzing in his pocket. Pulling it out, he checked that it wasn’t his wife before rejecting the call. The screen told him that he had six missed calls. Shrugging, he dropped the phone back into his pocket.
‘The outlook is bleak,’ Bell sighed. ‘Poverty is on the rise, which means more homelessness, which means more homeless veterans. The government must act. No veteran in our country should be forgotten or lost.’
‘Adrian Gasparino was forgotten,’ Carlyle said flatly. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
Bell reached inside his jacket and pulled out a single sheet of white A4 paper. Unfolding it, he handed it over to Carlyle. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ Squinting at the paper, Carlyle realized that he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Fortunately, he was quickly able to locate them in the breast pocket of his jacket. Slipping them on, he glanced down the list. Gasparino’s military history was typed out in chronological order, along with his age, home address and National Insurance number; it even had the registration number of his car, a ten-year-old Nissan. Scribbled at the bottom were details of his next of kin, along with the names of his commanding officers and a couple of comrades.
Nothing, however, that would give any insight into who killed him, or why.
Carlyle nodded at Bell. ‘Thank you for this.’ He passed the sheet to Umar before getting to his feet. ‘If there’s anything else that comes to mind that might be of use, please let my sergeant know.’
‘Of course,’ said Bell, also getting to his feet. The two men shook hands. ‘Good luck with your investigation, Inspector.’
‘I’m sure we’ll sort it out.’ Carlyle smiled grimly. ‘But you can be sure that there won’t be any happy ending.’
‘No.’ Bell stared at his shoes. ‘Quite.’
Carlyle gestured at the sheet of paper in Umar’s hand. ‘If you speak to some of the people on there, I will catch up with you later.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Umar, slowly getting up.
Bell gestured to the door. ‘Let me see you out.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Feeling rather glum, Carlyle sat between Helen and Alice in Terminal 4 at Heathrow, waiting for the Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca to be called. His wife and daughter were going on the cheapest tickets available, which meant a 24-hour stop-off in Morocco before boarding a flight to Monrovia Roberts International Airport the next day. Not a happy flier, the inspector was already worrying about making the journey himself in a week from now.
He shifted in his seat, unable to shake the sickly feeling in his stomach. This trip hadn’t seemed the greatest of ideas at the outset, and now that they were actually about to depart, it seemed a whole lot worse. He felt bad about not going with them. It dawned on him that this would be the first time ever that he had been away from his daughter for more than a couple of nights; and even then she had only been in bloody Brighton with her grandma. Part of this whole thing was, he knew, about Alice growing up, which was important but still kind of sad.
‘You’ll let me know when you get there?’
‘Yes,’ said Helen, the exasperation clear in her voice. She didn’t look up from her copy of the West Africa Travel Guide. ‘You’ve asked me that a dozen times already. Of course I’ll text you when we arrive.’
Alice flicked through a pile of newspaper articles that she had printed off the internet. In the margins, she had scribbled copious notes in a surprisingly neat hand.
Carlyle got out of his seat and kissed her on the head. ‘You’ve done a lot of research on this.’
‘I’ve got to do a report for the class at school,’ Alice explained, waving him away. ‘That was the deal when the Headmaster allowed me to come.’
‘Good idea.’
Alice tapped the papers on her lap with her index finger. ‘Basically, I’ve done it already, downloading stuff from the net. I’ll add in some local colour when I get back.’
‘Isn’t that cheating?’
Now it was Alice’s turn to frown. ‘Cheating what?’
Good point, Carlyle mused.
‘After all,’ she said primly, ‘I’ve got to put the trip into some kind of context.’
‘Er, I suppose so.’
‘Did you know,’ she said cheerily, ‘that around a quarter of a million people were killed in Liberia’s civil war?’
Carlyle’s stomach took another lurch downwards.
‘Thousands more fled the fighting. The war left the country ruined.’
‘Which is why Avalon is there in the first place,’ Helen pointed out tartly. ‘This is what I do for a living, after all.’
‘There are weapons all over the place, but no mains electricity and running water,’ Alice went on. ‘Corruption is rife and unemployment and illiteracy are endemic. Life expectancy is just fifty-nine for men and sixty-one for women.’
‘Sounds like Tower Hamlets.’ Carlyle’s feeble attempt at humour got him a dirty look from his wife.
‘The United Nations,’ Alice continued, reading from her notes, ‘has fifteen thousand soldiers there for its peacekeeping operation.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Carlyle seriously wondered if he should grab their passports and leg it back into the city.
‘People there speak English and twenty-nine African languages belonging to the . . . Mande, Kwa or Mel linguistic groups.’
‘Is George Weah still around?’ Carlyle asked. He knew that the former AC Milan star came from Liberia and had run for President a few years earlier. That really is the definition of a fucked country, he thought to himself, when your best hope is a former footballer.
Alice consulted her notes. ‘He’s the leader of the opposition. The President is a woman called Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, known as the “Iron Lady”.’
Where have I heard that before? Ca
rlyle wondered.
Helen elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Time to go.’
Carlyle looked up at the screen above his head. Flight 801 would be boarding in just over forty-five minutes. With a heavy heart, he walked them to Passport Control.
Heading back to the tube, he got a call.
‘Yes?’
‘John, it’s Julie Crisp.’ The inspector sounded more than pissed off.
Shit, he’d forgotten all about the Docklands drugs bust.
‘Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?’
‘What calls?’ Carlyle said guiltily, knowing that his track record in this area was far from the best.
Crisp let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last four days. There were no fucking drugs in that house you sent us to.’
‘Ah.’
‘All we got were a couple of joints that some of the squatters were smoking at the time, and half a gram of speed. Not a lot for a police operation that cost the thick end of ten grand in overtime.’
‘No.’
‘So what am I going to tell my boss?’ Crisp demanded
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘It was a solid tip,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Fuck!’
‘I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t mean to drop you in it.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said, calming down a little. ‘There was evidence that stuff had been stored in the attic, but the place had been cleaned out before we got there.’
A thought danced across Carlyle’s brain. ‘Let me talk to my source,’ he said, ‘and see what he has to say for himself.’
‘Okay. But I could really do with something to help me out of this hole.’
Carlyle adopted his most reassuring tone. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you asap.’ Ending the call, he jumped onto a downward escalator and descended into the bowels of the underground network.
‘Hi, Harry. How’s it going?’
‘Fine. You?’ Sticking his copy of the Daily Telegraph under his arm, Harry Ripley held open the front door of Winter Garden House to let Luke Patten step inside. Short, bald and chronically overweight, Luke had joined the Royal Mail around the time that Harry had left it. Working out of the Mount Pleasant sorting office near King’s Cross, he had been delivering the post to this part of Covent Garden for more than fifteen years. He waved the fat packet of letters that he held in his left hand. ‘Got a lot this morning,’ he said, slipping off the red rubber band that had been holding them together. ‘Don’t think I’ve got anything for you, though.’ Letting the elastic band fall to the entrance-hall floor, he walked on.
Harry grunted. Letting the door swing shut, he bent down and picked up the rubber band before slowly straightening himself up and shuffling towards the lift, scowling at the back of the postman’s head. As far as Harry was concerned, Patten typified the way that the postal service had gone downhill. The pensioner was always collecting other people’s post that had been incorrectly put through his letterbox. Muttering under his breath, he would take it to a different flat in the building or even to a completely different address down the street. It vexed him sorely that there was no pride in the job any more; no one cared. They just wanted to get through their round as quickly as possible and bugger off home.
With his free hand, Patten flipped open his oversized satchel and pulled out an A4-sized jiffy bag. ‘I’ve got this packet for Carlyle,’ he said. ‘Is anyone in, do you know? I don’t want to schlep all that way up there for nothing.’
Harry pressed the button for the lift, which slowly began making its way down from the third floor. He knew that the wife and daughter had gone on holiday but that wasn’t the kind of information you just shared around casually. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, gesturing at the parcel. ‘If it’s too big to go through the letterbox, just leave it by the front door.’
‘Needs a signature.’ Patten rubbed his nose. ‘Must be important. Don’t want to leave it lying around.’
‘What is it?’
‘No idea.’
Harry sighed. ‘Give it here then.’ The lift arrived and he held his foot in the door as he signed for the packet.
‘There you go,’ said Patten. ‘Ta, mate.’ After handing over the package, he headed for the stairs.
‘Don’t you want a ride up?’ Harry asked, stepping inside.
‘Nah.’ Patten shook his head cheerily. ‘My wife’s got me on this new exercise regime. It’s a killer.’
‘About bloody time,’ Harry grumbled under his breath as the doors closed.
Back at the station, Carlyle was staring into space when Angie Middleton appeared behind his desk and put a hand on his shoulder. Leaning back in his chair, he looked up at her. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s been a small explosion on Macklin Street. In your building.’
Carlyle almost fell out of his chair before leaping to his feet and grabbing his jacket. Then he remembered that Helen and Alice should be in Monrovia by now and his panic subsided a little. ‘A bomb?’
‘Looks like it,’ Middleton nodded. ‘One fatality, apparently. The Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit is already there.’
‘Okay,’ he said, heading swiftly for the exit. ‘If you get anything else, let me know.’
The building had been emptied and the road sealed off. Carlyle slipped under the tape and showed his ID to a succession of uniforms until he reached Winter Garden House. As he stepped inside, his mobile signalled that he’d received a text. He was pleased to see that it was a message from Helen: Arrived safely. Amazing place. H+A xx. Smiling with relief, he typed out a short reply and hit Send.
‘Who are you?’
Carlyle looked up from the screen of the phone and recognized the scowling face of the young EOD inspector from the time that he now referred to as ‘the Amazon false alarm’. The officer didn’t, however, remember him, which was probably a good thing. Carlyle flashed his warrant card for the fifth time in as many minutes. ‘I live in the building,’ he told him. ‘What happened?’
‘A device detonated in the lift,’ the EOD guy grudgingly explained, ‘just as it was reaching the eighth floor.’ Carlyle belatedly noticed the name stencilled on to the officer’s navy jumpsuit in small white letters: Gravesen. ‘The guy carrying it must have had it stuck under his arm; the whole thing came clean off at the shoulder.’
Carlyle thought back to the recent case of the Moscow suicide bomber who was killed in her flat after a spam text message from her mobile phone company triggered the device early. ‘Was it the bomber?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Nah,’ Gravesen grinned, ‘not unless they’re using pensioners now.’
Oh fuck. Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘Have you identified the victim?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Let me take a look,’ said Carlyle. ‘I might be able to tell you who he is.’
The lift doors were open, but only the top three feet of the lift protruded above the edge of the eighth-floor landing. Squatting down, Carlyle peered inside.
‘Don’t get too close,’ one of the technicians admonished him. ‘We haven’t started processing the scene yet.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle edged back a centimetre or so. He gazed down at Harry Ripley’s body, slumped in the far corner of the blackened elevator. From the way he had fallen, it wasn’t clear that Harry had lost an arm, but the dark mess on the floor indicated a large amount of blood loss. Incinerated debris littered the lift floor around him.
‘He signed for a package from the postman,’ Gravesen informed Carlyle. ‘We found him on the sixth floor. He’s a lucky sod; using the stairs because he was on a health kick. Mind you, the exertion damn near killed him as well.’
Turning awkwardly on the balls of his feet, Carlyle gestured inside the lift. ‘How did he die?’
‘Take your pick,’ Gravesen replied, ‘but the explosion probably gave him a heart attack.’
‘Heart-attack Harry.’ Carlyle cleared his throat. He didn
’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘What?’ Gravesen asked.
‘Nothing. His name is Harry Ripley. He lives – lived in number twenty.’
‘Why would anyone want to blow him up?’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t.’
A young female officer appeared at Gravesen’s side. She whispered something in his ear and they stepped away from Carlyle, moving five yards down the hall. Carlyle tried not to look too interested as she handed over a piece of A5 paper. Gravesen made a show of reading it carefully before stepping back to Carlyle.
‘Looks like you’re right,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ Carlyle asked, irritated that he was having to drag the information out of the EOD.
‘No one was trying to blow up Mr Ripley,’ Gravesen said. ‘The parcel was addressed to you.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Upstairs, he tried to call Helen on her mobile but couldn’t get through. Pottering around the cold, empty flat, Carlyle checked and re-checked his passport and his travel documents, before making himself a cup of green tea. Not knowing what to do with himself, he called Umar to see how the Gasparino investigation was going. But when his sergeant’s mobile went to voicemail, he felt too lethargic to even leave a message. Finishing his tea, he put his empty mug in the sink and looked out of the window, thinking about what he should be doing next. Harry was gone; now he had to look after his family.
But how exactly?
For a long while, the inspector simply stared out of the window at the sullen sky, letting his thoughts slowly come into focus. When he finally came to a conclusion, he grabbed his jacket and headed back out of the door.
It was his first time and, clearly, he hadn’t done it right. Christian Holyrod looked down at the massive erection threatening to burst out of his trousers and winced. Had he done too much? Had he taken it too early? One thing was for certain: the Viagra Professional that Dino had given him had done the job all right; to the extent that he dared not get up from behind his desk for fear of provoking much hilarity amongst the underlings and perhaps also a sexual harassment suit.