by James Craig
The pair eyed him grimly.
‘I think you’re going to have to come with me, sir,’ the male officer said, in the robotic manner of plods the world over. Palmer sighed. Pawing the filthy carpet, he saw the couple at the ticket booth turn to take in the pre-show entertainment. The girl, he realised, was really quite pretty, her looks highlighted by the plainness of her companion. She’s out of your league, he thought cheerily as he caught the guy’s eye.
‘Sir?’ the WPC echoed.
Palmer tried to look surprised and innocent at the same time. ‘But why?’
Clearing his throat, the PC actually blushed. Bless. ‘I think you know,’ he said, trying to sound commanding.
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Palmer responded sweetly, patting his jacket pocket. He didn’t want to do the Do you know who I am? routine. But if it came to it, he could dazzle them with his MI5 identity card.
‘He was the only one in there,’ the usherette squawked. ‘Pumping away as if his life depended upon it.’
The woman standing in front of the ticket booth failed to stifle a giggle.
‘Now look here—’ Palmer started to protest, but before he could work up a head of righteous indignation, he found himself face down on the carpet, with the WPC’s knee in his back.
‘I think we’ll sort this out down at the station,’ she grunted, pulling his arms behind his back and slipping on a pair of handcuffs. ‘If that’s all right with you, sir.’
Palmer started to mutter something about police brutality, but all he got for his trouble was a mouthful of carpet. Sensing that they had seen the best of the foyer drama, the couple headed off into the cinema. A strange giddiness descended upon the young spy, as if he’d reached some kind of personal nadir . . . and survived! You’d better behave yourself in there, he thought as he watched the pair disappear into the darkness. Look at what’s happened to me. And they say it’s supposed to be a free country!
Hauled to his feet, Palmer was pushed unceremoniously towards the door. Out on the street, it had started to drizzle. Even in the handcuffs he attracted little attention from passers-by – this was Soho, after all – as he was roughly bundled into the back of a police Mini. The whole event had an unreal quality to it, like he was watching another movie. As the car slowly made its way on to Shaftesbury Avenue and round Piccadilly Circus, he tried to focus on his predicament. How had things come to this? Sometimes he wondered if he might lack willpower or impulse control. Despite everything, he felt a frisson of excitement at getting caught. Where were they taking him? Savile Row, probably. He would sort it out when he arrived; a quiet word with the desk sergeant and his liberty would be restored, allowing him to return to . . .
It took Palmer a moment to remember what he had been up to before the debacle at the Duchess. His run-in with Maurice Peters now seemed to belong to the dim and distant past. After his dressing-down by the old fool, he should have gone straight back to Gower Street. Gower Street! Oh dear, he thought, stifling a titter. Brewster is not going to be happy with me, not in the slightest.
14
DNA testing is like the hand of God on the shoulder of the criminal.
‘More tea?’
‘Huh?’ Carlyle looked over the top of the magazine at his mother, who was waving an outsized teapot in his direction.
‘I was going to make another cuppa for your dad. Do you want one?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Lorna pointed at the magazine with the spout of the pot. ‘New . . .’
‘New Scientist,’ he snapped, annoyed by the interruption. ‘It’s, a, er, science magazine.’
‘Oh, I see.’ His mother retrieved a chipped mug from the draining board and half filled it with Tetley’s finest blend. ‘When did you start reading that?’ Placing the pot by the sink, she took a bottle of gold top from the fridge and added a splash of milk to the mug.
‘I picked it up at the library,’ Carlyle mumbled, retreating back behind the pages of the mag. ‘It’s interesting.’
‘Mm. Better than looking at girlie pictures, I suppose.’
‘Ma!’
Lorna slipped past her son, heading for the door. ‘You had a phone call earlier.’
This time Carlyle gave her his full attention. ‘Helen?’ he asked hopefully. Communication with his girlfriend had not been restored since the mini row at Cafe Pasta, and he was growing increasingly despondent. He wouldn’t put it past her to dump him without even mentioning it. The thought made him feel sick.
‘No,’ his mother replied, disappearing into the hallway. ‘Dominic.’
‘Ah.’ Tossing the magazine on to the table, he jumped to his feet and followed her into the living room.
‘I had a word with Mister Silver about those dirty magazines,’ his mother quipped as she handed her husband his drink. Alexander Carlyle was sitting in his favourite armchair, talking to himself as he watched the TV news.
‘Bloody woman!’ With his free hand the auld fella retrieved a foam brick from down the side of the chair and threw it at the set. Carlyle watched in amusement as it bounced off the screen and landed at his feet.
‘Maggie winding you up again, Dad?’ He gestured at the familiar image of Mrs Thatcher hectoring someone about something.
‘Drives me round the bend.’
‘Hush, you sad old man,’ Lorna scolded. His mother, ever the contrarian, was the only Conservative in the household. As far as Carlyle was aware, she was the only Scottish Conservative in the known universe.
‘Well . . .’ Alexander took a loud slurp of tea and retreated behind his mug.
‘I would have thought you’d have got used to her by now,’ Carlyle observed.
‘Never,’ the old man hissed.
‘Well, I’d stop watching the news,’ his son advised. ‘She’s gonna be around for ever at this rate.’
‘No one lasts for ever, son,’ Alexander countered.
Carlyle gestured towards the screen. ‘I dunno about Mrs T. I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘All political careers end in failure, thank God!’ His father took another mouthful of tea. ‘I just wish she’d bloody hurry up about it.’
Their doleful banter was disrupted by the chirruping sound of the phone ringing in the hallway. Helen? Carlyle sprang towards the door. ‘That’ll be Dominic,’ his mother explained. ‘He said he’d ring back.’
‘You don’t seem too happy to hear from me.’
Carlyle closed the door to the living room, in the hope that it would impede his mother’s eavesdropping. ‘I was expecting someone else,’ he admitted.
Dom chuckled. ‘She still hasn’t rung?’
‘Nope.’
‘Time to take the bull by the horns, Johnny boy.’
What the fuck does that mean? Carlyle thought sourly.
‘Show her who’s boss.’
We know who’s boss. ‘Did you want something?’
‘Only to do you a favour, sunshine.’
‘What?’ Carlyle grunted. ‘With your quality relationship advice?’
‘In addition to my quality relationship advice.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘You sarcastic little scrote,’ his mate chided. ‘Now listen. Remember Martin Palmer, that perv that worked for the secret service?’
‘Of course,’ Carlyle responded, his mood only worsening at the mention of the MI5 man.
‘The one you fancied for killing those little old ladies.’
‘I remember.’
‘The one you failed to nick?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle through gritted teeth. ‘Alright. I hadn’t forgotten him.’
‘Well,’ Dom burbled, ‘I think you might just have got lucky. He was nicked last night.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘My uncle was working the desk in Savile Row when they brought him in.’ Despite his detour into the drugs trade, Dom was still well plugged into the Met grapevine through an extensive network of family and friends who
worked on the force. ‘He had to help process the dirty bugger.’
‘For murder?’ Carlyle asked hopefully.
‘Nah. He was caught wanking off in the Duchess cinema.’
‘Urgh.’
‘I know.’ Dom laughed. ‘When he got to the station, he started shouting about how he worked for MI5, as if that was relevant to a spot of self-abuse in a Soho establishment. Unhappily for him, Uncle Kev wasn’t standing for any nonsense and threw him in one of the cells. They conveniently forgot to give him his phone call, so he’s still there now. I can get you twenty minutes alone with him. Maybe you can get him to talk.’
‘Hardly.’ The hand of God . . . An idea started forming in Carlyle’s head. ‘Do they have any evidence?’
‘A woman working at the cinema caught him in the act, apparently.’
‘No, no. Do they have any physical evidence?’
‘No idea,’ Dom groaned. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Can you check with your uncle?’ Carlyle demanded, ignoring the question.
‘Call him yourself. Frankly, I don’t want to know. He should be back on duty in an hour or so.’
‘Okay, thanks. Speak later.’ Ending the call, Carlyle skipped back into the kitchen to consult his magazine.
Rose Hu pulled herself up to her full five feet two inches and glared at the young policeman. ‘I’ve been working here for twenty years,’ she complained, her accent almost as strong as when she’d first arrived in London from Hong Kong back in 1961, ‘and it’s always the same. Men. Dirty fucking bastards!’
‘I know.’ Carlyle glanced around self-consciously. His shift started in an hour and he was in uniform. An early showing of Kelly’s Heroes had just come to an end and the audience, a random collection of students and other wasters, were dribbling out into the foyer, giving him dirty looks as they headed for the street.
Rose waved a finger in his face. ‘I always have to clean up after. The smell is terrible. And the mess!’ One of the students caught Carlyle’s eye and grinned.
Fuck off, you little sod, the constable thought, or I’ll nick you too.
‘Is he going to jail?’
‘I hope so.’ Carlyle returned his attention to the wizened woman. ‘What I’m wondering is, if, um . . .’
‘Yes?’ Folding her arms, she waited for him to spit it out.
‘If you might have the . . . materials that the gentleman left behind.’
‘Materials?’ Rose frowned so hard, it looked like her face was imploding in slow motion. ‘What you mean?’
‘His rubbish,’ Carlyle corrected himself. A quick call with Sergeant Kevin Silver, Dom’s uncle, had confirmed that nothing had been collected from the scene at the time of Martin Palmer’s arrest. Once Palmer’s lawyer had finally been contacted, the onanist had been released from police custody. He was due to reappear at Savile Row in a fortnight’s time. By then a decision would have been made about whether to prosecute. Essentially, it was a case of Palmer’s word against that of Rose. Uncle Kev hadn’t said as much, but it was odds on that the case would be dropped. ‘I was wondering, what happened to his rubbish?’
‘You wanna see the bins?’ Rose shook her head in disbelief.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Okay, come with me.’ Turning, she headed towards a small door next to the concession stand. ‘But watch out for the rats. They’re mean devils.’
Fresh off the 11.36, Callender walked down the platform, flashed his pass at the ticket collector and acknowledged the waiting constable with a brisk nod. ‘Got the car?’
‘It’s outside,’ Carlyle responded. ‘And I’ve got something else for you too.’ Unable to control his excitement, he held up a plastic evidence bag to show the inspector his booty – a discarded Maltesers box containing a selection of crumpled tissues. ‘From a suspect.’ He knew that he was taking a complete punt, but if this DNA-business was as clever as Callender seemed to think it was, it was a punt worth taking.
Callender looked at the bag and marched on without breaking his stride, heading towards the station exit.
‘I think it might give you a match to the stuff on Mrs Scanlon’s—’
‘Not here,’ Callender grunted, upping the pace. Carlyle hurried after him, somewhat disgruntled that his efforts had not been recognised. It had taken him the best part of two hours’ rummaging around the Duchess’s bins to find what Rose thought was Martin Palmer’s rubbish. Late for work and smelling like a tip, he’d rung the station and thrown a sickie before taking his evidence home. Of course, he had no idea whether it would be of any use or not, but at least he had tried.
Sitting in the back of the Escort, Callender listened to Carlyle’s story in silence. As the car pulled up outside the Wolfson Building, he finally spoke.
‘So you think this Palmer chap has killed before?’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle nodded, happy now that he’d at least had a decent hearing.
The inspector gestured at the bag sitting on the seat between them. ‘And you’ve got his DNA in there?’
‘I hope so,’ he replied diffidently. ‘You can get it from, er, ejaculate, can’t you?’
Callender sighed deeply. ‘Come on,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Let’s go and see what Paul has to say.’
15
The morning rush hour had been and gone, leaving the Brideshead Café empty, save for a solitary patron. Sitting in the back booth, Martin Palmer speared a couple of chips and sighed. Lifting the fork in front of his nose, he studied the food, making no effort to open his mouth. The unthinkable had happened: he had lost his appetite. Next to his plate, the front-page headline of that morning’s Daily Mail simply read: CATCH ME IF YOU CAN! Underneath a large photo of a grinning Maurice Peters, the story recounted how the rogue agent had fled to Australia to avoid the clutches of an ‘MI5 death squad’. Inside, the story ran across pages 4, 5, 9 and 13. There was even an editorial devoted to the ‘shocking incompetence’ of the security services in the face of the nest of vipers in their midst. No cliché had been left unused as the paper worked itself into a blue funk about the threat to national security and ‘Britain’s role as a force for good in the world’.
Letting the fork fall back on to the plate, Palmer grimaced. When even the Mail was this hostile, the game was surely up. The newspaper, however, was the least of his worries. After interminable delays, he had managed to escape from Savile Row police station, but there was still a charge of indecent exposure and lewd behaviour hanging over him. The way things were shaping up, even a posting to Port Stanley was looking vaguely desirable. Maybe he could try and work something out with his Falklands-based colleagues Marchmain or Flyte; he had absolutely no doubt that either one of them would bite his hand off if he offered them the possibility of an accelerated passage back to civilisation.
He looked at his cooling breakfast and a ripple of nausea passed through his gullet. At the very least he had aimed to present himself in front of the commander fortified, with a full stomach, but even that seemed a forlorn hope. Pushing away the plate, he took a sip of tea, wondering how much longer he could postpone the inevitable carpeting.
‘There you are.’ Before he could look up, Brewster slipped into the seat opposite and placed her purse on the table. A waitress appeared to take her order and was immediately sent scuttling back behind the counter by an imperious glare. ‘How long have you been hiding in here?’
‘Well . . .’ Palmer tried to inject the slightest hint of insouciance into his voice, but he was immediately distracted by movement behind the commander. Unable to focus on his boss, he looked past her shoulder to see a man in a tweed jacket making his way towards them with a police constable in tow. The plod was smirking like a teenager who’d just got laid; he looked vaguely familiar, but there was nothing particularly surprising about that – all those young boys in uniform looked the same. The man in the tweed jacket stopped behind Brewster.
‘Martin Palmer?’
‘That’s me,’ the
spook conceded.
‘Inspector Callender.’ The man flashed a warrant card by way of confirmation. ‘I need you to come with me, please.’
A look of shock passed across the commander’s face. Keeping her gaze fixed on the wall, she made no effort to turn towards the new arrival.
‘Now look here,’ Palmer protested. ‘If it’s about the most unfortunate misunderstanding at the Duchess cinema . . .’
‘Martin Palmer,’ Callender intoned, with all the solemnity of a hanging judge, ‘you are under arrest on suspicion of murder.’
‘Murder?’ Palmer squeaked. He tried to appeal to Brewster, but she had turned to stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he was conscious of the waitress edging round the counter to get a better view of the drama.
Callender signalled to the uniformed officer for a pair of handcuffs. The plod, who seemed to be enjoying the show immensely, obliged immediately.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Palmer protested.
‘Protocol.’ The inspector waited for Palmer to struggle to his feet, then snapped on the cuffs. ‘After you, sir,’ he said, gesturing towards the door.
As Palmer walked slowly towards his fate, Brewster finally spoke. ‘I’ll have a bacon sandwich,’ she instructed the waitress, ‘and a pot of Earl Grey tea.’
16
The basement restaurant was packed with a happy, slightly inebriated crowd. The staff at the Tandoori Nights flitted from table to table, handing out menus, taking orders and delivering plates of food and trays of drinks to hungry customers. Every so often a table would be vacated by one group, only for it to be immediately claimed by another. Later, once the pubs shut, the clientele would take a turn for the worse, but for now, it was largely just couples wanting to enjoy their Saturday night.
Finishing his lager, Dominic Silver waved the empty pint pot in the air, signalling to a passing waiter that he would like another of the same. Without breaking his stride, the waiter collected the glass and headed towards the tiny bar at the end of the room. ‘Poor bloke,’ said Dom, stifling a burp as he watched the waiter refill his glass from a large bottle. ‘What a shocker!’