by James Craig
When he’d stared at the girls for a few seconds too long, he let his gaze slip ten yards further along the road to Carleton House, which was his next port of call. Gavin studied the ugly, squat office block, stuck between a pawnbroker’s and a discount supermarket, and wondered why anyone would build a speculative office block here. It was completely the wrong part of town even before the economy had gone tits up.
Unsurprisingly, there had been no takers for this ‘premium’ space, and the developer had gone bust. To date, Carleton House had never been occupied, and Gavin thought there was a fair-to-middling chance that it never would be. Inside, it had never even been fitted out. Even though it was less than three years old, the place already looked well on the way to becoming derelict.
The radio on the dashboard crackled. ‘Gavin? How are things going?’
The caller was Jessica in Despatch. She was a nice girl and, not for the first time, Gavin wondered if maybe she fancied him a bit. She’d even asked him out for a drink once, but he’d declined. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone at Column other than doing his shift. Security was just a temporary thing. When he left it behind, he would leave it all behind.
‘Everything’s fine. I’m just at Carleton House in Tufnell Park.’
‘You haven’t called in.’ Jessica dropped her voice. He could imagine her leaning across the desk, breathing into her microphone. ‘That’s not following protocol.’ She giggled, somehow making the word ‘protocol’ sound vaguely rude. ‘And Clinton has gone off on one again.’
Clinton Roache, the office manager, was always complaining about people not following the company’s standard reporting procedures. Out on the road, you were supposed to check in with the office every hour.
Gavin checked the clock on the dashboard and sighed to himself. In truth, he had only checked in once in the course of his shift so far. ‘Okay, sorry. It’s all quiet but I’ll definitely report back in during the next hour.’
‘Thanks . . . I get off at eleven.’
Gavin smiled, realising that she’d checked his rota.
‘I thought about getting a bite to eat . . .’
‘I need to study tonight,’ said Gavin firmly. ‘I have a class in the morning.’ It happened to be true, not that it mattered. He had to deliver 1,500 words on The Causes of the Banking Crisis to his course assessor by 10 a.m. – a piece of cake.
‘Oh, fair enough.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. Anyway, see you later.’
‘Yeah, see you later.’ The girl was a trier. It’s nice to be asked, he told himself. You should be kind to her. Putting the lid back on his coffee, he placed it in the cup-holder on the dashboard and slipped out of his van.
Shivering against the cold, Gavin buttoned up his jacket, yawning as he did so. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he glanced up at Carleton House. Frowning, he realised that the third-floor lights were on. The night before, the whole building had been in darkness; he was sure of that. Who had put the bloody lights on? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to see if there was anything inside – copper, wood, even carpet tiles – that they could nick. Vandals were another possibility. Less likely, an estate agent had taken someone round on a viewing and just forgot to switch the lights off.
‘Shit!’ If someone had indeed broken in, it would ruin Gavin’s whole night; they would have to call the police and then he could be stuck here for hours. It would be a fight to claim the overtime, especially if Clinton made an issue of him not reporting in. Worse still, he could forget about getting his essay written in time for the morning.
Opening the van door, he planted one knee on the driver’s seat and hit the call button on the radio. ‘Jess, it’s me.’
‘Hiya.’
‘There hasn’t been anyone in to view Carleton House today, has there?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘The lights are on.’
‘Hold on. Let me check.’
Slipping back into his seat, he pulled the door closed as he waited.
A minute or so later, the radio crackled back into life. ‘Gavin? I’ve checked the log. As far as I can tell, no one’s been in there today.’
Gavin scowled at his reflection in the windscreen. ‘Okay. I’ll go and check it out.’
‘Do you want me to call the police?’
‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s probably nothing at all. I’ll call you from my mobile once I’ve taken a look.’
Gavin stepped out of the lift on the third floor and punched the security code into the pad by the door. When he didn’t hear the usual click of the lock releasing, he gently pulled on the handle. As the door opened, he tightened his grip on the aluminium casing of his Led Lenser P17 torch. Conscious of his elevated heartbeat, he stepped inside.
‘Hello?’ he shouted, trying to ignore the lack of confidence in his voice. ‘This is Security.’ No response. He scanned the room. The place looked pretty much as he remembered it from his last visit – bare floors, unfinished walls, a few cables hanging from holes in the ceiling where the polystyrene tiles were missing. More or less what you would expect from thirty square metres of unwanted office space in a shitty part of North London.
There was clearly nothing to report. He was glad they hadn’t called in the police, and even more glad that the rest of his night hadn’t been ruined. It was time to leave. The light switches were situated on the wall to his right. He stepped over to turn them off. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small dark shape scuttle across the floor ten yards away, where the space dog-legged to the right. Gavin grimaced: the rats were easily the worst part of his job. A second scuttled across the floor in front of him, and it was then that he noticed the smell. Some dosser had obviously used the place as his toilet.
‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’
Caught in two minds, Gavin hovered by the lights. He urged himself to just switch them off and go, then he could finish his shift and get his paper written. On the other hand, what if the guy was still here, lying in his own shit after having downed a couple of litres of Double Diamond? The rats could have his toes off before he woke up. Maybe even his nose. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.
Cursing under his breath, Gavin walked deeper into the empty office space, keeping his eyes glued on the floor for more rats. Turning the corner, he looked up, checking the familiar orange North London vista through the windows. He nearly jumped out of his skin as a third rat rushed past him and joined the other two as they excitedly scrabbled around the body. One by one the creatures skated through the blood pooled by the hook that had been set into the floor, their feet and bellies smearing the concrete.
Gavin stood mute as his brain tried to process what he was seeing – the hook, the handcuffs, the blood. He swallowed hard, twice, to stop his dinner from creeping back up his throat. Clamping his jaw shut, he concentrated on breathing through his mouth. Once he had that under control, he stepped close enough to the corpse to scare off the rats. ‘Get out of here, you bastards!’ he screamed, wafting a boot in the general direction of their fleeing backsides.
Pulling out his mobile, he called into Despatch. Jessica answered on the second ring.
‘Jess,’ he said, almost calm now, ‘you need to get the police here ASAP.’
The three of them were sitting in the interview room that had been vacated by the Earl of Falkirk barely fifteen minutes earlier. Sipping his latest cup of tea daintily, Joe Szyszkowski eyed Carlyle with interest. Knowing what was coming, Carlyle thought that he should get his retaliation in first. ‘What we’ve got,’ he said, ‘is—’
Simpson held up a hand. ‘What we’ve got,’ she said sharply, ‘is another classic John Carlyle bull-in-a-china-shop episode. Do you know how many calls about you I’ve received this evening?’
Catching Joe’s eye, Carlyle had to suppress a schoolboy smirk. It was like being thirteen again, staring at the prospect of double detention and a letter of reprimand.
Simpson counted them off on her fingers. ‘I’ve had Singer from the Federation. Charlie Adam, of course, and Mazar Corrigan . . .’
Carlyle gave her a quizzical look.
‘My oppo in SO14,’ Simpson explained. ‘Charlie Adam’s boss. And those were just the calls about Dolan.’
Joe stared deeply into his cup.
‘In terms of Falkirk—’
This time Carlyle held up his hand. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture.’
Clasping her hands together, Simpson bent across the table. ‘So tell me what the bloody hell is going on here.’
Carlyle leaned back in his chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Falkirk is the guy who was in Green Park when I found the girl.’
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. He recognised me tonight. Which is why he tried to do a runner.’
Joe nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right.’
‘But,’ Simpson said slowly, ‘so far, you have no evidence linking him to child trafficking.’
‘There is a Child Exploitation and Online Protection investigation currently ongoing,’ Carlyle countered, deflecting the question, ‘that we think is chasing down the same group.’
‘Why is it,’ Simpson sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling, ‘that you spend all your life chasing investigations that are the responsibility of other people?’
‘But . . .’ Carlyle protested.
Simpson forced herself to make proper eye-contact with the troublesome inspector. ‘It is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to put this business aside.’
Holding Simpson’s gaze, Carlyle told himself to stay calm. Don’t raise your voice. Just talk your way out of this. His mind, however, was suddenly blank. When his phone started buzzing in his pocket, he took it out, playing for time. ‘Hello?’
‘Carlyle? It’s Rose.’ The voice on the line was tremulous.
‘Who?’
‘Rose – Rose Scripps, from CEOP.’
‘Yes, yes?’ Carlyle ignored Simpson’s impatient glare.
‘They’ve found Simon,’ Rose cried.
‘Who?’ Carlyle snapped.
There was nothing but a sob on the line.
‘Hello?’
‘They’ve found Simon,’ she said eventually. ‘Simon Merrett.’
‘Yes?’ Carlyle said, but gently this time. Realising where this was going, he was annoyed by his earlier churlishness.
‘He’s dead.’ She fought for a breath. ‘He was shot in the head.’
TWENTY-ONE
Stepping past one of the forensics crew, he took in the rodent footprints in the congealing blood, the chains and the smell of piss. Then he looked at the victim’s face. It came to him almost immediately. Without a doubt, he had seen this guy before. Even the where and when popped into his head without a moment’s further thought. He closed his eyes and saw the same guy sitting in that bar, sipping his beer, playing with his mobile phone. It was just like watching a video.
Why had he been there?
Why was he here?
And why had he been executed?
Warren Shen moved out of the way and let the ambulance crew lift the corpse onto the stretcher. Adopting the air of a curious onlooker, he watched the forensics team packing up before they headed back to the West Hampstead station. One of the bullets had been recovered, lodged in the wall by the door. The other, as far as anyone could tell, was still in Merrett’s brain. Shen had a pretty good idea who had put it there. Wandering over to the window, he gazed down on the ambulance waiting by the kerb.
‘That’s him.’
Shen turned to see the victim’s colleague, Rose Scripps, identify the body with a nod. Standing with arms crossed, she watched as Merrett was quickly covered with a sheet and carried off. Shen waited for her to notice him and come over. She looked deathly tired, and had clearly been crying, but now she was all business. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, her voice cracking round the edges.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve never lost a colleague like this, and I can’t imagine how terrible it must be.’
She took a step back from his touch, her eyes dropping to the floor. ‘It will be a lot worse for his wife . . . and for the kids.’
Shen stared at his trainers. ‘Yes, quite.’
‘At least I was able to identify the body, so I could spare her that.’
‘I heard it on the radio,’ Shen said, finally addressing her original question. ‘I recognised his name. I told them to call you.’
‘How did they know it was Simon?’ she asked.
‘He still had his wallet on him. They identified him from his credit cards.’
‘No evidence of robbery?’
‘I don’t know,’ Shen said vaguely. ‘His CEOP ID is missing apparently, but you’d have to speak to the investigating officer.’ He gestured to a portly, middle-aged man talking quietly into a mobile on the far side of the floor. ‘Kevin Ellington, over there. I know him a little. He’s a decent bloke.’
Rose nodded silently.
Shen glanced out of the window as the ambulance pulled away. ‘What was Simon working on?’ he asked, as casually as he could manage.
Rose thought about that for a second. Turning to face her, he could see that she was torn about what to reply. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.
You don’t want to play then? Fair enough, Shen thought. In that case, we won’t play. But you sought me out, remember? He felt a stab of resentment towards this woman who had asked for his help but who clearly didn’t trust him.
‘I don’t actually know what he was doing when he went missing.’
I do, thought Shen, up to a point. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m sure Ellington will get to the bottom of it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door, his mind already focused on what he had to do next.
Slowing to walking pace, Alice started looking around her. She had no idea where she was. The streets were empty of people, but there was still a steady stream of traffic on the road. Standing on the kerbside, she counted one, two, three cars go past. Waiting until a fourth was almost upon her, she walked out into the road, her eyes closed against the glare of the headlights.
Shit!
Carlyle woke with a start. Rolling on to his back he blinked once, twice. He had been drooling on to his pillow and felt the damp coldness of his saliva behind his ear. Helen, her back to him, snored quietly beside him. The pale green numbers of the alarm clock by the bed read 3.23. He knew that further sleep was unlikely and he needed to piss. Even so, he was reluctant to get up for fear of waking his wife.
He was not the kind of man to dream. In the grainy, orange darkness, he stared at the ceiling and thought about his nightmare. From some nearby street, Kingsway perhaps, or Shaftesbury Avenue, he heard the rise and fall of a siren – maybe an ambulance, maybe a police car – on its way to try and clean up someone’s late-night mess. Whatever it was, he was glad that it did not involve him.
TWENTY-TWO
The weather was foul, in keeping with his mood. With his right shoulderblade leaning against the cold windowpane, Carlyle felt the rain lash against the glass and listened to the wind whining as it whipped down William IV Street. He had been standing here in one of the larger meeting rooms on the second floor of Charing Cross police station for almost an hour, effectively doing nothing. Now he sullenly sipped his cold coffee and glanced up from the screen of his mobile to watch Rose Scripps and Joe Szyszkowski as they rearranged a series of photographs and documents that were laid out on the table. The combined efforts of their respective investigations were there in front of them. The display featured all the major players, known and unknown, with a picture of a grinning Falkirk, clipped from a glossy magazine, at its centre. All three of them now stared intently at the installation, as the seconds ticked past. Nothing jumped out at them.
The energy levels in the room
were sinking fast. Not for the first time that morning, Carlyle wondered about Shen. He had called him twice since last night; but with no reply. Carlyle’s mobile showed no missed calls, no messages. The superintendent was clearly ignoring him. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and stifled a yawn. ‘So what do we have?’
Rose stepped back from the table. She looked completely exhausted, like she hadn’t slept at all. Her mouth opened but she said nothing.
Joe scratched his head, focusing his gaze on a patch of wall above Carlyle’s head. ‘Is Simpson happy for us to be doing this?’
Carlyle shrugged. He hadn’t spoken to the commander since she had left the station the night before. He didn’t want to speak to her about Merrett until he knew if his death was relevant to Alzbetha. The last thing he needed was Simpson thinking that his wild-goose chase had taken yet another diversion.
The fixed-line telephone sitting on the windowsill next to Carlyle started ringing, causing them all to jump. He leaned over and picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he demanded.
‘John?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s George Patrick. We’ve got a delivery down here for you at the desk.’
‘Yeah?’ Carlyle asked, surprised. The front desk never took deliveries.
‘Yeah,’ the desk sergeant replied, ‘a large box from Candy Cakes. Looks good.’
‘Cakes?’ Carlyle felt his stomach rumble.
‘It’s kosher,’ Patrick confirmed. ‘We’ve run it through the X-ray machine. There’s a note as well.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced at Joe who, perking up at the mention of food, gave him a hungry look. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
Standing at the front desk of the station, Carlyle looked at the dozen cupcakes in the box, each one topped with a different, brightly coloured icing, and smiled. He picked up an electric-blue one and took a bite. It was delicious and he finished it off in two quick mouthfuls under the wistful gaze of George Patrick and a loitering PCSO. Carlyle gestured towards the box. ‘Help yourself.’ After they had chosen, he picked out another three (one for Joe, one for Rose and another one for himself) and headed back towards the stairs.