by James Craig
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Eh?’ Carlyle looked up at Simpson, who had suddenly materialized behind her desk.
‘You seemed deep in thought,’ she said, placing a mug of steaming coffee on the blotter in front of her, and then slipping into her seat.
‘I was just looking forward to things being a bit quieter for a while.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ she grinned.
‘I thought I might take Helen to Brighton.’ Immediately the words were out, he cursed himself. Being recently widowed, Simpson wouldn’t want to be hearing about his domestic plans.
If the remark caused her any upset, however, she didn’t show it. ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ she said warmly, taking a sip of coffee.
‘There’s nothing hugely pressing to deal with back at the station,’ he added, keen to get back onto matters of work, ‘and Sergeant Roche is very much on top of things.’
Simpson nodded. ‘I’m glad that it’s working out so well with her. It’s good that you have been able to deal with that aspect of the Joe situation so . . . professionally.’
‘It’s difficult to get the balance right,’ Carlyle explained. ‘You can’t go to pieces, but you don’t want to appear a heartless bastard either. I did try to reach out to Anita, but, well, you know what happened there.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson sighed, ‘you just have to leave it for now. At least, you were able to tell her that Joe’s killer had been . . . dealt with. Even if she doesn’t seem particularly grateful for that now, you have to hope that it will provide some succour in the future.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe things will change over time.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘There is one thing, though.’
‘What?’
‘The case on Joe’s murder isn’t going to be officially closed.’ She quickly held up a hand before he could begin his protest. ‘The bodies of the Israelis were repatriated yesterday. The Foreign Office is not going to further annoy Tel Aviv by publicly naming one of its people as being the man responsible for shooting a policeman on a London street.’
Carlyle made a noise of disgust.
‘It’s better than the other way round,’ Simpson went on, ‘with a situation where the case was closed and the killer was still running around flipping us the finger.’
‘Fair point,’ Carlyle reflected.
‘I’m told that Lieberman, Ryan Goya and Maude Kleinman will be buried in a military ceremony with full honours.’
‘Maude Kleinman?’
‘That was the name on the ID they presented for the woman you knew as Sylvia Swain.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘All this cloak and dagger shit is just so wearisome.’
‘Did you speak to Ambrose Watson?’ Simpson asked, moving the conversation on.
‘Yeah. He told me that his various investigations are now closed, so I signed the necessary bits of paper.’
‘Ambrose is very fair.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ever mention a man called Dominic Silver?’
Carlyle looked her squarely in the eye. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’ Simpson paused, then went on: ‘You do understand just how terribly problematic your relationship with Mr Silver is, don’t you?’
‘I do not have a relationship with Silver,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
‘Don’t get all mealy-mouthed with me, John,’ Simpson shot back. ‘It just doesn’t suit you. What is he? A CI? I haven’t seen him on any list.’
Confidential informant? Carlyle thought. Hardly. The whole bloody world seems to know about me and Dom. ‘Dom is not a CI,’ he said evenly. ‘I wouldn’t describe him as an informant at all.’
Simpson grimaced in exasperation. ‘So what would you describe him as?’
‘I would describe him as a former colleague who is still keen to help the police whenever the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Oh? So you wouldn’t describe him as a drug dealer who gets you to do some of his dirty work for him?’
That’s a pretty fair summary of our relationship, Carlyle conceded. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t.’
Sitting up in her chair, Simpson gave him a long, hard look.
A terrible thought suddenly hit him. ‘Are you suggesting I killed Hooper?’
‘No, no,’ she said irritably. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘I don’t think even you could be that stupid.’
‘That’s good to know,’ he said humourlessly.
‘Look,’ she jabbed an angry finger at the space between them, ‘never forget how bloody lucky you were here. This whole thing became such a terrible nightmare that in the end no one wanted to touch it. Everything has been buried and any paperwork beyond the absolute bare minimum will be destroyed. Under a different set of circumstances, you could have been hauled over the coals. You could easily have got the sack – and ended up in jail.’
Carlyle held her gaze but said nothing.
‘If the Sam Hooper killing hadn’t got lost in this total mess – if he wasn’t just one body among so bloody many – the investigation into his death would doubtless have been a lot more detailed,’ she persisted.
‘Ambrose told me that Hooper was bent,’ Carlyle commented.
‘I still don’t think that is sufficient justification for someone executing him,’ Simpson said tartly.
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘It is a very, very serious crime indeed and I would expect anyone with information relating to his murder to come forward immediately, regardless of the status of the investigation.’
‘Absolutely.’
Simpson stared at him for several more moments. When Carlyle said nothing, she warned him, ‘If this comes back to haunt you, somewhere down the line, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. More to the point, there is nothing I would want to do to protect you.’
‘I will keep my eyes and ears open,’ Carlyle promised. ‘If I discover anything, I will let you know immediately.’
Simpson glared at him.
‘But,’ he went on, unable to resist the dig, ‘there are always grey areas. Things are never black and white, as you know from your own personal experience.’ The message was clear: I supported you when your husband was arrested and people wanted to believe that you were his accomplice, so get off my fucking back now.
For a heartbeat, it looked like Simpson was going to hurl her mug of coffee at him. Carlyle sat, unflinching, as he watched her slowly bring her anger under control.
‘I understand what you are saying, Inspector,’ she said finally.
Nodding, he got to his feet.
‘There’s one other thing . . .’
‘Oh?’ Slowly, he sat back down again. A sly grin appeared on Simpson’s face, making him brace himself.
‘You’ve been put forward for a Commendation.’ Simpson dropped her gaze to the desk. ‘I assume it will be a formality. You should get written confirmation in the next couple of weeks.’
Carlyle waited for her to restore eye-contact, daring her not to laugh. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, trying to recall her ever having done so in the past.
Keeping a straight face, Simpson said, ‘No. The citation will read: For bravery in attempting to apprehend armed criminals and showing unflinching courage in the line of duty. Or something like that. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Unflinching courage.’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I like that.’
‘It relates to the incident at the Ritz.’
Carlyle had already garnered a number of Commendations during the course of his career. Another one was of little interest. ‘Do I get a pay rise?’ he asked cheekily.
This time Simpson did laugh. ‘Don’t push your luck. And don’t think that this in any way invalidates what I’ve said. IIC could have buried you after this business here. Having decided not to do that, you’re being made something of a hero.’
‘To better put a lid on the whole bloody thing,’ Carlyle mused.<
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‘Yes, indeed,’ Simpson said, ‘and I suggest, for once, you just act bloody grateful and go along with it.’
‘I think I will,’ Carlyle told her.
SEVENTY-TWO
One important thing that Carlyle had learned from his sessions with Dr Wolf was that the coffee in the doctor’s office was truly dreadful. To get round this problem, he quickly developed a routine whereby, on the way to each session, he would drop into the Starbucks next to Wolf’s office. This morning, he sat happily drinking the last of his Venti Latte, wondering if the doctor, head bowed, was contemplating their earlier exchange or had simply fallen asleep. Draining his cup, he reached forward and dropped it in the bin at the side of the shrink’s desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wolf from his slumber. He looked up at Carlyle, who smiled blandly.
‘I was wondering,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘if we could maybe spend some time talking about your parents . . .’
SEVENTY-THREE
Helen assumed her best smile as she handed a plate of snacks round the table. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ken Walton, happily dropping a couple of cucumber sandwiches onto his plate. ‘Lorna has told me so much about you all. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’
Refusing to look at her son, Lorna Gordon nodded sagely as she sipped her peppermint tea.
Looking Walton up and down, the inspector wondered what his dad was doing right now – probably sitting in his shitty little bedsit, looking through the record collection he couldn’t play. Seated in the Palm Court with his mother and her new boyfriend, he felt a mixture of guilt and embarrassment. At least Helen had been pressganged into coming along, too. She had been in a foul mood since Avalon’s board had decided to pull out of Gaza, and Carlyle hoped that this little outing would help take her mind off work troubles for a short while.
He glanced at his wife for some moral and spiritual support, but in return simply got a look that said For God’s sake, say something.
‘So,’ Carlyle mumbled, ‘how did you two meet?’ Grabbing a slice of lemon cake from his plate, he took a large bite.
‘Lorna and I have known each other for a long time,’ Walton replied vaguely.
Carlyle gave his mother an enquiring look. ‘Oh, is that right?’
Lorna put her cup back on the saucer and placed a gentle hand on Helen’s forearm. ‘And how is Alice?’ she asked, changing the subject with a lack of subtlety for which the Carlyle family had long been famous.
Helen looked at Carlyle and grinned. ‘She’s not on the best form, to be honest. She’s just split with her boyfriend and things are a bit – well, tense.’
‘It’s just part of the growing up process,’ Carlyle remarked.
Head down, Ken Walton gave the cucumber sandwiches his full attention.
‘These things are always hard to take,’ said Lorna, effortlessly ignoring her son’s churlishness. ‘She will snap out of it soon enough.’
Helen smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t help things by getting into a row with the boy’s mother.’
‘Ach,’ said the older woman, ‘the child’s still very young. It’s right that you are still getting involved.’ She glanced at Carlyle with amusement. ‘There will be plenty of time for her to make mistakes all on her own.’
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle said nothing. Instead he scanned the restaurant, hoping to spy some outrageous criminal activity in progress that might serve to rescue him from this latest domestic nightmare. Sadly, this time round, there was none to be found.