Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘I’m completely shagged . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Carlyle, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got plenty to take your mind off things.’

  At the conference. Where r u? Oh God. Lover Boy was sending her messages. How did he get the number? Carole Simpson deleted the text message from her BlackBerry and sat up straight.

  ‘Carole?’

  Looking up, the Commander tried to smile. ‘Yes?’

  Dudley Whitehead leaned forward, his oversized belly spilling across the desk. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Simpson snapped, letting her irritation show. A couple of paracetamol, washed down with a triple espresso had effectively suppressed her hangover. Even so, she avoided staring at the Deputy Assistant Commissioner’s fuchsia-pink polo shirt. It looked as if Dudley had been diverted to New Scotland Yard on his way to the golf course and wasn’t too happy about it.

  ‘How’s the conference going?’ he asked.

  ‘Very interesting.’ Simpson felt the BlackBerry vibrate in her hand. This time she ignored the message. ‘It is nice to be able to get the chance to . . . engage with colleagues.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. These things cost a bloody fortune. And I sometimes worry that you just don’t spend enough time bonding with your peers.’

  Simpson looked at him curiously but said nothing.

  ‘Right, anyway . . .’ Whitehead picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and waved it in front of his face. ‘I need an update on this Belsky situation.’

  Simpson nodded sagely. What Belsky situation?

  ‘The Commissioner is worried that it could go all over the place.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘He needs to know that it will be dealt with as quickly and as quietly as possible, with the needs of all stakeholders given full consideration.’

  Stakeholders? What the hell was he talking about? Simpson vaguely recalled the Met had sent Whitehead on an MBA course the previous year. He must have picked up this jargon at business school. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think we can manage it.’

  The Deputy Assistant Commissioner looked at her, unconvinced. On the other hand, his tee time was in little more than an hour. His driver would be pushed to get him out of London in time. ‘Have you got the right people on it?’

  ‘I am happy for now,’ Simpson replied, ‘but we will be keeping it under close review.’

  ‘The Commissioner mentioned your man . . .’ he looked down at his sheet of paper ‘. . . Carlyle.’

  Simpson’s heart sank. The one bloody inspector in the whole of London known – by name – to the Commissioner and she was responsible for him. ‘What about him?’

  Whitehead wiped his porcine brow. ‘He’s . . . controversial.’

  ‘He’s effective,’ Simpson shot back. This was not the first time she’d had this type of conversation and the Commander knew her lines off by heart.

  ‘Are you keeping him on a tight leash?’

  As if. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the best we can hope for at this stage,’ Whitehead sighed. ‘Just make sure that he keeps you fully informed at all times.’

  The little bastard never keeps me in the loop. Simpson stifled a laugh. ‘That won’t be a problem, sir. The inspector is extremely competent when it comes to lines of reporting.’

  ‘Good.’ Whitehead glanced at the clock on the wall behind Simpson’s head. He really was pushed for time now. That Calloway RAZR X driver he had his eye on would have to stay in the Pro’s Shop at least until after his round. ‘And be quick. We don’t want MI5 coming in and taking over our investigation, do we?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Taking her cue from the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Simpson jumped to her feet and headed for the door. MI5? What the hell had Carlyle dragged her into now?

  SEVENTEEN

  Dabbing at the corner of her eye with a paper napkin, Elma Reyes shot an accusing stare at her lawyer.

  ‘The amount of money I pay you, I’d have thought you could get him out.’

  Michelangelo Federici shook his head sadly. Clients were unrealistic at the best of times – and this was not the best of times. ‘Elma,’ he said gently, ‘the boy attacked a guy with an axe. The guy died.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Elma hissed. Looking around the café, she took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘Taimur didn’t kill the guy, did he?’

  Federici stared into the dregs of his elderflower tea. ‘That depends on your view of cause and effect.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Never mind. Look, at least you got to see him before they remanded him.’

  At the mention of prison, Elma’s eyes started welling up again. ‘You should have got him out,’ she sobbed. ‘Now he’s locked up with a bunch of hardcore criminals. God knows what will happen.’

  I’m sure you’ve said a prayer for him, Federici thought tartly. All this maternal grief would be more convincing if it wasn’t for the fact that their visit to Charing Cross was the first time that Elma had seen her son in almost a year. Since he had been a teenager, the boy had chosen to live with his father. All Elma’s energy had gone into building up the Christian Salvation Centre. This was one family for whom charity most definitely did not begin at home.

  ‘Have you spoken to Calvin?’ he asked.

  For a moment, it looked like Elma might choke on her tea. She cleared her throat. ‘Why in God’s name would I want to do that?’

  Gazing out of the window, Federici watched a young woman stroll past with a poodle on a leash. The poodle’s fur had been dyed pink. People can be such dicks, he thought. ‘He is the boy’s father.’

  Elma grunted her displeasure at being reminded of such an unsavoury fact.

  ‘Look,’ Federici took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a twenty-pound note to pay their bill, ‘I know that you and Calvin are not in regular contact.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to that . . . we haven’t talked in almost ten years.’

  ‘But the point is that you have to now, for Taimur’s sake.’

  Staring at the ceiling, Elma Reyes said nothing.

  Carlyle breezed past the front desk, doing a double-take as he took in the man in the crazy yellow suit. Some kind of dress tartan, he mused to himself, digging down deep into his Scottish DNA. Waving his arms around, the guy was clearly irritated as a young PC fluttered aimlessly at his shoulder.

  ‘How long does it take to get a damn piece of paper around here?’ The accent was American, the body language universal.

  Just another tourist who has come a cropper in the world’s greatest city, the inspector thought disinterestedly. Slipping through the doors leading to the station proper, he skipped up the stairs and into Interview Room 1C on the first floor. As he entered the room, a young girl who had to be Joanne Belsky looked up from behind her Beano.

  The Beano. He didn’t even know it was still going.

  For a second, his thoughts drifted back to memories of Calamity James and Alexander Lemming. Maybe, if he asked nicely, the girl might let him have a quick peek. ‘You must be Joanne.’

  Saying nothing, the child slid back behind her comic.

  ‘Where’s your mother, then?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  He turned to find an harassed-looking woman standing in the doorway. ‘I’m Stephanie Belsky.’ Slim, almost as tall as the inspector himself, she was wearing a brown leather jacket over a pearl-grey silk blouse, not too much make-up and her hair cut short, but not too short. All in all, a fairly standard yummy mummy look.

  Belsky offered him her hand. Pushing back his shoulders slightly, he shook it limply and said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle.’

  Removing a stray strand of hair from her face, Stephanie Belsky looked him up and down, giving no indication that she was in any way impressed. ‘And you’ve met Joanne.’

  ‘Yes.
’

  ‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ He invited her to take a seat next to her daughter. ‘I was one of the officers on the scene after the initial attack. Our condolences . . . to you both.’

  Pulling out a chair, Stephanie Belsky acknowledged the stilted expression of sympathy with a curt nod. ‘Were you the one who found him?’

  ‘Your father?’ Carlyle glanced at the child but she did not look up. ‘No, that was one of my colleagues.’

  The admission seemed to sour her mood still further. ‘So, what is it that you need from us now?’

  ‘Well,’ Carlyle took a deep breath, ‘as Joanne was there . . .’

  To further illustrate her exasperation with the forces of so-called law and order, Stephanie Belsky began drumming her bright red nails on the table.

  ‘. . . we would like to get a statement.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘I thought that you had a confession?’

  How did she know that? ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘So why do you need to put Joanne through all that again by making her give you a statement?’

  ‘Mum.’ With a theatrical flourish, Joanne placed her comic on the table. ‘For God’s sake. It’s not like I saw the guy put an axe in Grandpa’s head. I’m hardly traumatized. We’re all going to die in the end.’

  An awkward silence descended on the interview room. Her mother looked like she wanted to give the girl a clip round the ear, but reluctantly thought better of it. Biting his lip, the inspector tried not to smile. He was liking Joanne Belsky just fine.

  Stephanie Belsky shot the inspector an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry. She’s always been very . . . forceful.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘She got into trouble at school,’ the woman added ruefully, ‘for telling the other kids that Santa Claus didn’t exist – she was only four at the time.’

  ‘Well, he doesn’t,’ Joanne said flatly, ‘does he?’

  ‘You sound like my daughter,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘She is very forceful too.’

  Joanne gave a sympathetic nod. ‘How old is she? As old as me?’

  ‘A bit older. She runs rings round her old dad.’

  Both females gave him a look which said that shouldn’t be too difficult.

  Joanne let her gaze fall to the desk. ‘My dad ran away when I was little. Mum says that he was a right—’

  ‘That’s more than enough,’ said Stephanie Belsky, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘If you are going to give the inspector a statement, let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘The kid left her comic in the interview room.’ The desk sergeant waved the well-thumbed copy of the Beano at Carlyle. ‘I used to read this as a kid,’ he smiled.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I didn’t know they still published it.’

  ‘Yeah. A bit of a miracle in this day and age.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Shame about the Dandy, though.’

  Carlyle suddenly felt a twinge of nostalgia for Desperate Dan, Korky the Cat and Bananaman. ‘What happened to the Dandy?’

  ‘They closed it down,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It might still be online. But the comic was only selling eight thousand copies a week. When we were kids it sold millions, literally.’

  ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said the sergeant, with feeling. ‘Kids don’t read any more. God knows what they teach ’em in the bloody schools these days. They just play bloody computer games all day. Can’t be right, can it?’

  ‘Things are different now.’

  ‘S’pose.’ The sergeant didn’t seem too happy about it.

  ‘Anyway, Joanne Belsky still reads. She seems a very smart girl.’ Carlyle stepped over to the front desk and took the comic from the sergeant. ‘I’ll get it back to her.’ He half-turned away and then remembered something from his mental To Do list. ‘By the way,’ he said, turning back to face the desk, ‘Chris Brennan.’

  The sergeant’s face soured. Ambulance-chasing lawyers were never popular at Charing Cross, and Brennan, an ex-public schoolboy with the face of an angel and the morals of a sewer rat, was one of the worst.

  ‘I got a message that he was looking for me yesterday. Any idea what he wanted?’

  ‘I wasn’t on yesterday.’ The sergeant began flicking through the outsized day book on his desk. ‘And I don’t think there’s a note.’ He ran a finger down the relevant pages. ‘Nope . . . can’t see anything.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘I’m sure that if he’s after something he’ll track me down soon enough.’

  ‘You can bet on that.’

  Yes, thought Carlyle unhappily, I suppose I can.

  Where the hell was Calamity James? An increasingly disgruntled inspector flicked through the pages of the Beano for a second time, just to be sure that he hadn’t missed it. With a sigh, he had to admit the truth: at some point over the last forty-plus years, it looked like his favourite cartoon character had been axed. ‘Ridiculous,’ he hissed. ‘Bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘So this is how you spend your time, is it? Reading comics?’

  Urgh. Looking up, Carlyle saw Carole Simpson hovering at his shoulder. He had been too busy agonizing over Calamity to notice his boss sneaking up on him.

  ‘Good morning to you too.’

  Simpson pointed to the clock on the far wall. ‘I’ll think you’ll find it’s now the afternoon, Inspector.’ The meeting with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner had left the Commander in a foul mood. Her headache had returned with a vengeance and she needed some sleep. Worst of all, Lover Boy was texting her every two minutes from the bloody conference.

  ‘Good afternoon, Commander.’ Tossing the comic on his desk, Carlyle made no effort to get up. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Fine,’ Simpson lied. Perching on the corner of his desk, she folded her arms. He was trying not to stare, but the inspector could see that she looked knackered. Washed out. Or, perhaps she was just hungover? He gave a discreet sniff. Was that booze he could smell? Maybe.

  Facing conflicting emotions, Carlyle played for time. Seeing his boss looking like shit always brought out his cheery side. On the other hand, the Commander – based up the road at the Paddington Green station – rarely appeared at Charing Cross. Her arrival invariably meant that someone was going to get a bollocking; and usually, that ‘someone’ was the inspector himself.

  ‘So,’ he asked, ‘to what do we owe this pleasure?’

  Simpson leaned thirty degrees forward in a vaguely threatening manner. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Joseph Belsky?’

  Belsky, of course. He had deliberately avoided the media reporting of the cartoonist’s death. Ultimately, it was just another freakshow for so-called ‘normal’ people to gawp at. All the inevitable bullshit handwringing was intensely annoying. Scratching his head, the inspector tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you unnecessarily. It’s all sorted. I was just about to write my report.’

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ Simpson parroted.

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle said evenly, beginning to wonder if she knew something that he didn’t. ‘Done and dusted. We have a full confession from Taimur Rage, the unfortunately-named axe man, and I got a statement this morning from the young granddaughter, who was in the flat at the time. Forensics are doing their thing. Once the autopsy on Belsky is in, the CPS or whoever can take a view on the precise charges and then the lawyers can sort it out.’ He tried to go for an innocent smile. ‘Simple.’

  Swaying slightly, Simpson looked at him with a deep suspicion based on years of experience.

  You’re not going to throw up over me, are you? Carlyle wondered. As a precautionary measure, he began edging his chair away from his desk. ‘What?’

  ‘This mad axe man. What about accomplices?’

  The inspector made a face. ‘He says he did it on his own.’r />
  ‘Come on, John. Terrorists don’t work alone.’

  ‘Nutters who go around waving axes do.’

  ‘Belsky had a bounty on his head.’

  Carlyle edged away a little more, until he could go no further without it being obvious. ‘Look, Taimur looks very much like your average brainless teenager. He’s probably spent the last couple of years sat in a dark room watching videos of IEDs going off in Afghanistan whereas, if he was a normal lad, he’d be sitting with a jumbo box of tissues, watching porn.’

  The last microns of colour drained from Simpson’s face. ‘John, for God’s sake.’

  ‘The point is,’ said Carlyle, beginning to get exasperated, ‘that the wiring in his brain might be off a bit, but only by so much.’ He held up a hand, positioning his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. ‘I’m sure that the boys at MI5 can have lots of fun with his computer, but they’re not going to find evidence of a terrorist, just a fairly basic teenage fuck-up.’ He stopped, surprised by his strength of feeling on the matter. In total, he had probably only spent about an hour in the presence of Taimur Rage but the inspector knew instinctively what he was dealing with.

  ‘Quite a fuck-up,’ Simpson mused.

  ‘No question of that.’ Carlyle was pleased that his superior was at least prepared to consider his point of view. ‘He’ll definitely be spending some time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. But he’s just a bit thick. As far as I can see, he wasn’t motivated by money and he’s definitely not part of some sleeper cell. Go and talk to him for five minutes and you’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. They took him to Belmarsh this morning – which is overkill in itself. Putting him in a high security prison is just for show. This is all about internal politics and external PR.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  As always.

  ‘But that doesn’t matter.’