by James Craig
Carlyle looked over at the lawyer, who was staring at his hands. ‘Yes, but—’
‘As God is my witness, I told you what happened,’ she said defiantly, her eyes shining with an emotion that Carlyle couldn’t quite place. ‘Now surely it’s up to you to go and get the damn evidence.’
TWENTY-NINE
Deeply irritated by Elma Reyes’ crude attempt to bully him into hassling her husband, Carlyle was in a foul mood as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Ignoring the two guys hovering near his desk, he scanned the room looking for his sergeant. Where the hell was Umar?
With a weary sigh, the inspector sat down and began banging on his keyboard. He still hadn’t submitted his final report on Taimur Rage to Simpson. It was a bit academic now, but the Commander liked her paperwork. If he didn’t get it over to her soon-ish, she would be on his case.
‘Inspector John Carlyle?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle mumbled, not looking up as he continued typing, ‘that’s me.’
Why couldn’t people just bloody leave him alone? Holding up his left hand, he continued typing with his right. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy right now, so if it can wait . . .’
‘It can’t.’ The stony reply was followed by a warrant card being waved in front of his face.
‘Fuck.’ Pushing back his chair, the inspector looked up to see a small round guy with a completely bald head and a rather spectacular handlebar moustache staring back at him. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket and a navy polo-neck jumper of the kind that had rarely been seen in London since the late 1970s. Behind him stood a younger, taller guy sporting a T-shirt showing a line of guitars over the legend Choose Your Weapons. With hair down to his shoulders and a dopey expression on his face, he looked like something out of a Bill & Ted movie.
Not the fashion police, then, Carlyle thought unkindly.
‘I’m DI Ron Flux and this is Sergeant Adrian Napper. We’re from the Hammersmith station.’
‘Nice to meet you guys,’ Carlyle lied unconvincingly. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
Scratching his ’tache, Flux made a show of giving Carlyle the once-over. ‘We want to talk to you about Sandra Middlemass.’
Trooping his colleagues back down the stairs, Carlyle took them to the interview room that had just been vacated by Elma Reyes and her lawyer. Flopping into the seat last used by Michelangelo Federici he gave a thin smile. ‘Okay, so who is . . .’
‘Sandra Middlemass,’ said Napper, taking the seat opposite.
‘Sandra Middlemass,’ Flux repeated, leaning back against the wall, ‘was a fifteen year old from White City who disappeared three months ago.’
‘Okay.’
‘Before she vanished, one of the last places she was seen was the Persian Palace.’
It took the inspector a moment to place the name. ‘Calvin Safi’s kebab shop?’
‘Exactly.’ Pulling out a chair, Flux finally sat down. ‘Sandra used to hang out there a lot.’ Taking a photo out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he flicked it across the table. Carlyle stopped it before it fell off the edge, picked it up and made a show of studying the girl’s nondescript face.
‘In fact,’ Flux continued, ‘she spent more time there than she did at school. One of the worst attendance records at Phoenix High School. By all accounts, a complete waste of space. But just a kid, nonetheless.’
Handing back the picture, Carlyle recalled his visit to the shop and the girl in the rear booth. Leather jacket and eye-liner. Looked like she was off her face on something.
Flux stuffed the picture back in his pocket.
Napper idly scratched one of the guitars on his T-shirt. ‘What were you doing at the Persian Palace?’
‘After we arrested Taimur Rage,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I went to see the father.’
The two officers looked at each other. ‘What did Taimur do?’ Napper asked.
‘Are you serious?’ Carlyle laughed. All he got in return was a couple of blank looks. ‘Where have you been the last few days? Have you not seen the papers?’
Flux shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m just back from holiday. Two weeks’ fishing in Ireland. I was in the middle of nowhere.’ Looking down at the table, his sergeant said nothing.
‘Okay, well . . .’ Carlyle gave them the two-minute version of events.
‘So Taimur finally lost the plot,’ Flux observed. ‘Doesn’t really surprise me. The boy never struck me as being all there.’
‘The whole family’s fairly fucked up,’ Napper mused.
Flux smiled at Carlyle. ‘Nice for you, though.’
‘What?’
‘The kid confesses and then tops himself. If only it were always that simple.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but back to the matter in hand, what do you want from me?’
‘When you went round there,’ Napper asked, ‘did you find out anything interesting?’
‘Not really.’ Carlyle pretended to think about it for a moment. ‘The boy’s room had been cleaned out by MI5.’
‘Those muppets,’ Flux groaned. ‘What do they want?’
‘They see this as an organized terrorist attack,’ Carlyle said.
‘An attack on the very fabric of civilized society,’ Flux quipped, parroting the standard line in official bullshit for such occasions.
‘Exactly. As such, they want to track down other members of Taimur’s cell, so that we can all sleep more easily in our beds.’
‘Ha. What cell? That boy couldn’t organize shit,’ Flux scoffed. ‘It’s a miracle that he was able to get out of bed in the morning.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but they have to tick all the boxes. Imagine if someone else popped up and they hadn’t been seen to take it seriously?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Flux, clearly as unconvinced as the inspector.
‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I had a look around and a chat with Calvin. He just seemed a bit worn down by the whole thing.’
‘I wouldn’t be taken in by that struggling small businessman act,’ Flux snorted. ‘He’s a right bastard.’
‘Two drugs convictions,’ Napper chimed in, ‘for possession with intent to supply.’
Maybe Elma Reyes had a point, Carlyle thought glumly.
‘Plus one for assault. And another for false imprisonment.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
‘A twenty-year-old girl claimed he locked her in a room on the first floor for a couple of hours.’ Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, Flux leaned across the table. ‘And four months before she went missing, Sandra Middlemass turned up at Shepherd’s Bush police station to make a complaint.’
‘About Safi?’
Flux grimaced. ‘We don’t know. It wasn’t properly investigated.’
You mean it wasn’t checked at all, Carlyle thought. ‘So how did you guys get involved?’
‘I know Sandra’s family.’
Carlyle waited for further explanation. When it wasn’t forth-coming, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Fine. Okay, well, sorry I can’t be of more help. From my end, the Taimur Rage investigation is more or less done. But if anything that might be of interest comes up, I’ll shout.’
‘Thanks.’ Pulling a business card from his pocket, Flux handed it over.
‘No problem.’ Taking the card, Carlyle shuffled from the room, leaving his visitors to find their own way out.
THIRTY
‘Even by your standards, this is a bit of a mess.’ The outsized reporter took his empty crisp packet in both hands and began carefully folding it into quarters.
Carlyle wasn’t going to disagree. ‘Kind of you to point that out,’ he said morosely from behind his demitasse.
‘Just an observation.’
Bernie Gilmore had chosen the small café in a side street off Soho Square, just south of the permanent traffic jam that was Oxford Street. The original Uruguayan owner of the Café Montevideo had gone decades ago. But his successor
s had kept its name and also its reputation for good, cheap food. A great spot for people-watching, it was also far enough from his home turf for the inspector to be able to relax a little over his elevenses.
Ringing up to suggest the meeting, Carlyle had requested that they go somewhere not too close to Charing Cross. In his book, that basically meant west of Charing Cross Road and north of Old Compton Street. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed to be seen in Bernie’s company, but there was no need to be seen too close to the station while in the act of shamelessly breaking bread with such a notorious muck-raker. After all the recent scandals concerning police officers selling information to reporters, the inspector didn’t want to get a reputation for being too chummy with journalists. As a rule of thumb, he normally gave most hacks short shrift. But he had an occasionally symbiotic relationship with Gilmore based on the careful exchange of information. No money ever changed hands.
Bored with his origami, Bernie tossed the crisp packet amidst the remnants of food on his plate. Then he toyed with his Coca-Cola can, taking a swig before asking: ‘Have you seen Seymour Erikssen recently?’
Wondering how much more baiting he would have to endure before they got down to business, Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘So the world’s crappest burglar is not on the Met’s Most Wanted list any more, then?’
Finishing his espresso, the inspector returned the cup to its saucer. ‘As you know, I’ve been rather busy.’
Stroking his chin, Bernie grunted his commiserations. Their last face-to-face meeting had been months earlier, in a pub just down the road. Since then, the journo had shaved off his beard and invested in a new hairstyle, a rather severe all-over number one. The effect was to make his face look fatter than ever, even though the inspector guessed that Bernie might actually have lost a little weight in recent times, given the reduced swell beneath his grubby T-shirt.
‘I hear that Seymour’s been quite the busy bee, up the West End. Knocked off a couple of high-end hotel rooms. Rich pickings. A few tourists have been taken to the cleaners.’
Good for him, Carlyle thought irritably. He vaguely remembered having heard something about it, but hadn’t connected it to Seymour. Maybe he should go and pay him a visit – see if he could manage to nick the old bugger properly this time. Even better, he could get Umar to do it. The thought of delegating such a chore made him perk up.
Bernie waved the Coke can in front of his face. ‘Shame you couldn’t manage to keep hold of him.’
‘Don’t worry, you know he’ll be back behind bars soon enough.’
‘That’s a nice picture story,’ Bernie grunted. ‘I’m more interested in words. Do you know anything about the bloke who was stabbed on the bike?’
‘The guy on the naked bike ride?’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. That isn’t me. Postic and Shames are dealing with it.’
‘Okay, I’ll give them a call.’
Is there anyone on the force you don’t know? Carlyle wondered.
‘Strange way to go, totally naked in a London Street.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Probably some kind of domestic.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Bernie made a face. ‘Guy was probably wiggling his willy at the wrong bird – or the wrong bloke – on the wrong bike.’
‘Maybe.’ Carlyle couldn’t care less.
‘Postic’s on it, you say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Excellent,’ Bernie beamed. ‘Julie Postic’s a good sort.’
I hope you’re not saying that about me to anyone.
Leaning forward, Bernie gave the inspector a gentle pat on the arm with his free hand. ‘Almost as good as you.’
Fuck. ‘Can we get down to the matter in hand?’ Carlyle asked, his patience exhausted.
Downing the last of his drink, Bernie daintily placed the empty can back on the table. ‘You called this meeting, Inspector. What exactly is the matter in hand?’
‘Taimur Rage.’
‘Ah, yes. I wrote about him this morning.’
‘I read it,’ Carlyle lied. ‘Nice piece.’
‘I did what I could. But really, it’s watery gruel.’
‘Not according to the spooks.’
‘Ha. All this terrorist stuff is just so much nonsense.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘What I don’t understand is why you didn’t go and speak to his psychiatrist.’
Psychiatrist? What bloody psychiatrist? ‘Well,’ Carlyle blustered, ‘to be fair, once he topped himself, it was case over.’
‘Surely you have to tie up the loose ends?’
The inspector chuckled. ‘That would be a waste of precious time and resources.’
‘Well, anyway, I thought that she was a very eloquent and engaging woman.’
‘Name?’
‘Janice Anderson. She works at a place called the Doppio Clinic.’
Carlyle pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket and began typing. ‘How do you spell that?’
Bernie obliged. Then: ‘It’s just off Southampton Row, up towards Euston.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Like I said, Janice is very impressive. I think she tried very hard to bring the young man out of his dreamlike state. In the end, some people are just beyond help.’
‘Hm.’ Carlyle didn’t set much store by this. He knew that journalists were very much like policemen – very good at making snap judgements based only on their superficial first impressions. Even so, it would be worth chasing down the shrink to see what she had to say about her patient.
‘Surely it’s clear to anyone who bothers to look that poor Taimur Rage was just another social inadequate living in a fantasy world,’ Bernie said. ‘There are so many of them these days.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe you should mention it to your colleagues in M15 – save them wasting their precious time and resources in the fight for freedom.’
‘They’re not my colleagues,’ Carlyle said stiffly. ‘Hopefully, they’ll have read your wonderful article and gone off to chase someone else.’
‘The price of freedom,’ Bernie sighed, ‘is eternal vigilance.’
‘Handy, that.’
The fat man laughed. ‘You are such a complete cynic, Inspector. That’s why I like you.’
Carlyle gave a small bow. ‘Don’t you get fed up,’ he asked, ‘writing about this bollocks all the time?’
Sitting back on his chair and gazing out at the endless stream of people floating past, Bernie adopted a sage tone: ‘It is, simply, the stuff of life.’
‘And death.’
‘Of course. Poor Taimur. But he is yesterday’s story. Gone and forgotten. It’s as if he never existed. Happens to everyone.’
‘What about his father?’
Bernie raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What about him?’
‘I hear that he’s quite a character.’ Carlyle recounted what the Hammersmith officers, Flux and Napper, had told him about Calvin Safi and the missing girl, Sandra Middlemass.
‘So, the Hammersmith plods, they think . . . what?’ Bernie asked when he had finished. ‘That the guy was using his kebab shop as a brothel?’
‘Dunno,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘And he killed the girl because she wanted to get off the game?’
‘No idea.’
Bernie let out a deep breath. ‘It’s all a bit speculative – even for me – but it might make a story. I’ll take a look.’ He scratched his nose, distracted by the engine of a canary-yellow Porsche as it roared sixty yards down the road at what seemed like eighty miles an hour. He waited until the car disappeared round the next corner. ‘The boy Taimur lived with his father?’
‘Yes.’
‘So where’s the mother?’
‘They divorced years ago.’ Looking across the room, the inspector signalled to the girl behind the counter that he wanted the bill. ‘She seems quite a piece of work, as well.’
‘You�
�ve met her?’
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle struggled to remember the woman’s name. ‘Very in your face.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ Bernie sighed.
‘Ella . . .’ no, he was getting his names muddled up, ‘or rather, Elma. Elma Reyes.’ The waitress appeared and placed the bill on the table. Carlyle hesitated for a second, just in case Bernie felt like offering to pay. He should have known better; when the two of them dined out, the convention was always that the inspector picked up the tab.
‘Elma Reyes?’ Bernie watched as Carlyle found his wallet, reluctantly pulled out a twenty-pound note and put it with the bill. ‘A small black woman who likes speaking in tongues?’
‘Small black woman, yes. But when I met her, she was speaking normally.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No, no. She was speaking the Queen’s English. More or less.’
‘No, I meant: Elma is Taimur Rage’s mother? Are you sure? The Elma Reyes?’
‘I suppose so.’ The inspector had no idea what Bernie was banging on about. ‘How many of them are there?’
The waitress appeared to scoop up the cash and Bernie cheerily waved her away. ‘Keep the change.’ The girl smiled and scuttled back behind the counter.
That’s very generous of you, Carlyle thought resentfully. ‘What’s the big deal about Elma Reyes?’
‘She runs her own church in South London,’ Bernie explained. ‘The Salvation Church of Something or other. I did an exposé on her a couple of years ago. It was a nice little scam she had going, fleecing the lame-brained of Crystal Palace. And she was shagging her masseur, or someone, if I remember rightly.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Carlyle recalled what Calvin Safi had told him. ‘She runs her own church. So what?’
‘So what?’ Bernie cackled. ‘So what? You really don’t know what makes news, do you?’
‘No, that’s why I’m a policeman.’
Bernie quoted: ‘Suicide bomber’s mum born-again preacher – good story.’