by James Craig
‘Taimur had an axe, not a bomb.’
‘Whatever.’
‘And he wasn’t trying to kill himself.’
‘You can be so bloody literal. It’s a broad term – the readers will know what I’m banging on about. Anyway, he died in the end, didn’t he?’
Carlyle groaned. The meeting had gone tits up and lunch had cost him twenty quid. Why did he bother? ‘Bernie . . .’
An alarming gleam had appeared in the hack’s eye. He smiled at a little old woman shuffling along on the street outside. Studiously ignoring him, the woman went on her way. ‘I can get the front page for this. With a bit of luck. On a slow day’
‘She’s got a lawyer – a guy called Federici.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Even if Elma won’t talk to me, it’s gonna be page two or three. I have good contacts in her organization.’ The journalist jumped to his feet. ‘Looks like you might have redeemed yourself after the Seymour Erikssen fiasco.’
The inspector’s mood lightened somewhat at the thought of redemption. ‘Jolly good.’
‘This is one of those stories that writes itself.’ He patted Carlyle on the shoulder. ‘They’re the best kind.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘And, as my special bonus gift for you, I’ll see what I can find out about the father.’
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure. I’ll be in touch.’
THIRTY-ONE
Feeling rather sorry for himself, Umar Sligo walked down the Strand, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets as an unseasonably chilly wind whistled past his head. His dinner with Christina had been flat; a combination of poor food, poor service and continual fretting about Ella meant that their date had been only marginally more fun than the night spent trying to rescue Joseph Belsky from his toilet. Christina had insisted on calling Helen as soon as they had arrived at the table. When the number had been engaged, it had taken him almost five minutes to talk her out of immediately fleeing the restaurant and rushing straight back to the Carlyles’ flat. Even then, she had managed another three calls and two texts in the course of a meal lasting barely an hour and a quarter.
Ella, of course, had been fine. When they had gone to pick her up, the child had been fast asleep. But that didn’t stop her from kicking off on the cab journey home. The usual fractured night followed; his dreams of Melissa Graham regularly interrupted by extended periods of pacing the living-room carpet trying to ease the baby back to sleep.
It was after 4.30 a.m. when he’d finally got to sleep himself. Then, of course, he’d slept through the alarm and only woken up an hour after his shift had been due to start. As he rounded the corner into Agar Street, he braced himself for the inevitable dressing down that Carlyle would only too happily deliver.
As if on cue, the mobile in his pocket started rumbling.
‘Boss . . .’
The inspector didn’t stand on any ceremony. ‘Where are you at the moment?’
‘Just heading into the station.’
‘Busy morning?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘Okay, well, look, there’s something I need you to do.’ As Carlyle explained what he wanted, Umar’s mood began to brighten. It looked like the aforementioned bollocking was not going to materialize after all.
Problems on the Bakerloo Line meant that it took Umar about forty-five minutes to make the journey from Charing Cross to St John’s Wood. Although still in the centre of London, Boyle Avenue was a different world, a suburban tree-lined road where mock-Tudor mansions hid behind tall hedges, thick security gates and state-of-the-art CCTV systems. If you wanted to buy into this neighbourhood, a property would cost well north of ten million.
Placards on the lampposts informed any unwelcome visitors that the residents were being protected 24/7 by a private security firm. That was the thing about having too much money, Umar supposed: it made you paranoid.
Crossing the street, something didn’t feel right. It took him a few moments to realize what it was: the place was empty. No cars on the road. No pedestrians on the pavements. No security guards anywhere. Since arriving in London, this was the first time Umar could ever recall being alone on a street.
Number 72 stood behind a ten-foot brick wall. In the middle was a large grey metal gate which slid open to allow vehicle access to the property. Beside it was a smaller gate which allowed pedestrian access under the gaze of a fish-eye lens. Stepping in front of the lens, Umar pressed the intercom and waited. A few moments later, a maid answered and, after checking his ID, buzzed him inside.
As he walked up the short gravel driveway, the front door opened. The woman standing beside it, however, was clearly not the help. Wearing tight white jeans and a paisley silk blouse, she swayed slightly in the doorway as he approached. On first glance, Umar put her at maybe early forties. Tanned, with blonde hair that reached her shoulders, she had a well-preserved look that suggested both plenty of money and the time to spend it.
Approaching the door, he held up his ID for a second time.
‘Mrs Winters?’
‘Yes.’ Ignoring the warrant card, Giselle Winters looked at the young sergeant and licked her lips. ‘Another policeman?’ Her accent was noticeable, but he couldn’t place it.
Umar held up the bag he was carrying. ‘I have your husband’s briefcase.’
‘You’d better come in then.’ Turning, she disappeared back down the hall. ‘Close the door behind you.’
The hallway ran the length of the house to a kitchen at the rear. Through patio doors was a large garden, which backed on to the house on the next street. At the far end, a couple of women were on their knees planting a flowerbed.
‘It’s such hard work.’
‘Sorry?’
Mrs Winters gazed at the expanse of green that was the lawn. ‘The garden. It costs an absolute fortune to keep it looking good.’
‘Hm.’ I bet it’s not the only thing.
‘Take a seat.’ The woman pointed to a series of stools lined up against an island that looked bigger than the entire kitchen in Umar’s flat. ‘Drink?’
‘That would be great, thanks.’ Trying not to gawp too openly, the sergeant took in his surroundings.
‘What would you like?’
‘Tea would be good.’ Umar hoisted himself on to one of the bar stools. ‘Maybe peppermint?’ He ran a hand along the cool black granite work surface. The place was straight out of one of those magazines that Christina liked to read, Homes & Gardens. Everything looked shiny, expensive and unused. Surrounded by such wealth, he suddenly felt energized for the first time in months.
‘I was thinking of something maybe a little stronger.’ From the other side of the island, Winters lifted her glass without taking a sip. Standing next to a vase filled with white roses, Umar noticed the half-empty bottle of vodka.
At this time of the day? The signals from his brain, however, weren’t reaching his mouth. ‘Sure,’ he grinned, ‘why not?’
‘Good for you.’ As she reached for the bottle, Umar’s eyes were inevitably drawn to the front of her blouse.
Catching his gaze, Giselle Winters leaned a little further forward to give the young policeman a better view. ‘Ice?’
‘No, thank you. Straight is fine.’ Trying to re-focus on the matter in hand, Umar hoisted her late husband’s briefcase onto the worktop. ‘I have to apologize that it has taken so long to return this to you.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ Winters poured a large measure into a tumbler and handed him his drink.
‘Thanks.’
Slinking round the island, she raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ Umar took the tiniest sip of his drink.
Gulping her vodka, Giselle Winters nodded towards the bag. ‘I can’t believe that there is anything of much interest in there, anyway.’
‘Perhaps not. But it is my responsibility to make sure that it is returned to you. And there were also a couple of things I was wondering if I could ask you about.�
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A sly grin passed across the widow’s face. ‘First things first,’ she purred, slipping her free hand between his thighs. ‘We can talk later.’
THIRTY-TWO
Sitting up in bed, Giselle Winters reached over and plucked a packet of Rothman’s King Size from the bedside table. ‘Want one?’
Scratching his balls, Umar shook his head.
Pulling a cigarette from the packet, she placed it between her lips and reached for a lighter. After lighting up, she inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke for five or six seconds before exhaling towards the ceiling. ‘I needed that.’
Me too, thought Umar. If there was to be any guilt attached to what he had just done, it would have to come later. At the moment, he just felt pleased with himself.
‘That was really quite something. Not bad for a first run.’
A first run?
‘You know, before now, I hadn’t had sex for almost a year.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
The tell-tale scars confirmed what he already knew – but the breast-enhancement surgery had not been too outrageous. Clocking her erect nipples, Umar felt himself begin to stiffen again.
‘Ever since my husband started seeing his whore, I made him sleep in his own room.’
‘You were getting a divorce?’
‘Of course. What else should I have done?’ Taking another drag on her cigarette, she patted him on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, it seems that I wasn’t the only one who needed to get laid.’
Saying nothing, Umar propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the bedroom for the first time. On the far wall was a large oil painting in a heavy gilt frame. The smiling nude, hands on hips, breasts thrust forward, looked familiar. ‘Is that you?’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Very nice.’ He squinted at the picture for a few seconds. Maybe airbrushed a bit . . .
Winters mentioned the name of an artist that Umar had never heard of. ‘He said I was a great subject.’
‘Cool.’ He wanted something to eat. ‘I’m starving.’
Giselle Winters, however, had other ideas. Stubbing the remains of her cigarette into an ashtray on the bedside table, she caressed him under the duvet. ‘More of this,’ she murmured, ‘then food.’
He was just about to hang up when a bright and breezy voice came on the line.
‘This is the Doppio Clinic. How may I help you?’
‘I would like to speak to Janice Anderson,’ Carlyle replied, trying not to sound too grumpy at being kept on hold for so long, ‘please.’
‘I’m afraid that Dr Anderson is with a patient at the moment.’
‘When will she be free?’
‘Hold, please . . .’
Stay calm, he told himself, it’s not a big deal.
After a short while, the receptionist came back on the line. ‘I can book you in for an appointment, next Wednesday at three. Or we have a slot available on Friday at eleven thirty.’
‘I don’t want an appointment,’ he said snappishly, ‘I just want to know when Janice . . . Dr Anderson will be free today.’
‘Are you a new patient?’ the girl asked, sounding more like a machine now than a human being who could hold an actual conversation. Maybe that’s it, Carlyle thought. Maybe I’m not talking to a person at all, just some high-end automated booking system.
‘I am not a patient,’ he said firmly.
‘We have Wednesday at three . . .’
He glanced at his watch. His sugar-levels were plummeting. Lunch was overdue. ‘What time does the doctor’s last appointment finish today?’
There was a pause. ‘We cannot give out that information. Do you want to leave a message for the doctor?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.’ Ending the call, the inspector slipped the phone back into his pocket. The shrink could wait; it was time to eat.
The gardeners had left. Dropping his head, Umar gave himself a discreet sniff. Even after a shower, he could still smell the not-so grieving widow on his skin. For sure, he couldn’t risk presenting himself in front of Christina like this. But that was okay, since he had a plan: after work he would go for a swim at the Oasis, before heading for home.
What he was going to do about the scratches was another matter. He was certainly going to need a decent story to cover his afternoon activities. The Swiss railway clock on the wall told him that he should have been back at the station a couple of hours ago. And a glance at his mobile told him he had four messages. He was in no hurry to check them.
Catching the worried look on the sergeant’s face, Giselle Winters gave him a consolatory smile. Placing a bowl of cherry tomatoes on to the table, she stared at the wedding ring on Umar’s hand. ‘Feeling a bit guilty?’
‘No, no,’ Umar lied. ‘Everything’s good.’ Anyway, even if it isn’t, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He watched as his hostess placed some ciabatta, cheese, olives, water and a bottle of white wine on the work surface in front of him. His appetite, however, had gone. Helping himself to a small bottle of Evian, he made no effort to reach for the food.
‘Not hungry?’ Winters asked. ‘I’m ravenous.’ She began piling food on her plate. ‘You must have burnt off some calories up there. Don’t you see anything you fancy? Eat.’
‘Looks good, thanks.’ Reaching forward, Umar grabbed a tomato and dropped it into his mouth.
Nibbling on a piece of cheese, Winters poured herself a large glass of wine and immediately downed half of it. The marathon sex session had sobered her up and it was time to get pissed again. ‘So, down to business. What did you want to know?’
‘Well . . .’ For a moment, Umar struggled to remember anything about the dead lawyer or, indeed, why he was here.
‘Yes?’ Winters refilled her glass almost to the brim.
‘Was there anything about your husband’s death that was suspicious?’
‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘He had a heart attack, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. But he was under a bit of stress, wasn’t he?’
‘Ha. I’d say.’ Putting down her glass, Winters placed her hands palms down on the counter. Looking up, her face was all business. ‘He had over-extended himself with the house in France, and my lawyer was going to take him to the cleaners on the divorce. Worst of all – from his point of view – his legal business was being sold on the cheap to the Americans by that bastard Chris Brennan, so he wasn’t going to be able to use his equity to raise enough cash to bail himself out.’ A gleam appeared in her eye. ‘Best-case scenario? He was going to have to work until he was eighty, in order to pay back his debts.’
‘So he’d had a falling-out with Brennan?’
‘Sure.’ Winters slipped onto a bar stool and recovered her drink. The maid appeared in the hallway and was waved brusquely away. ‘They spent 90 per cent of their time arguing over the deal with Austerlitz & Co. and the rest of their time doing lines of coke together.’ She shook her head. ‘Men.’
Umar tried to look suitably apologetic for his sex.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘Brennan was happy to take the Americans’ paper but Brian wanted cash – quite rightly, in my opinion. You know what they say: money talks, bullshit walks.’
‘So there was a deadlock?’
‘Not really,’ Winters sighed. ‘The company is called WBK – Winters Brennan & King – but Chris effectively owns it. Sid King sold up when he retired and Brian had to keep selling off parcels of shares to fund his . . . lifestyle. Brennan now has something like 80 per cent of the shares. Effectively, he could do what he liked. Brian wasn’t happy, but he was powerless to stop him.’
Umar pointed at the briefcase which was still standing on the island. ‘After your husband died, Brennan tried to get us to hand over Brian’s case. We couldn’t do that, obviously, but any idea why?’
Taking a sip of her wine, Winters looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just curious. After all, Chris
Brennan is quite a well-known character down at our shop.’
‘I bet he is.’ The woman laughed. ‘So you hate him too, huh?’
‘Well, I think my boss has had a few run-ins with him over the years.’
‘He is such a total bastard,’ she spat, the wine glass hovering in front of her pale lips. ‘I can think of a couple of reasons why he wanted the case. One, if there were any drugs in it . . .’
Umar shook his head. ‘No drugs; just different sets of papers.’
‘Okay. Well, in that case, it must be something to do with Kenneth Ashton.’ She gave the young sergeant an amused look. ‘I presume you know who he is?’
THIRTY-THREE
With the receiver wedged between shoulder and ear, Carlyle tuned out of the conversation as he flicked through the BBC Online news pages: ‘record’ drug seizure in Portugal; 25 per cent rise in homelessness in Britain; and, in Russia, a girl pop group called Pussy Riot were in court on charges of hooliganism.
‘God bless the Russians,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’ squawked an irate DI Julie Postic.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Re-focusing on the matter in hand, the inspector sat up in his chair.
Postic returned to her rant. ‘It is completely unacceptable that you go briefing journalists behind my back on a case that is nothing to do with you.’
‘Julie, Julie,’ he said soothingly, ‘I haven’t briefed anyone about anything. I don’t speak to journalists, full stop. Everyone knows that.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Umar approaching across the floor.
‘But Bernie Gilmore said—’
Carlyle quickly cut her off. ‘Bernie Gilmore will say anything to get you to talk to him. Personally, I never take his calls.’ As Umar reached the desk, he held up a finger, to indicate that the conversation was almost over. ‘Anyway, Julie, I’ve got to go. Good luck with the investigation and don’t let Bernie wind you up.’ Without waiting for a reply, he quickly dropped the receiver on to the cradle.
‘What was all that about?’ Umar asked, pulling up a chair.
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Carlyle dismissed all thoughts of the Detective Inspector with a wave of his hand. ‘And where the hell have you been?’ He looked his sergeant up and down. The boy looked crumpled, as if he’d just had a nap in one of the interview rooms downstairs, which for all Carlyle knew he might well have done.