Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘I did what you told me,’ Umar replied defensively.

  ‘What did you get from the widow?’

  ‘She was quite helpful; went on a bit, though. It took me ages to get out of there.’

  Carlyle grunted. ‘Good-looking then, was she?’ He knew Umar well; his sergeant wouldn’t have hung around for long if the lady of the house wasn’t seriously fit. Married or not, he was still a ladies’ man.

  Umar made a show of thinking about the question. ‘Not bad, I suppose, for her age. Anyway, why do you have it in for Brennan?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer,’ Carlyle grumbled.

  ‘Yes, but there are lots of lawyers. Did you have a run-in with him?’

  The inspector sighed, said, ‘Some other time. It was a long while ago.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘Right, okay. Brennan and Winters were at loggerheads over the sale of the business, but there was nothing that Brian Winters could do about it because, essentially, it belongs to Brennan.’

  ‘So where does that get us?’ Carlyle wondered.

  ‘Giselle . . . Mrs Winters thinks that the real issue was Kenneth Ashton.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The inspector was surprised. ‘What’s that crooked bastard got to do with any of this?’

  ‘Apparently he was one of Brian Winters’ major clients. Brennan was pushing for Winters to drop him. The new American owners of the business were not best pleased about having one of London’s most senior criminals on their books.’

  ‘Senior is the word,’ Carlyle said. ‘He’s got to be eighty, at least. He was a name even before I started on the Force. He was mainly into dodgy property deals and tax scams, but he wasn’t beyond getting his boys to break your legs – or worse – if you got in his way. I could see how he could be an embarrassment to Chris Brennan.’

  ‘Enough to have Brian Winters killed?’

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘No idea. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. It certainly looked like a heart attack. But I could ask Susan Phillips to take another look.’

  ‘Too late. They cremated him the day before yesterday.’

  ‘So much for that idea.’

  ‘The widow reckons that there must be something in her husband’s papers relating to Brennan that he needs to get his hands on.’

  ‘Good job I made some copies, then.’ Pulling open the top drawer, Carlyle took out a sheaf of photocopies and placed them on the desk.

  Umar frowned. ‘Are we allowed to do that?’

  ‘No idea.’ Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘Take a look at these with a fresh eye. See if you can find anything relating to Ashton.’

  Umar glanced at his watch. ‘I was going to go for a swim.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ said Carlyle firmly. ‘Give me a call when you’re done.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To talk to a man . . .’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The latest anti-smoking laws had clearly not reached the executive suite above the Clivenden Club, a Members Only establishment located behind a discreet green door in an alley off Wardour Street. Angus Muirhead contemplated the inspector through a haze of cigarette smoke while the incessant beat of some techno music rose up from the bar next door. Muirhead wore a navy blazer and a white shirt, with a red cravat at the neck. It was, more or less, the same uniform he’d worn for the last forty-five years. Stubbing out his Macanudo cigar in an already overflowing ashtray, he immediately reached for a replacement from the box on his desk.

  ‘How long do the doctors say?’ Carlyle asked, hoping his voice sounded suitably sympathetic.

  Muirhead grunted. Underneath his shock of white hair, his face was gaunt. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed to the inspector that the figure in front of him had shrunk since their last conversation. For sure, some of the sparkle had gone out of the old fellow’s eyes. ‘They say I could keel over at any time,’ he cackled. ‘Nice of them to spare my feelings, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s doctors for you,’ Carlyle observed, ‘social skills of plankton.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, however you dress it up it seems that even on a best-case scenario it’s going to be a matter of months rather than years.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘What can you do?’ Angus waved the unlit cigar in the air. ‘You just have to keep going. Then again, the doctors have been saying the same thing for the best part of a decade now.’

  ‘Bummer.’

  ‘No, not really.’ Muirhead reached for his Zippo lighter. ‘Apart from anything else, there are plenty of people who are really pissed off that I’ve lasted this long. That is some consolation in itself.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got to take all the positives you can,’ said Carlyle doubtfully.

  ‘Look, the thing that I’ve discovered is that it’s really not worth worrying about. Once I could see the end of the tunnel, I felt a strange calm descend on me. Anyway, we’ve all got to go sometime.’ Lighting up, Angus took a couple of quick puffs and settled back into his chair. ‘And at least I’ll go happy.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle glanced at the window, wondering if it would be rude to ask if he could open it.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Muirhead chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t want to take you with me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle unlocked the window and pushed up the frame.

  ‘Not too far though, the noise is terrible.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Muirhead waited for the inspector to sit down again. ‘So, why are you interested in Ken Ashton all of a sudden? He’s a bit old hat these days.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Muirhead took another drag on his Macanudo, ‘he is more or less legit, which is as much as you can say for anyone, just about.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At least, I don’t think he douses people in petrol and threatens to torch them any longer,’ Muirhead joked. Thirty years on, he could laugh about it. At the time, shivering in the dark, in a damp Soho basement, it wasn’t so funny. He shook his head. ‘You know, that building on Harley Street is worth more than fifteen million now.’

  Carlyle let out a low whistle.

  ‘Fifteen mil that should be in my pocket.’

  ‘That’s the law of the jungle,’ Carlyle sympathized.

  ‘Naturally.’ Muirhead gave a rueful smile. ‘It took me a long while to get over that; if I ever did. It was only around the time that we first met that I was getting back on my feet.’

  Carlyle looked around the room. ‘You’ve done okay in Soho.’

  ‘I could have done a bit better but, equally, it could have been a lot worse.’ Leaning across the table, he stabbed the cigar in Carlyle’s direction. ‘Now, if you hadn’t sorted out those bloody drug dealers next door . . .’

  It was a conversation that they’d had many times before and Carlyle knew his lines well. ‘I was only doing my job,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Only doing your job?’ Muirhead snorted. ‘That’s what you’ve never understood, Inspector. Maybe 1 per cent of people do their job properly; the other 99 per cent don’t get anywhere near. If everyone only did their job, the world would be a much better place.’

  ‘Mm.’ They both knew that there was no way that the Met could have ignored a bunch of bikers trying to sell heroin and ecstasy out of a Georgian townhouse slap bang in the centre of tourist London. The fact that they were also destroying the takings at Muirhead’s club was hardly a significant consideration, from the police’s point of view.

  ‘If you hadn’t stepped in, I would have been driven out of this place.’

  The inspector shrugged. It hadn’t even been his operation. But he had been the liaison officer for Angus Muirhead and the old guy had been hugely grateful. Since then, they had stayed in regular contact. Carlyle had always been more interested in Muirhead’s stories about the old days, rather than his tips about current bad boys. Stories like t
he time Kenneth Ashton had threatened to turn Angus into a Roman Candle if he didn’t sign over the lease to his most lucrative Central London property.

  Matter in hand, he told himself. Matter in hand. ‘Ashton’s name has come up in something I was looking at. His lawyer dropped down dead on Waterloo Bridge a few nights back.’

  Muirhead carefully balanced the smouldering cigar atop the remains of its predecessors in the ashtray. ‘What was his name – this lawyer?’

  ‘Brian Winters.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He was a partner of Chris Brennan.’

  ‘Ah.’ The old fella rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. If your man was hanging out with that little runt, he must have been as bent as a nine-bob note.’

  ‘That was my general thinking.’

  ‘Was the death suspicious?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so – looks like it was a heart attack.’

  ‘So this is not a murder investigation?’

  ‘No, I’m just curious. The suggestion is that Ashton was Winters’ biggest client, but Brennan wasn’t happy about it. Brennan wanted Ashton off the books before he sold the business.’

  ‘In which case, the heart attack was perfectly timed.’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Sitting back in his chair, the old man contemplated the ceiling. Outside, the techno music abruptly ended, to be replaced by some indistinct sound that blended into the background traffic noise. ‘Like I said, Ken is more or less straight these days. But the key phrase is more or less. I can only think of one thing that he’s up to at the moment that would be so dodgy that even someone like Brennan, who has the morals of a syphilitic rent boy, would want to steer clear of.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Ignoring the dangers of passive smoking, Carlyle leaned forward in his chair. ‘And what would that be, then?’

  Muirhead retrieved his cigar. ‘That would be the sale of my old property.’

  Fumbling with his BlackBerry, Carlyle wished he’d brought something to write on. ‘Let me understand I’ve got this right. Ken Ashton wants to sell the freehold to 749 Harley Street, but you’ve still got the papers?’

  ‘I’ve still got some papers.’ Angus Muirhead stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. ‘I’ve still got the original deeds. What Ken has is a “contract” ’ – he waved his hands in the air, to signify the quotation marks – ‘where I signed the property over to him.’ He let out a guffaw. ‘It probably still stinks of petrol.’

  ‘Could you get it back?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Muirhead made a face. ‘The lawyers can argue the toss forever. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a bit too late.’

  ‘But Ken doesn’t know that?’

  ‘No.’ The old man smiled menacingly. ‘As far as Ken’s concerned, we’re going to fight him all the way. You know what they say about the best revenge being a dish served cold? Well, this is about as cold as it gets.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried he might come back with his petrol can?’

  ‘Why bother? The tobacco industry has beaten him to it.’ He coughed, as if to prove the point. ‘My life is done. Anyway, he’s an old man, too. You lose your edge.’

  Tell me about it, Carlyle thought.

  ‘I would have thought,’ Muirhead continued, ‘that the guy who had the heart attack was probably getting a lot of grief from Ken. He can see legal proceedings dragging on for years and wants it wrapped up quickly. Apart from anything else, the fees will be mounting up.’ He grunted. ‘God knows, mine are.’

  ‘Expensive game,’ Carlyle mused.

  ‘Yes, it is. Meanwhile, Ken’s lawyer . . .’

  ‘Brian Winters.’

  ‘Winters will be reluctant to push things along. As far as he’s concerned, the taxi meter is ticking over nicely. Aside from that, he doesn’t want to go in front of a judge to discuss the detail of how his client came to acquire such a prime piece of property in the first place.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Carlyle wasn’t sure whether this information added up to much, but his instinct told him that it was worth knowing. ‘Presumably, it’s not the kind of thing that Brennan would want to have to explain to his new American partners, either.’

  ‘In my experience,’ Muirhead agreed, ‘the Americans are rather funny about that kind of thing. They tend to see the world in very black and white terms.’

  ‘With them being the good guys at all times.’

  ‘Quite. I remember once . . .’ In the distance, a siren wailed. Catching the rather glazed look on the inspector’s face, Muirhead turned back to the subject under discussion. ‘Anyway,’ he asked, ‘how do you know our Mr Brennan?’

  ‘That,’ Carlyle said, ‘is a long story.’

  Muirhead settled back into his chair. The look on his face said: Entertain me. ‘I’m an old man, Inspector. I’ve nothing better to do.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Yawning, Umar neatly stacked the pile of papers on his desk, weighing them down with a roll of Sellotape that he’d nicked from the stationery cupboard. He had gone through the photocopies twice and nothing had jumped out at him. The overall impression was of a man in the throes of a post-mid-life crisis. Brian Winters’ life – and his finances – appeared to be in complete disarray. It looked extremely doubtful whether Giselle would be able to keep the house in St John’s Wood once everything was sorted out.

  That would be a shame.

  His thoughts of the widow lying naked on the bed were interrupted by the sound of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle’. Lifting his mobile from the desk, he looked at the screen – Christina.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘When are you coming home?’ She sounded tense and irritable. At least, for once, there wasn’t any crying in the background. ‘I won’t be long.’ He tried to sound soothing. ‘I’ve got to check a couple of things for the inspector and then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘But it’s almost six.’

  Umar looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Bloody hell.’ Where had the day gone? He knew only too well the answer to that question. ‘Okay, sorry. I didn’t realize that it was so late.’

  A suspicious grunt came from the other end of the line.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he persisted. ‘How’s Ella doing?’

  ‘Just hurry up,’ she hissed, ending the call. With a sigh, Umar tossed the phone on to the desk and sat back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he counted slowly to fifty, breathing deeply as he did so. When he had finished, he jumped to his feet, switched off his PC and headed for the stairs.

  Standing at the edge of the outside pool, he caught the eye of a skinny Asian guy with a great six-pack, wearing bright red Speedos. The guy smiled and Umar quickly looked away. The last thing he needed was for someone to try and pick him up at the Oasis. Scanning the swimmers in the water, he decided that the outside lane looked the best bet. Pulling on his goggles, he took a couple of steps to his left. Fifty lengths, he told himself as he dived in, and then it’s home.

  Annoyingly, all of the lanes were too crowded for him to be able to establish any kind of rhythm. Every time he managed to get up a bit of speed, Umar would find himself stuck behind some pensioner doing the doggy paddle. Frustrated, he jumped out after only twenty lengths and headed for the showers.

  Ten minutes later, he was ready to finally head for home. Pushing through the turnstiles, Umar smiled at Moira, the pretty brunette from Stirling, who worked late shifts on the front desk while studying at UCL. Outside, stepping into the stream of pedestrians making for Shaftesbury Avenue, he was just about to turn right to the tube station when it hit him.

  ‘Shit.’ Why hadn’t he seen it before? For a moment he hesitated. Then, dodging a couple of Australian tourists with their heads stuck in a map, he did a 180-degree turn and began jogging back to the station.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘Ha.’ Angus Muirhead stood up creakily from behind his desk. ‘That really is quite a story. Most amusing.’

  Carlyle gave a small bo
w.

  The old man ushered him towards the door. ‘I can understand why you don’t have any time for Mr Brennan, but I’m not sure you’ll be able to get to him through this. You might be able to arrest him for . . . something . . . but pressing charges will be another matter altogether.’

  There speaks the voice of experience, Carlyle acknowledged. Muirhead knew his way around the law far better than your average copper.

  ‘Maybe not,’ the inspector shrugged, ‘but I just hope that I’m around to watch the spectacle when he crashes and burns.’

  ‘That seems perfectly reasonable to me.’

  Pulling open the door, the inspector hovered on the threshold. ‘Good to see you, Angus.’

  ‘I’m always here.’ The old man offered his hand. But when they shook, his grip was weaker than a child’s.

  Bloody hell, Carlyle thought. He really is on the way out.

  ‘Let me know how you get on with Ken Ashton.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t want to miss being around to see him come unstuck.’ Muirhead followed the inspector on to the dingy landing. ‘And just before you go, there’s one other thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Carlyle started down the stairs.

  ‘Seymour Erikssen.’

  His heart sinking, Carlyle stopped in his tracks and turned to look back up at Muirhead.

  ‘I thought I’d read in the paper that you’d nicked him?’

  ‘That’s another long story.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s been seen here in the club a few times recently. And a couple of people have had their pockets picked. Coincidence?’ The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a hassle I can do without.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The thing about Seymour is that he’s not as hopeless as you like to think. Sometimes he can be a bit too successful for his own good. Maybe you could have a word. Sort him out.’ Muirhead spread his arms wide. ‘Otherwise . . .’