Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  He didn’t have to spell it out. ‘No problem,’ Carlyle said. ‘Will do. Seymour was on my To Do list anyway. I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Good.’ Muirhead slowly retreated into the gloom. ‘We’ll speak soon.’

  Carlyle listened to the office door closing. ‘Bloody Seymour,’ he grumbled to himself, ‘why can’t he just fuck off to someone else’s patch?’ For a few moments he stood on the stairs, wondering how best to track down the burglar. When nothing immediately sprang to mind, he continued on his way.

  By the time he had finished with Muirhead, it was too late to drop in on Janice Anderson, Taimur Rage’s shrink, at the Doppio Clinic. Reaching Charing Cross Road, he hovered on the kerbside, opposite what used to be Blackwell’s bookstore, toying with the idea of heading home until his conscience got the better of him. Turning left, he went south, towards the station.

  Back on the third floor, he was surprised to see Umar still at his desk.

  ‘What are you doing here? Hiding from Christina again?’

  ‘I’ve found something.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle asked, always willing to be pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Look at this.’ Umar handed him a sheet of paper from the top of the pile on his desk.

  Carlyle scanned the rows of figures that filled the page. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Here.’ Getting to his feet, Umar pointed to a small box at the top, underneath the WBK logo. ‘This is a print-out of a timesheet at Winters Brennan & King. The client is Hanway 58 Associates.’

  ‘Ok-ay.’

  ‘Hanway 58,’ Umar explained, ‘is Ken Ashton’s company. I should have realized earlier – I remember reading about it somewhere.’

  ‘Funny name.’

  ‘He set up shop in Hanway Street in 1958. Anyway, the point is, this shows the number of hours that Brian Winters was billing Ashton.’ Umar pointed to the sterling figure at the bottom of the page. ‘That is just for a single month. Before VAT.’

  ‘Jesus. This has got to be almost all of his working hours.’ Carlyle looked again at the numbers. It didn’t seem likely that Winters could be spending so much time on the sale of a property on Harley Street, however controversial that might be. ‘What the hell was he doing for the guy?’

  Umar shrugged. ‘I guess that’s what we’ve got to find out.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sitting in a humid, windowless room off Tottenham Court Road, Chris Brennan pondered the wisdom of his earlier wardrobe choices. If he had known that he was going to end the day with a beating, he would have left the Brioni pinstripe in the wardrobe. Looking around the dirty room, his thoughts turned to the late Brian Winters, and he was filled with a mixture of rage and self-pity.

  ‘Brian, you tosser,’ he muttered to himself, ‘this should be you.’

  As he was fuming at the injustice of it all, he heard the door click open. Looking up, Brennan watched the two goons who had earlier ‘escorted’ him from his office step inside. They were followed by an old man, small and sprightly, wearing a double-breasted suit that was almost as wide as he was tall. In his left hand was a wooden Derby cane.

  The old man pointed at Brennan with his walking stick. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The lawyer signalled that he did.

  ‘Good. Do you know why you are here?’

  ‘My colleague—’

  ‘Your ex-colleague,’ Kenneth Ashton corrected him with a flourish of his cane.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who billed me an enormous sum on behalf of your company,’ Ashton pointed out.

  ‘Imagine my dismay,’ Ashton continued, ‘when I find out that my long-time adviser, Mr Winters, and his junior colleagues had been ripping me off, over-billing month after month, while failing to properly progress the sale of my Harley Street property – a transaction which is very important to me at the present time.’ Lowering the cane, he demanded somewhere to sit. One of the goons darted outside and quickly reappeared with a chair, which he placed behind his boss. Slowly, Ashton lowered himself onto it, his face a study in concentration.

  What Harley Street property? Brennan wondered. He had a raging thirst and a powerful need to pee at the same time. In his head, he went through a list of nearby pubs, settling on one just off Charlotte Street. If he ever managed to get out of here, it would be straight down to the Bearded Lady for a slash and a very large G&T.

  ‘To put not too fine a point on it, Mr Brennan, I want to get my hands on the cash from the sale of the building before I die.’ Placing his hands on his knees, Ashton leaned forward. ‘Look at me.’

  Reluctantly, Brennan did as he was told.

  ‘These guys’ – he invited the goons to take their bow – ‘are really rather unfortunate. Forty or fifty years ago, their job would have been a lot more fun. Some of the things that they would have got to do . . .’ Ashton smiled at the happy memories. ‘But now? Now, the world is different. Standards are different. They have to release their tensions in the gym. It is no world for a proper man.’

  Brennan tried to speak but all that came out was a squeak.

  ‘Which happens to be good news for a weakling like you. The people who stole directly from me will pay . . . one way or another. You, on the other hand, get the chance to put things right.’ Pulling a small square of paper from his jacket pocket, he offered it to Brennan. ‘Take it.’

  Extending an arm, Brennan let Ashton drop the square into his open palm.

  ‘Open it.’

  Unfolding the paper, Brennan looked at the large number scribbled in blue biro.

  ‘All that you have to do is deliver that amount – in sterling – into my Jersey account by the end of the week.’

  Knowing that it would be almost impossible to come up with the required sum, Brennan grimaced. ‘But—’

  Ashton lifted the cane so that its tip hovered just in front of the lawyer’s nose. ‘By the end of the week. That’s more than reasonable, don’t you think?’

  Brennan gave a non-committal whimper.

  ‘Once that is sorted,’ Ashton continued, ‘I need you to come to my office and tell me how quickly you can resolve the Harley Street issue.’

  ‘I’m sure we can do that, no problem.’ Brennan still had no idea what the precise issue was, but it couldn’t be that complicated. Winters was probably asleep at the wheel and it just needed someone to look at it properly.

  ‘A sensible, professional approach – that is exactly what we need.’ Ashton smiled at his two goons. ‘Otherwise, Bruno and Jason here might get some additional fun after all.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Brennan stammered.

  ‘In that case, we’ll let you get on your way.’

  ‘Ah, yes, good.’ Jumping to his feet, Brennan’s smile was a mixture of relief and discomfort. If he didn’t get out of here right now, he would piss himself. In his Brioni suit. Without a backward glance, he rushed for the door.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Even before he had the key in the lock, Umar could hear Ella’s wailing. Resisting the urge to flee, he opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, he was accosted by Christina, who was pacing the hall, arms folded.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Reaching forward, he tried to kiss her, but she reared away. Gritting his teeth, he fought to keep his annoyance in check. ‘Why not let me see to Ella,’ he said, ‘while you go and put your feet up.’ Not waiting for a reply, he slipped down the hall and into the darkness of his daughter’s bedroom.

  At least Ella seemed happy to see him. As he picked her up out of the cot, her crying subsided. He kissed the jet-black hair on the top of her head – her mother’s hair – cooed gently in her ear. Happy with the attention, she seemed content to burrow into his chest. Umar sniffed the chlorine on his skin. ‘Sorry I’m a bit smelly,’ he whispered, ‘but it’s good to see you.’

  By way of reply, she gave him a wide yawn. Bending his knees, Umar carefully sat down, before stret
ching out on the floor, Ella cradled on his ribcage. After a few minutes, he had tuned out the background hum of the city as he synchronized his breathing with that of the baby. As he felt her rise and fall on his chest, the sense of peace and wellbeing was overwhelming. Closing his eyes, he smiled.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Lying back in the bath, Kara Johnson glanced down at her breasts. You could still just about make out the lines where she had painted them red for the naked bike ride. Trailing through London wearing nothing but a splash of body paint wasn’t as much fun as she had expected, but you never know about these things until you try them.

  It was the same with men, really.

  Yawning, she looked over at the naked figure of Will Carter as he pissed into the toilet bowl. The boy was a bit pale but he certainly had a nice bum – it was just a shame that his dick was so small. Almost as bad, the little twerp simply didn’t know how to use it properly. If Kara had any regrets about seducing Melissa Graham’s boyfriend it was only because the last hour would have been considerably more satisfying if she had spent it in the company of her Rampant Rabbit.

  Poor old Melissa No Tits. Then again, maybe she relies on a vibrator of her own. Kara watched Will shake himself off and flush the toilet. She gestured at the stall in the far corner of the room. ‘Why don’t you take a shower? I just want to lie here for a while.’

  ‘Okay.’ Turning to face her, or rather her breasts, Will continued manipulating himself. Reminded of a wildlife documentary about masturbating monkeys, Kara had to resist the urge to laugh. Closing her eyes, she slipped below the surface of the water and began counting.

  1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .

  Maybe if she held her breath long enough, he would be gone when she resurfaced.

  17 . . . 18 . . . 19 . . . Kara pushed herself back up. But as she did so, she felt a hand around her neck, another pressing down on the top of her head. ‘Hey.’ Panicking, she swallowed a mouthful of bathwater and felt herself gag.

  23 . . . 24 . . . The harder she pushed, the further down she went, until she was pinned against the bottom of the bath. Frantically, she tried to claw at the hand around her neck, to no avail.

  28 . . .

  Am I suffocating or drowning?

  31

  FORTY

  He recognized the song, but couldn’t put a name to it. Music was coming from somewhere nearby. It took him a moment or two to realize that it was coming from the back pocket of his jeans. While keeping hold of the baby with one hand, he pulled out the mobile and hit a button at random to stop the noise.

  Happily, Ella was still asleep. Carefully getting to his feet, Umar put her in the cot and covered her up before retrieving his phone from the floor. Looking at the screen, it took him a moment to realize that the line was still open. Feeling light-headed from his unscheduled nap, he lifted the handset to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Umar? Are you there?’ It was a female voice that the sergeant didn’t immediately recognize.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Hold on a sec.’

  Quietly closing the bedroom door behind him, Umar switched off the harsh hall light, preferring to use the more gentle illumination from the streetlamps outside.

  ‘Umar?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Melissa Graham. I was on the bike ride when the guy got stabbed. We talked at the station.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The bike ride.’ Presumably, she was ringing for a date. He began flicking through his mental calendar, thinking about times and possible venues.

  ‘Sorry for calling you so late.’

  From down the line, someone started banging around in the background, followed by some shouting. Maybe she’s at a party, or something, Umar thought. ‘Not at all,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘What can I do for you?’

  There was a pause before she blurted it out: ‘I’ve been arrested. For murder.’

  As he processed that little nugget of information, Umar listened to Christina stomping about in the kitchen, almost immediately followed by the resumption of Ella’s cries.

  ‘Are you there?’

  The baby’s crying was getting louder. Umar rolled his shoulders, trying to ease his tension. ‘Where are you?’ She gave him an address in Islington, off Upper Street. ‘Okay, I know it. Just sit tight. I’ll be right there.’

  Leaning against the bonnet of a Chelsea tractor parked in the corner of Bonetti Square, Sergeant Lawrence Shames took a long drag on his JPS Black as he eyed Umar walking towards him. Exhaling, he pushed himself off the Porsche, careful not to set its alarm off in the process. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was just going to ask you the same thing,’ Umar responded. Although their respective bosses had a frosty relationship, the two sergeants got on well enough.

  Shames tossed the remains of his cigarette into the gutter. ‘You first.’

  ‘I got a call from Melissa Graham.’ Umar explained how he’d met the girl, and her panicked message to his mobile.

  ‘Waste of a phone call,’ Shames grunted, quickly adding, ‘No offence.’ Umar made a gesture signifying that none had been taken. ‘She’d have been better off calling a lawyer. Melissa Graham is in deep shit.’ Shames pointed at the blue door of number 39. ‘Top-floor flat, you’ve got her boyfriend bludgeoned to death and the bird he was shagging’s been drowned in the bath. Graham’s got his blood all over her, and her fingerprints are on the suspected murder weapon – a cycling trophy in the shape of a pedal; quite a handy weapon as it turns out.’ There was a pause as both men watched a trio of white-suited forensics technicians appear from round the corner and go inside the building.

  Umar scanned the neighbouring properties. All of them had lights burning on the upper floors, despite the late hour. ‘At least the locals are being kept entertained.’

  ‘We aim to serve,’ Shames snorted. ‘A woman next door heard screaming and called 999. When the first uniforms arrived, they found Graham sitting on the floor, staring into space. Her first words to the officers were, quote-unquote, “that bitch was screwing my boyfriend.”’ He shot Umar a look that said Open and shut case.

  ‘She denies killing them, though, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Her story is that she found them in the bathroom and tried to revive the boyfriend. But you know what it’s like – she’ll get a lawyer, decide that she can’t remember anything and then go for some kind of temporary insanity defence. Get enough women on a jury who think playing away should be a capital offence and you’re off at the races.’

  Or perhaps she’s telling the truth, Umar thought. ‘Maybe I should go and see her.’

  Shames shook his head. ‘You’re too late. They took her to the station about twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Islington?’

  ‘Don’t think so. They’re full, apparently. There was some gang fight up near Highbury tube earlier in the evening. I think she’s at Holborn.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ Looking up, he saw Shames’ boss watching them from a second-floor window. ‘How’s Postic doing?’

  Shames followed Umar’s gaze, holding up a hand of acknowledgement as the Detective Inspector signalled for him to come inside. ‘Same old, same old. She’s pissed off with your guy, though. Thinks Carlyle dropped her in it with Bernie Gilmore with regard to Bradley Saffron.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who was knifed on the naked bike ride. Bernie’s story only ended up as a couple of paragraphs on page 30, but Postic doesn’t like to have anything to do with the press.’

  ‘Neither does Carlyle.’

  ‘Hm.’ Shames edged back towards the house. ‘Anyway, that’s why we’re here. Three people who were on that bike ride are now dead. Something’s going on. Even if Melissa Graham did kill the two upstairs, she didn’t stab Saffron.’

  ‘No.’ Umar knew that himself. He had been there at the time.

  ‘And if she didn’t kill the two upstairs, well, we have to make sure we’ve covered all the possibilities.’ Sh
ames gestured up at the flat. ‘I gotta get back inside. It’s a mess up there and it doesn’t look good for your girl. But go and talk to her, see what she says. We can catch up later.’

  ‘Fine.’ Umar turned and headed back in the direction from which he had arrived. As he reached Upper Street, his mobile started ringing. ‘Christina,’ he mumbled morosely as he plucked it from his pocket, ‘or Carlyle?’ Without looking at the screen, he placed the handset to his ear.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sergeant Sligo?’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’ Recognizing the voice, Umar stiffened slightly. What the hell was Carole Simpson ringing him for?

  ‘Is Inspector Carlyle with you?’

  ‘No.’ The sergeant relaxed again. She wasn’t after him at all. ‘I’m up in—’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘In bed, I would have thought, at this time of night.’ Umar stepped round a couple of young white guys coming the other way on the pavement. One of them took a drag on a large spliff while the other chatted away in an animated fashion. As he continued on, Umar breathed in deeply from the trail of Lebanese Black left in their wake.

  ‘Hm.’ The Commander had learned the hard way that her troublesome underling could get up to mischief at any hour. ‘When you next see the inspector, tell him to call me. I need to see him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good night,’ Simpson clicked off. The sergeant continued on his way, wishing that he had a joint of his own.

  Tossing the empty can of Stella into the gutter, Jade Jones let her foot dangle over the edge of the kerb. Through her alcoholic haze, she wondered what time it was. One thing was clear, the last train out of Paddington had left and services would not resume until sometime after five. She was in for a long wait.

  Was Paul out looking for her right now? Her boyfriend was okay, but sometimes he could be a right pain. She hoped that he was worried; it served him right for picking a fight and calling her a ‘stupid slag’. Concentrating hard, she tried to remember what it was they had been arguing about, but her mind was totally blank. Whatever. When she arrived back home in the morning, he had better have learned his lesson.