by James Craig
‘I hear that Winters had a falling-out with Chris Brennan,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘I was just wondering . . .’
‘Ha!’ Ashton chortled, cutting him off. ‘Now we’re getting to it. You’re still trying to get even with Brennan, are you?’
Christ, how do you know about that? The inspector tried to look both surprised and offended at the same time.
‘Talk about grasping at straws.’
‘I’m just being thorough,’ Carlyle said primly.
Waving a dismissive hand at the policeman, the old man leaned across the table, careful not to knock over his drink in the process. ‘Come on, son,’ he grunted, ‘don’t kid a kidder. Everyone knows that you’re not the kind of bloke to let something like that slide.’
Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle folded his arms. ‘That’s bollocks.’
Ashton took a sip of beer. ‘Suit yourself. To be honest, I’m really very surprised that you allowed someone like Brennan to get the better of you in the first place.’
‘Bollocks,’ Carlyle repeated.
Ashton placed his glass back on the table. ‘If it’s bollocks, I suppose that means you’re not interested in my proposal then?’
Carlyle eyed the old man suspiciously. Fuck it, he thought. I’m here. I might as well take the bait. ‘What proposal?’
‘Simple.’ Ashton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You get that muppet friend of yours, Angus Muirhead, to stop messing me about on the Harley Street deal and I’ll give you more than enough on Mr Christopher Brennan to put him away for a long time.’
FIFTY-FOUR
‘He’s not here, boss.’
‘Fuck.’ Ron Flux kicked out at the open can of Tennent’s Lager standing on the bare floorboards. The can went flying across the room, sending an arc of ill-defined yellow liquid through the air. His new sergeant jumped backwards, to avoid getting any of the mess on his boxfresh trainers.
‘Sorry,’ Flux said.
Grunting, the sergeant – an unprepossessing bloke called Jordan Henderson – lifted his left foot an inch off the floor and gestured towards the tattered navy blue sleeping bag lying in the corner of the room. Next to it was a copy of the programme from Chelsea’s last home game, along with a tattered edition of Readers Wives and an empty Styrofoam takeaway container. ‘At least it looks like he was here last night.’
‘Lot of good that does us,’ Flux sniped as he scanned the rest of the room.
Wrinkling his nose, Henderson hovered in the doorway. ‘What is that smell?’
‘Dunno.’ Ignoring what looked suspiciously like a pile of shit next to the boarded-up fireplace, Flux stepped over to the first-floor window and pushed it open, breathing in as a blast of cold air hit him in the face.
‘What do you wanna do?’
Flux silently contemplated the cars neatly parked in the street below.
‘Boss?’
‘Dunno.’ He could barely force the word out.
‘Is it gonna rain?’
Why does that matter? ‘Probably.’ It was a typically grey, charmless West London day, in line with his mood, and for a moment, Flux wondered what it would be like to jump. Don’t be so self-indulgent, he told himself. You still have work to do here. Get on with it.
At least Carlyle had been true to his word. The inspector from Charing Cross was a bit of a cold fish but at least he seemed reliable. After looking the other way at Cherwell Valley services, he had ensured that Calvin Safi had been delivered to Flux, as promised, immediately after the Crown Prosecutor had finished interviewing him.
By the time he’d arrived in Hammersmith, however, Safi was fully lawyered up and keeping schtum. As expected, the lawyer had insisted on an immediate medical inspection of his client. After a delay of more than four hours, a Greek locum had declared that Safi’s injuries were sufficiently serious that he should be taken immediately to A&E. After a frank exchange of views, Flux had managed to prevent the prisoner being whisked off to Hammersmith Hospital. The quid pro quo was that Safi was to be allowed a night’s rest in the cells before any further questioning took place. As a result, the detective inspector hadn’t been able to conduct a proper interrogation before a tip-off had come in about Steve Metcalf being holed up in an abandoned Bloemfontein Road squat.
There was a shuffling of feet behind him. ‘Should we wait here?’ Henderson asked.
No idea, Flux thought, not turning round. ‘Maybe.’
‘Do you think Metcalf’ll come back?’ the sergeant persisted.
‘Good question.’ Flux watched a couple of uniformed school-boys, maybe twelve or thirteen, strolling down the road. He glanced at his watch. Not only were they an hour late for school, they were heading in the wrong direction. For the first time in what seemed like years, Flux allowed himself a small smile, recalling the days when he used to skive off from school himself, stuff his blazer into a battered Gola holdall and head off to explore the fleshpots of Soho. You enjoy it, boys, he thought. Bunking off now and again is good for the soul. Certainly, the odd day off had never done him any harm.
None at all.
‘Shit.’
Looking past the boys, the DI broke out of his reverie as he recognized the figure ten yards behind the boys, lumbering along the road towards the house. ‘It’s him!’ he shouted with more than a hint of glee in his voice. ‘Metcalf’s back already.’
Sergeant Henderson appeared at his shoulder and peered down the street. ‘Are you sure that’s him?’
‘Oh yes.’ Flux thought for a moment. Metcalf was only about four doors away now – he would be with them in less than a minute. There wasn’t really much they could do, other than wait to welcome him back. The DI fingered the knuckleduster in his jacket pocket. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Come right in and say hello.’
As Metcalf approached the front gate, he paused and looked up. Flux jumped back from the window, but it was too late – he had been spotted.
‘Shit.’ Pushing the sergeant out of the way, the DI raced to the door and down the stairs, three at a time. Tearing open the front door, he hurdled the low brick wall at the front of the house, slamming into a taxi parked by the kerb. Regaining his balance, Flux set off after his quarry. Showing an impressive turn of speed for such a big man, Metcalf was already fifty yards down the road. Flux guessed that he was making for the Cleverly Estate, a sprawling 1920s development located a couple of blocks to the west.
‘Bastard,’ Flux wheezed. If Metcalf made it into the estate, he knew that he would lose him amidst the warren of buildings and walkways it contained. The DI tried to kick on, but it felt like there was a fire in his chest and he was struggling to breathe, while his legs were turning to jelly. The rueful thought crossed his mind that this was one of those times when being one of the 75 per cent of Met officers who were overweight wasn’t that clever. Trying not to throw up, he felt desperation wash over him as he watched Metcalf disappear round the corner and into Sawley Road.
‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’
‘Huh?’ Pulling up with a start, Flux glared at the cyclist who had blindsided him.
‘Idiot,’ the middle-aged man hissed from behind a pair of designer sunglasses.
‘What are you doing on the pavement?’ Flux wailed, casting a forlorn glance down the road.
‘You need to watch where you’re going, dickhead,’ the lycra-clad hooligan repeated as he jumped off his expensive-looking mountain bike and tried to walk it around the quivering policeman.
Out of the DI’s frustration, an epiphany bloomed. ‘Give me the bike!’ he shouted, making a grab for the handlebars.
‘What?’ The cyclist tried to jerk the bike away but he was too slow. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Police,’ Flux croaked. ‘I need to commandeer your bike.’
‘Fuck off, you nutter.’ With a grunt, the cyclist pulled the bike free, staggering backwards into the waiting arms of Sergeant Henderson, who had belatedly emerged from the squat.
&nb
sp; ‘Arrest that bastard,’ Flux commanded, grabbing back the bike and pushing it into the road.
‘What for?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Anything you like,’ Flux giggled, jumping on to the saddle.
The pain in his chest had subsided slightly although his legs still felt funny. As he wobbled into Sawley Road, it occurred to Flux that it must have been more than thirty years since he had been on a bike. ‘Just keep peddling, you stupid bastard,’ he laughed nervously, wondering what had happened to the burnt orange Chopper of his youth, while scanning the middle distance for a sign of the fleeing Steve Metcalf. After swerving to avoid a couple crossing the street, he saw a man dart between two parked cars and cross the street about 150 yards in front of him. ‘Gotcha.’
Metcalf seemed to be keeping to a reasonable pace. Even so, upping his speed, Flux felt the wind in his face as he closed the gap steadily – and silently – on his target. Still making for the sanctuary of the Cleverly Estate, not looking backwards, Metcalf was unaware that he was being gradually reeled in. Gritting his teeth, the detective inspector ignored his accelerated heart-rate and gave it one final effort. ‘C’mon,’ he grunted, ‘like Lance Armstrong on crack. Just do it, baby.’
With the gap down to less than twenty yards, the game was up. Flux raised a fist in triumph. As he did so, he caught a sudden flash of red out of the corner of his eye. There was the screech of brakes, followed by an almighty bang, and he was suddenly flying through the air, landing in a heap on the road. As he lay on his back, staring up at the grim clouds, wondering why he wasn’t feeling any pain, he heard a vehicle door open, followed by the sound of footsteps on the Tarmac. The sky was suddenly obliterated by the face of an angry-looking man in an Army jacket.
For the sake of appearances, Flux let out a groan.
‘You stupid cunt!’ screamed the man. ‘What the fuck do you think you were doing?’
FIFTY-FIVE
‘Didn’t you bring me any grapes?’
Carlyle looked at Umar, who shrugged. ‘Er, no . . . I didn’t think that you would be a grape kind of guy.’
‘It’s supposed to be the thought that counts,’ Flux groused. ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?’
Looking at the irate detective inspector propped up in his hospital bed, Carlyle laughed. ‘No.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘My mum wasn’t that kind of woman,’ Carlyle added ruefully. ‘But we didn’t come empty-handed, though.’
‘No?’ A flicker of cautious optimism spread across Flux’s face.
‘Of course not. That would be rude.’ The inspector pulled the copy of Cycling Weekly from the pocket of his raincoat and tossed it on the bed.
‘Pah.’ Disgustedly, Flux kicked it off.
‘I’m afraid we’re gonna have to drug test you,’ Umar snickered. ‘That van driver said you were going like a bat out of hell. You gave him a terrible fright, by the way.’
‘I gave him a fright?’ Flux squawked. ‘What happened to the idiot, by the way? Did he get nicked?’
Carlyle yawned. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘However,’ Umar said cheerily, ‘we do have some good news.’
‘Oh?’ Watching on a pretty Asian nurse floating past the end of the bed, Flux didn’t seem immediately interested in what the sergeant had to offer.
‘We got Metcalf,’ Carlyle explained. In the breast pocket of his jacket his phone started vibrating. Ignoring the call, he let it go to voicemail.
Flux quickly brought his gaze back to his colleagues.
‘He’s in hospital too. In a secure unit up the road at Wormwood Scrubbs.’
‘Ha! Did that bastard in the van run him over as well?’
Umar shook his head. ‘The silly sod fell into a six-foot hole on the Cleverly Estate and broke his ankle. British Gas was doing some emergency work and he didn’t look where he was going. A couple of officers from the Wormholt & White City Safer Neighbourhoods Team who were on the estate looking for some teenage crack dealers found him trying to crawl out. Metcalf freaked when he saw the uniforms and tried to leg it. They radioed back to the station, realized who he was, and nicked him.’
‘Result,’ said Flux, perking up before their eyes. ‘Now I just need to get out of here and interview him.’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It can wait twenty-four hours or so, there’s no rush. Best if you rest up a bit. It’s not like Metcalf’s going anywhere. We’ve got both of the bastards now. It’s game over.’
‘Yes, but—’
A loud electronic chirping began issuing from the mobile in Umar’s hand. Glancing at the No mobile phones sign above the bed, Carlyle gave him a pained look. ‘Swedish House Mafia,’ the sergeant explained nonchalantly, hitting the receive button.
‘Okay.’ The inspector didn’t recognize the name.
‘Not your thing,’ Umar continued, stepping away from the bed to take the call.
Flux lifted a small bottle of apple Lucozade from his bedside table, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig.
Folding his arms, Carlyle stood at the end of the bed, hopping from foot to foot in slow motion. He was still trying to think of something to say when Umar sidled back up to him, holding out the handset.
‘It’s for you.’
Carlyle frowned.
‘Simpson,’ Umar whispered.
Reluctantly, Carlyle took the phone, striding towards the exit. ‘Boss—’
‘Why are you ignoring me?’ the Commander demanded.
Taken aback by the icy tone, Carlyle took a deep breath. Be cool, he told himself. Don’t let her wind you up. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, pushing through the swing doors and stepping into the corridor.
‘What the hell do you think you were playing at?’
Not sure which particular transgression he was about to get hauled over the coals for, he waited for her to explain. A sign above his head pointed towards a café. He decided to follow it.
‘I have just been reading the medical report on Calvin Safi. You won’t be surprised to know that the doctor’s verdict is that our Mr Safi is in a right old mess.’
‘I never laid a finger on him, Boss.’
‘No,’ said Simpson, her voice simmering with rage, ‘you just bloody tasered him, didn’t you?’
‘How did you know that?’ he blurted out, unable to contain his surprise.
‘Because, you stupid sod, I’m sitting here watching it on bloody YouTube. One minute and four seconds of media gold just waiting to be mined. The damn thing has only been up three hours and it has already had more than sixteen thousand views. It’s only a matter of time before some sodding journalist sees it.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘You tell me.’
Turning a corner, Carlyle reached the cafeteria. Standing by the door, he closed his eyes. He thought back to Safi lying in the road with Umar standing over him. ‘Those bloody kids . . .’
‘What?’
Carlyle opened his eyes. ‘There were a couple of lads on bikes who watched us make the arrest. One of them must have filmed it on his mobile phone.’
‘You berk,’ said Simpson, with feeling.
The inspector didn’t argue the point. ‘Can’t we get it taken down?’
‘The lawyers are trying to do that right now, but you know what these internet people are like, freedom of speech and all that. Even if they manage to get it removed, it’ll probably be too late. You really have fucked up this time.’
From the café came the sound of Squeeze’s ‘Cool for Cats’. After more than thirty years, Carlyle could still remember every word. Smiling, he started singing along in his head. Immediately, his spirits began reviving, along with his appetite.
‘John?’
‘Look,’ said Carlyle, pushing through the doors and scanning the menu written on a blackboard above the counter, ‘just let the lawyers get on with doing their thing. I’ve got some other stuff to sort out. We can catch up later.’ Not waiting for th
e reply, he ended the call, beaming at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. ‘Could I have the pie and chips, please?’
FIFTY-SIX
Feeling a spasm in his guts, Carlyle winced. ‘I shouldn’t have had that pie,’ he told his sergeant. Umar mumbled something that could plausibly pass for sympathy, before adding: ‘You should have been more careful.’
Taking a gulp of his Jameson’s, the inspector scanned the room as Umar supped his pint of Guinness. The Monkey’s Uncle pub was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the police station, but it hardly counted as a regular haunt. Indeed, this was the first time he’d been in here for a drink in what – more than six months? It was probably longer than that. Easily. By and large, Helen wasn’t keen on the idea of him neglecting his family duties and going off drinking after work. For his part, the inspector was content to head straight home at the end of the day. The long and short of it was, he wasn’t that much of a pub man.
Tonight, however, he fancied a drink. With a lot on his mind, Carlyle felt the need to let his brain decompress slowly before he reached the flat. The day had filled his head full of irritating stuff that he saw no point in offloading on to his wife. So when his sergeant had suggested a drink, he was quick to agree.
For his part, Umar was in no hurry to go home either. Sure enough, during the working day he missed his wife and baby daughter. He knew, however, that the moment he walked through the door, Christina would hand him Ella and launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about how all he did was go to work to skive off. Once she got started, it was all he could do to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
The two men were lucky to have grabbed a table by the door for the place was heaving with a mixture of tourists, theatregoers and off-duty office workers. Not to mention the odd policeman. Since they had arrived, the inspector had already spotted three or four familiar faces manoeuvring their way to and from the bar. Still a steady stream of people arrived, barely making it through the door before having to dive into a crowd six or seven deep in an attempt to make it to the bar. So many people. Carlyle shook his head. The recession might have been going on for longer than anyone cared to remember but, by and large, the pubs and bars of Covent Garden seemed immune to the vagaries of the economic cycle.