by James Craig
‘Oh?’
‘No. In order to pre-empt the inevitable squealing from Safi’s lawyer, the footage is now being reviewed by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, as is the CCTV footage from Cherwell Valley Services.’
‘These things happen,’ Carlyle said, adopting the air of a man for whom a brush with the IPCC was all in a day’s work – which it was, more or less.
‘How very philosophical of you,’ Simpson said sarkily.
‘It’s not such a big deal.’
‘Not so much for you, although you’ll probably get some kind of reprimand. Sergeant Sligo and DI Flux, however, are on trickier ground.’
A pained expression crossed Carlyle’s face. ‘I can’t believe you have anything on Ron,’ he said. ‘All the cameras were outside the toilets and there were no witnesses to whatever may have happened while they were in there.’
‘No?’ Simpson raised an eyebrow.
‘No,’ said Carlyle firmly.
An amused smile played on the Commander’s lips. ‘But why was Flux there in the first place?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Just a coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidence.’
‘I do.’ When it suits me.
‘Anyway,’ Simpson continued, ‘what happened there may well turn out to be academic. I think the detective inspector could be on the road to early retirement, what with the stress of losing his colleague and so forth.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Which brings us to the conduct of your sergeant,’ said Simpson, staring into her glass, ‘which could be the really bad news.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Swaying slightly, Umar caught sight of himself in the mirror in the hallway just as he was about to lick his lips. He was pissed. And he was horny. In recent months it was not an unfamiliar combination.
For about the tenth time in the last five minutes, he felt his mobile vibrating insistently in his pocket, next to the packet of Durex Love Ultra-Thin Condoms he’d picked up from the mini-mart round the corner. With a sigh, he pulled out the phone and switched it off.
‘Here you go.’ Dressed in a man’s white shirt, tennis shorts and a pair of expensive-looking driving shoes, Melissa Graham appeared from the kitchen and handed him a small can of Heineken.
‘Thanks.’ This time, he did let his tongue run along his bottom lip as he took the lager from her.
She pointed at the phone in his hand. ‘Was that work trying to get hold of you?’
Grunting something non-committal, he let the phone fall back into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’ Pulling the ring, he took a long slug.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Melissa played with the thin gold chain hanging from her neck.
‘It’s good that you’re finally back home.’ Umar had been more than a little surprised when Melissa had phoned and told him that she had been released from police custody. The enquiries were continuing into the violent deaths of Will Carter, Melissa’s erstwhile boyfriend, and the young woman he had been seeing on the side, but as far as Umar knew, the girl standing in front of him looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth was still the only suspect. The thought aroused him even more.
Leaning against the frame of the door, Melissa folded her arms across her chest as she watched the wheels turning slowly inside his drink-fuddled brain. A couple of days on remand in Holloway seemed to have done her no harm at all; she was looking bright-eyed and rested. ‘Didn’t you think they’d let me out?’ she pouted.
From behind his beer, Umar made a face, playing for time while he thought how best to respond. He didn’t want to accidentally say anything that would ruin his chances of getting laid. ‘Well, you know, the charges are very serious. And these things are always a bit of a lottery.’
‘Well, they finally arrested the guy who stabbed Bradley Saffron on the naked bike ride,’ Melissa told him.
Shames and Postic will be relieved about that, Umar thought. I wonder if they mentioned it to Carlyle? Hopefully not; it would be good to have a nice bit of information to share with his boss in the morning.
‘Some random nutter, apparently.’
Kettle, Umar thought, pot, black. But he kept his own counsel.
‘So I’m off the hook for that – assuming that I was ever on the hook in the first place.’ She gave him a searching look.
Umar held up a hand. ‘Not my investigation.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘As for Will and that bitch Kara Johnson . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Your colleague said that the investigation into their deaths will take a while longer to complete. My lawyer got me bail after my father put up a large bond and I surrendered my passport. I still have to report to the police station every day, though, which is a complete and utter pain in the bum.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I suppose I can at least have a drink and—’ letting the chain fall between her breasts, she shot him an arch look ‘—sleep in my own bed.’
Umar lifted the can to his mouth and tipped back his head.
‘Speaking of which, I need a glass of wine. A large one.’ Turning in the doorway, Melissa headed for the fridge. ‘Want another beer?’
Following her into the kitchen, Umar crushed the empty can and placed it on the draining board, next to the sink, beside a large bottle of pills with the name Clozaril on the label.
Taking a bottle of Cava from the fridge, she pointed in the direction of his knees. ‘The bin is in that cupboard behind you.’
‘Come here . . .’ Umar pulled Melissa towards him, planting a kiss on her lips, trying to force his tongue into her mouth as he ran his hand across the front of her shirt.
‘Hey.’ She tried to wriggle free but Umar held her tightly. He had made his move and wasn’t going to back down at the first sign of some resistance. ‘Get off.’
Had he read this one wrong? Bemused by the girl’s apparent change of heart, Umar relaxed his grip slightly – enough for Melissa to take a half-step backwards and attempt to club him with the bottle.
‘Ow.’ He laughed, more embarrassed than hurt as it bounced off his shoulder.
‘You dirty bastard!’ she screamed, a wild look in her eyes.
‘But—’ Umar protested.
‘You were going to rape me.’ Taking another step backwards, Melissa smashed the bottle against the edge of the worktop, sending a mess of fizz and glass all over the floor. All that was left in her hand was the broken neck, which she waved in front of his face.
‘Whoa.’ Backed up against the cooker, with nowhere to go, Umar held his hands up in front of his face as Melissa jumped forward, broken glass crunching under her feet.
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Argh!’ He screamed as he felt the jagged glass slash across his left forearm. Instinctively, he threw a punch with his right, connecting with the side of the woman’s head and sending her sprawling across the kitchen floor. Not waiting for her to get back to her feet, he rushed from the kitchen and made good his escape.
‘How are you getting on with your sergeant at the moment?’
‘Umar?’ Polishing off his third glass of Jameson’s, Carlyle vowed not to have another. He had suddenly noticed how hot it was in the club and wanted both some fresh air and a return to ground level. Feeling woozy, he struggled to marshal his thoughts. ‘We’re getting on fine,’ he replied finally. ‘He’s become a father, so there are some inevitable issues at home but, on the whole, he’s doing okay.’
Wondering exactly why it was taking so long for the chicken salad she’d ordered to arrive, Simpson looked at him carefully. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. There was the case last month, the muggers on bikes who were targeting tourists around the area . . .’
‘I remember that, the papers were all over it.’
‘Well, they’re not any more. Umar, with some help from WPC Mason – she’s a solid officer
, by the way – traced it back to a gang of teenagers on the local Peabody Estate, and sorted it out with a minimum of fuss. They closed more than a dozen, if I remember rightly.’
‘I hear he’s a bit of a serial shagger.’
‘He was a bit of a ladies’ man before he was married,’ Carlyle conceded, looking wistfully at his empty glass.
Simpson followed his gaze. ‘One for the road?’
‘No, I should get going.’ The inspector pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Umar’s a good colleague. Professional. I would genuinely be very disappointed if he came a cropper over this Safi business. Apart from anything else, I’ve struggled to keep a sergeant in recent years; it would be a shame to lose another one.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson murmured. ‘Ever since the unfortunate Joseph Szyszkowski – may he rest in peace – there has been a bit of a turnover, hasn’t there?’
Staring out of the window, Carlyle stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and took a deep breath. Gazing into the illuminated darkness, he thought back to the day when his long-term colleague was gunned down barely twenty minutes’ walk from where they were sitting.
‘Do you ever see the family?’ Simpson asked.
Not once. Anita never forgave me for what happened to her husband. And who can blame her? As for the kids . . . I probably wouldn’t recognize William and Sarah these days. ‘Not really.’
‘It must still be difficult.’
‘Yes.’
Simpson smiled at the waiter as he finally returned to place her salad on the table. ‘I’m going to have another glass of wine. Sure you don’t want another drink?’
Thinking of Joe, he was hit by a sudden desire to sit down with the bottle and get thoroughly hammered. Gritting his teeth, he waited for it to pass. ‘I’m good. Enjoy your dinner. Let me know how things develop with the IPCC.’
Taking a mouthful of rocket, Simpson dismissed him with a wave of her fork.
Conversation over, Carlyle headed for the lifts.
FIFTY-NINE
It was a cold, grey morning in Soho. The lounge lizards and the perverts were still tucked up in bed and, apart from the street cleaners and the traffic wardens, the inspector had the place to himself, which was just how he liked it. Sitting in Bar Italia, he lingered over breakfast, watching highlights of the previous night’s Juve–Milan game, reluctant to begin the working day.
‘Cazzo,’ complained the guy behind the counter as he watched Milan’s centre-forward put away the only goal of the game in slow motion. ‘That was never a penalty.’ He glared at Carlyle as if the shortcomings of the officials were the policeman’s fault. Slipping off his stool, the inspector took that as his cue to leave.
Making his way along Old Compton Street, he arrived at the Clivenden Club in a matter of minutes. Passing a couple of cleaners at the front door, he bounded up the stairs and presented himself to a sleepy-looking receptionist on the first floor.
‘I’m here to see Angus.’ The statement seemed to cause the girl some confusion. Carlyle, however, was happy enough taking a moment to admire the framed Emmanuelle movie poster on the wall behind the desk while waiting for a response.
‘He’s not here,’ she said finally.
‘When will he be in?’ Carlyle asked, keeping his gaze on the poster.
‘I don’t know,’ came the flat reply.
Carlyle began to feel the good humour engendered by daydreaming about Sylvia Kristel starting to fray around the edges. ‘I need to speak to him.’ He reached into his pocket for some ID then changed his mind. Better not to make too much of his police credentials when he was essentially freelancing; engaged on a mission from Ken Ashton.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr Muirhead may not be back.’
So much for staying undercover. Carlyle didn’t remember seeing this particular girl before, but she obviously knew who he was. ‘He may not be back today?’ he huffed. ‘Or for the rest of recorded time?’
‘The latter,’ the girl said promptly, taking a sip from the bottle of Evian that stood on her desk, next to an unopened box of Angus’s Macanudo cigars.
‘Huh?’
‘He had a stroke.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘That’s serious.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, perking up considerably at the thought of her boss’s travails. ‘But you’ve gotta face facts. Angus had been living on borrowed time for a while.’
Angus? It was Mr Muirhead a moment ago.
‘He’s on the way out.’
Glad to see that you’re holding up so well. Parking his bemusement at the girl’s attitude, Carlyle wondered where this left his mission. Coming to no obvious conclusion, he asked: ‘Where is he now?’
‘They took him to A&E at UCH in an ambulance,’ the girl said. ‘I assume he’s still there. I rang the hospital this morning but couldn’t get through to anyone who could tell me anything.’ Replacing the cap on her bottle, she screwed it on tight. ‘Do you want to leave a message, just in case he comes back?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Carlyle, already backtracking towards the stairs. ‘I can always call back later.’
* * *
For once, he was happy to wait. Standing in a lobby on the first floor of University College Hospital, looking out across the Euston Road, Carlyle watched the snarled-up traffic and was overcome by an unusual but not unpleasant sensation. His mind was blank, his body idle. In the middle of the city, he had achieved something approximating a state of Zen-like calm.
More or less.
‘Inspector . . .’
‘Hi.’ Turning away from the window, he bent forward and planted a kiss on the cheek of the woman in the white coat who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Taking a step back, Dr Elizabeth Crane gave him a tired smile. There was considerably more grey in her hair than he remembered and there were dark rings under her eyes, but she still looked good.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Sorry for popping up out of the blue and buttonholing you at work.’
‘Isn’t that your job – buttonholing people?’
‘I suppose. Some of the time at least.’ As he spoke, she stifled a yawn. ‘Tough day?’ he asked.
‘I had to help out in A&E,’ Crane told him. ‘On a normal day they get a couple of hundred people. Today, there was a big smash on the Camden Road, a load of injuries, as well as a fatality, I’m afraid – a bloke on a bike who got completely mangled.’ As if on cue, an ambulance appeared outside, its siren growing more insistent as it got caught up in the traffic. ‘That’s not why you’re here, is it?’
‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘How’re Ben and the family?’ The Cranes lived in a townhouse just off Seven Dials, a few minutes’ walk from Carlyle’s flat. Ben and Elizabeth were stalwarts of the Covent Garden Residents Association; a few years earlier, they had helped run a successful campaign to block a kebab shop setting up on Macklin Street, much to the inspector’s relief.
‘All fine, thanks. Everyone’s fit and well.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘But I’m assuming that this isn’t a social call either, is it.’
‘No.’ Carlyle explained about Angus Muirhead. ‘He was brought in sometime yesterday afternoon. I’m trying to track him down.’
‘Is this an official enquiry?’
Carlyle took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Yes and no. He’s helping me with something.’
‘Okay.’ Crane thought about it for a moment. ‘Let me find out if he’s still here and we can take it from there.’
‘Thanks. I really need to see him if at all possible.’
‘If the guy has had a stroke, I would be very surprised if he’s going to be able to talk to anyone.’ Crane’s tone was gentle but firm. ‘It would be difficult to even try to speak with a patient in Intensive Care without going through the official channels.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle realized that he should be care
ful not to push his luck too far.
‘Why don’t you grab something from the café? Give me fifteen minutes or so to see what I can find out.’
Finishing his cheese and tomato roll, Carlyle wiped the crumbs from his jumper and went back to checking the messages on his BlackBerry. It was the first time he’d looked at the device for more than a week. After opening a dozen or so of his 176 unread emails, he realized that they were all junk of one sort or another. Even the Police Federation seemed determined to send him nothing more interesting than some ‘exclusive’ insurance offers. With a sigh, he clicked on the blue band at the top of the screen and selected the Delete Prior option. Confirming his decision, he felt a fleeting moment of pleasure as all the messages disappeared into the ether. ‘Job done,’ he mumbled to himself, turning his attention to the ebb and flow of people across the hospital lobby. A digital clock next to the lifts told him that he had been waiting for more than twenty minutes. He was wondering about having another espresso when a shambolic figure shuffled into view. Catching Carlyle’s eye, there was a moment’s hesitation before he reluctantly headed over.
‘What are you doing here?’ Carlyle asked, nodding at the large bandage wrapped tightly around his sergeant’s forearm.
Even by his usual standards, Umar looked washed out. ‘I had to go to A&E,’ he replied, trying not to look too shamefaced. ‘The bastards kept me waiting forever.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Just an accident.’ Moving from foot to foot, the sergeant made no move to sit down. ‘It hurts a bit but it’s really no big deal.’
Uh-huh. Keen to interrogate his underling further, Carlyle was distracted by the sight of Elizabeth Crane walking towards him. As she got closer, he could see a mask of professional detachment descend across her face. Instinctively, he knew what was coming.
Emboldened by his boss’s loss of focus, Umar suddenly launched a belated counter-attack. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Work,’ Carlyle grunted, gesturing past Umar’s shoulder. ‘I need to have a word with the doctor.’
‘Sure.’ Grasping this opportunity, Umar turned on his heel, keen to make a hasty retreat. ‘See you back at the station.’ Not waiting for a reply, he set off, the soles of his red Converse All Stars squeaking noisily as he jogged towards the exit.