Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  If Crane was curious about the sergeant, she didn’t let it show. ‘Well,’ she said, pulling up a chair, ‘that took a little bit longer than I expected.’

  Getting to his feet, Carlyle watched Umar disappear into the street. ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said, giving her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘And then you can tell me about Angus.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Placing a latte on the table in front of Elizabeth Crane, Carlyle eased back down into his chair, taking a sip of his own espresso as he did so.

  ‘Thanks.’ The doctor cradled the paper cup in her hands without showing any desire to lift it to her lips. ‘Was he a friend?’ she asked, not looking up.

  ‘Angus?’ Carlyle made a face. ‘I’ve known him a long time but he was an acquaintance rather than a friend – a professional contact. Someone I dealt with now and then for work.’

  ‘I see.’ Glancing round the café, she leaned forward. ‘Well,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘anyway, sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr Muirhead passed away at just after four this morning. The death certificate was signed at 4.37.’ She mentioned a couple of medical terms that he didn’t understand. ‘Basically, he died as a result of complications following the stroke. It seems that he had been in poor health for a while. What happened yesterday just pushed him over the line.’

  Where did this leave his deal with Ken Ashton? Carlyle finished his espresso and let his gaze drift to the comings and goings at the entrance. A child in a bright red coat entered the lobby, grimly holding the hand of an attractive blonde woman.

  ‘Did you know that he had been quite unwell for some time?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle dragged his attention back to the doctor. ‘He told me that he was on borrowed time.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No.’ So what happens next? ‘What is the situation with next of kin?’

  Crane finally took a sip of her latte. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Does he have any?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Just the one close relative. A daughter. Name of Louise Schapps.’

  ‘A daughter.’ Carlyle pondered that piece of information for a second. ‘You wouldn’t know if she’s still here in the hospital, would you?’

  ‘No.’ Crane placed her cup back on the table and pushed it away. The beverage was obviously not up to scratch. ‘She’s gone to speak to the funeral director at Levertons. It’s on Eversholt Street, up past Euston station on the way to Camden Town.’

  ‘Brilliant. How did you know I would need that?’

  ‘You’re a policeman. I knew that you would want to know as much information as possible. I spoke to the staff dealing with Mr Muirhead who were still on duty.’ Crane gestured over her shoulder towards the lift. ‘I didn’t want you sending me back upstairs with a set of supplementary questions. Apart from anything else, people would get suspicious. You’re hardly going through the normal channels, are you?’

  ‘I know. And I’m very grateful.’ Carlyle stood up, leaned over and gave her another quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ve gotta run, but you’ve been a big help.’

  ‘It was no trouble,’ Crane lied, making him all the more grateful for the effort she had put in. ‘Say “hi” to Helen for me. Hopefully we’ll see you guys soon.’

  ‘That would be great. Maybe go to Wagamama’s or something.’

  ‘There’s a Residents Association meeting next week. Maybe you could come along,’ Crane suggested rather optimistically. ‘There’s some important stuff on the agenda; the council wants to allow another nightclub on Drury Lane. We could do with as many people attending as possible.’

  Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘Sounds good.’ With a cheery wave, he scuttled towards the exit. ‘I’ll get Helen to give you a call about it.’

  The phone refused to stop ringing. Knowing that he would have to take the call sooner or later, he prodded the receive button and lifted the handset to his ear.

  ‘Christina, look—’

  ‘Umar?’ The brittle voice on the end of the line cut him off. ‘It’s Giselle.’

  It took a moment for the sergeant to flick through his mental Rolodex and come up with the entry for Brian Winters’ wife. An image of the widow sprawled across the marital bed wearing nothing but a smile washed through his brain, leaving him squirming with embarrassment. The dalliance was just another error of judgement to add to his growing list of misdemeanours.

  ‘Umar?’

  ‘Yes, hi.’ He looked ruefully at his gashed arm. Giselle might have been a mistake but at least she hadn’t tried to glass him, unlike the crazy cyclist, Melissa Graham. A number 48 barrelled down the bus lane, heading towards him. For a brief moment, the sergeant fantasized about stepping in front of it.

  ‘You have to come up to the house.’

  Closing his eyes, he felt the wind on his face as the bus rushed past. ‘Actually—’

  ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘you have to come. Right now.’ For the first time, he noticed the tension in her voice.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sniffled. ‘There is something wrong.’

  ‘What—’

  She cut him off with a sob. ‘I need your help. Don’t be long.’ There were some muffled sounds in the background and the line went dead. Umar stared at the phone, wondering what to do.

  SIXTY

  The legend on the window of Leverton & Sons said Funeral Directors since 1789. As Carlyle approached, an elegant woman in cowboy boots, jeans and a short fur jacket came out of the front door and started towards him. Assuming that this was his quarry, the inspector held up a hand. ‘Ms Schapps?’ Slowing down, the woman stared at him from behind a pair of chic sunglasses. ‘Apologies for buttonholing you on the street,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘but are you Angus Muirhead’s daughter?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Lifting the sunglasses onto the top of her head, the woman peered at him suspiciously. Her face was pale and free of make-up. It showed no sign of sorrow, only a mixture of anger and grim determination. Trying to affect an air of professional detachment, the inspector took in the mouth, the cheekbones and the large ebony eyes, looking for signs of a family resemblance, but none was immediately apparent.

  ‘Inspector John Carlyle, from the Metropolitan Police.’ Finding his warrant card, he held it up for her to inspect.

  ‘I would have hoped the bloody police could leave me alone, today of all days,’ Louise Schapps whined, buttoning up her coat. Is that real fur? the inspector wondered. Or is it fake? He had no idea. He tried to make eye-contact but she was having none of it, ostentatiously scanning the middle-distance in search of a cab. ‘My father’s dead – surely you lot can leave him alone now?’

  ‘This is not about any ongoing investigation,’ he pointed out.

  ‘All the crap that my family’s had to put up with over the years . . .’ Schapps ranted, giving no indication that she was listening to what he had to say.

  ‘I knew Angus for a long time. I’m very sorry for—’

  ‘What do you want?’ she snapped, holding out an arm and clicking her fingers. Almost instantly, Carlyle heard a taxi pull up behind him. He realized that it had been a mistake to come here. Any attempt to force the Harley Street issue was doomed to failure. Inspector Carlyle? he thought morosely. Bloody Inspector Clouseau, more like.

  ‘It can wait,’ he said, giving a thin smile as she stepped over to the cab and leaned into the open window to give the driver an address in Hampstead.

  Opening the cab door, she reluctantly returned her attention to the policeman. ‘If you knew my father,’ she said tersely, ‘I’m sure that you must know his lawyer. Speak to him, not me.’ Slipping inside, she slammed the door shut, not giving him a second glance as the cabbie did a U-turn and barrelled off, heading north. A poster in Leverton’s caught his eye: Planning your funeral the Independent Way. ‘Maybe I should give it a thought,’ he chuntered to himself, heading off down the street.

  Standing once again on the doorstep of
72 Boyle Avenue, Umar glanced around nervously. An endless stream of questions bounced around a brain that was devoid of any answers.

  Why did I come back here?

  Should I do a runner?

  What should I say to Christina?

  Caught in a mire of indecision, he heard the door open and Giselle Winters ushered him inside. This time, she had not bothered to dress up for his arrival. Grey sweatpants and a baggy sky-blue jumper did a pretty good job of hiding her figure. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face kept hidden behind an outsized pair of sunglasses.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered, not quite managing to muster a smile. Keeping his gaze fixed on the expensive-looking print hanging on the wall, Umar grunted a nothing response. Despite the early hour, he could smell the booze on her breath.

  ‘Drink?’ she asked, following him into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Looking out into the garden, he could see that the flowerbed was still a work in progress. There was no sign of any gardeners at work this morning. Leaning against the wall, he watched her reach for a less than full bottle of vodka on the island and then appear to think better of it. ‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked, his tone sharper than he had intended.

  Stifling a sob, she removed the sunglasses and let them drop next to the bottle. ‘Chris Brennan paid me a visit . . .’

  Gritting his teeth, Umar contemplated the mess of her face. It wasn’t pretty but he’d regularly seen worse. Nodding, he tried to retrieve signs of the woman who had seduced him on his last visit. It wasn’t easy – she looked as if she’d aged twenty years or more since then.

  ‘My husband’s partner.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Umar’s brain was telling him to say something consoling, but somehow, his mouth couldn’t quite manage it.

  Pulling up a stool, she sat down. ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’

  ‘Yes.’ The sergeant knew that Brennan’s appearance on the scene meant that he should really call Carlyle. For the moment, however, he didn’t dare. Maybe he would have something to drink, after all. Stepping over to the fridge, he helped himself to a Diet Coke. ‘Why did he hit you?’ he asked, cracking open the can and drinking deeply.

  ‘He says Brian owes him five hundred thousand pounds.’ Giselle wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper and for the first time he felt a stab of sympathy. ‘And that means I owe him five hundred thousand pounds.’

  Waiting for her to explain, Umar tipped back the can and emptied the remaining contents down his throat.

  ‘Chris says that Brian was stealing from a client. The client has found out and now Chris has to pay it back. If he doesn’t get the money by the end of the week, he’s in deep shit.’

  Placing the empty can on the island, Umar raised an eyebrow. Carlyle will like that. ‘How deep?’

  Giselle made a face. ‘I don’t really know. I think the client was threatening him. And he’s worried about this derailing his merger with the Americans – the Austerlitz guys. Anyway, whatever mess he lands in, he says that he’s going to drag me down into it too.’ Now the sobs came and didn’t stop.

  With a heavy sigh, Umar stepped over and placed an arm lightly around the woman’s shoulder. ‘Let me guess,’ he said gently, ‘this client . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ she gulped through the tears, ‘it’s Ken Ashton.’

  The voice on the line made no effort at any pleasantries. ‘What have you got for me, Inspector?’

  Standing by the kerb on Tower Street, by the stage door of the Ambassadors Theatre, Carlyle gazed at a poster advertising Little Charley Bear and His Christmas Adventure – Live on Stage. ‘I thought that you didn’t like using mobile phones,’ he said sullenly.

  Ken Ashton chuckled down the line. ‘Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.’

  ‘You heard about Muirhead?’ Carlyle asked, scratching his head as he watched a gleaming Porsche lumber past. A familiar stab of envy pricked at his guts. The car easily cost more than he earned in a year.

  ‘A stroke.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Behind the wheel of the Cayenne, some identikit Sloane bird was yakking away on her mobile. Overwhelmed by a sense of irritation, he dragged himself back to the matter in hand. ‘He died up at UCH early this morning.’

  ‘Better late than never,’ Ashton grunted. ‘I won’t be sending flowers.’

  ‘Very generous of you,’ Carlyle quipped.

  ‘I think of it as being honest, Inspector. Why should I buy in to this everybody loves you when you’re dead crap?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I hated the man when he was alive and I still hate him now.’

  ‘I get the message.’ For want of anything better to do, Carlyle dangled a foot over the kerb as he waited for a reply.

  ‘So, now that he’s dead, where does that leave us?’

  Pretty much up shit creek without a paddle, Carlyle reflected. He hoped that this phone conversation wasn’t being recorded. Then again, he knew that he could probably rest easy on that score; phone hacking had rather fallen out of fashion recently.

  ‘Did you make any progress on the Harley Street issue?’ Ashton asked.

  ‘Not really.’ There was no point in bullshitting the crime boss. ‘I tried to speak to Angus’s daughter this morning,’ the inspector explained, ‘but she wasn’t interested. Everything’s getting kicked back to his lawyers.’

  There was a pause then Ashton let out a low curse. ‘That’s just brilliant,’ he snarled.

  ‘Sorry, Ken, but that’s just the way it is.’

  Another pause. ‘I should have known,’ Ashton said finally. ‘Not much use, are you, copper?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Carlyle snapped.

  ‘I guess I won’t be handing you Brennan, after all.’ Conversation over, Ashton ended the call.

  Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Carlyle watched as another 4x4 bounced down the road towards him, hitting a puddle and sending a spray over his shoes and up his leg. Rooted to the spot, he looked down disbelievingly as the dirty water seeped through the fabric of his trousers. Then, raising his gaze to the heavens, he caught sight of Little Charley Bear looking down on him with a mocking smile on his face. ‘Fuck you, you little furry bastard,’ Carlyle muttered as he stomped off in the direction of the police station.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Recognizing the couple in the green North Face ski jackets, Carlyle upped the pace as he passed the front desk of Charing Cross police station, trying not to smirk as he eavesdropped on the conversation.

  ‘What do you mean,’ the man complained, waving an arm in the air, ‘all you can do is give me a crime reference number? What good is that?’

  ‘You’ll be able to use it with your insurance company,’ the desk sergeant explained patiently, ‘to claim for the loss of your wallet. Have you spoken to your credit card company, to cancel the cards?’ He had dispensed the same advice so many times before, it sounded like he was reading from a script.

  ‘Of course,’ the man huffed.

  ‘Well then, I think we are good to go,’ the sergeant continued.

  ‘But aren’t you going to investigate the theft?’ the woman demanded. ‘We’ve been waiting here for almost two hours . . .’

  Bloody Seymour, Carlyle thought. He didn’t know for sure that Erikssen had stolen the guy’s wallet, but the thief had been standing less than three feet from the hapless pair at around the time that the theft took place. Put two and two together and you usually got four. In his book, that was one of the first rules of policing.

  Not waiting to hear any more, the inspector headed for the third floor. There he found Umar at his desk, hiding behind a copy of that morning’s Metro. Looking over his shoulder, Carlyle could see that his sergeant was reading a story about a Jimi Hendrix guitar that had been sold at auction for a quarter of a million pounds. Presumably Jimi didn’t really care that much.

  Flopping into his chair, Carlyle switched on his computer. ‘How’s the arm?’


  Not looking up from his paper, Umar grunted. In a pair of tattered jeans and a grubby T-shirt bearing the legend TIME LORD next to a picture of Dr Who’s Tardis spinning through space, he looked less like a copper and more like a student who had just managed to roll out of bed.

  ‘Have you spoken to your rep yet?’

  ‘Yeah.’ From behind the newspaper Umar tried to sound laid-back. ‘She seems quite good.’

  ‘Cute?’

  The sergeant glared at him. ‘I said “good”. As in “someone who’s going to do a good job to get me off the hook with regard to this bullshit complaint by Calvin Safi, which you got me caught up in”.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Umar said with feeling, ‘you. The bloke who wanted to play with the bloody tasers.’

  Carlyle shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Umar continued, ‘I gave Miranda my statement yesterday afternoon. She reckons I’ll be fine.’

  ‘When’s the hearing?’

  ‘Didn’t you see the email?’ Frowning, Umar dropped the paper on his desk and reached for his mouse. With a couple of clicks he pulled up his Outlook and opened a message. ‘It’s . . . next Thursday at three.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Nah. Liverpool Street. You’ll have to go too.’ He gave his boss a sour look. ‘Even though it’s not your neck on the block.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle said limply. ‘We’ll both get a rap on the knuckles and that’ll be the end of it.’

  Umar looked at him doubtfully. ‘Did Simpson tell you that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle lied cheerily. ‘Simpson’s okay. She won’t let the IPCC make a meal of it. The whole thing is a storm in a teacup.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘The video didn’t get into the media, thank God,’ Carlyle went on, warming to his theme, ‘and the Federation won’t stand for any nonsense. Safi’s lawyer can jump up and down all he likes, but no one really gives a toss.’