London Calling ic-1

by James Craig

  ‘First, empty your pockets and give the stuff to Joe. Then we need to have a quick chat.’

  ‘Inspector!’ Clement protested, his face scrunched up in pain, like an eight year old just reminded for the final time that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, he did as he was told. Joe shoved the stuff into his jacket pocket, without looking at it.

  ‘There’s no chance of a receipt, I suppose?’ When neither Carlyle nor Joe bothered to answer his question, Clement took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck for a few seconds. This type of police harassment was frustrating but, at the same time, it was factored into his overall business plan as part of the cost of doing business. When he turned back to Carlyle, the scowl had been replaced by philosophical calm.

  Carlyle decided that they’d had enough preamble. ‘How’s your brother?’

  ‘Paul? He’s fine.’ Clement looked surprised, then worried. ‘Unless you tell me anything different.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Carlyle hastily. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Clement, relaxing slightly.

  ‘Is he still at Cambridge?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Clement smiled, ‘he finally got a job. The shock almost killed him. Assistant lecturer or something.’

  Paul Hawley was eight or nine years older than Clement. He had gone up to university in the 1980s and never left. Clement was proud of his brother in the way that everyone likes having an academic in the family. To people who didn’t know any better, it suggested intelligent genes.

  ‘Did he ever finish his PhD?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘It only took him seventeen bloody years!’ Clement made a face. ‘ Drinking cultures in the early and middle Middle Ages. Published too – you can find it on Amazon, but I haven’t seen it in the bestseller lists yet.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have been bankrolling him for quite so long,’ Carlyle smiled. Clement had once revealed that he had been covering his brother’s costs to the tune of two thousand pounds a month.

  ‘Hah!’ Clement laughed. ‘That’s not going to change. He might have a job, but he’s still not making any money. Can you guess how much he’s earning?’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Sixteen thousand a year!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Joe.

  Clement threw up his hands in despair. ‘Can you believe it? Sixteen grand. A fucking year! That’s not even the average wage, nowhere close. Why would you bother?’

  Carlyle shook his head in genuine disbelief. Even he earned more than that, in fact a multiple of that. He tried to work the precise number out in his head, in terms of monthly income, but it was taking him too long, so he moved on. ‘I’m trying to find out about something called the Merrion Club. It’s a drinking society for well-heeled Cambridge students. I don’t suppose Paul was ever a member?’

  Realising that they were not interested in him personally this time, Clement relaxed. ‘I’ve heard of the Merrion,’ he said, eager now to please. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret society, or anything, but Paul would never get invited to join something like that. It’s not something you just sign up for at fresher’s week. “Well-heeled” doesn’t quite do it justice, because it’s the creme de la creme de la creme. Paul’s not in that league. In fact, almost no one is.’

  ‘But he would probably have come across them?’ Carlyle persisted. ‘Might he know anyone who was a member?’

  ‘He might.’ Clement shrugged non-committally. ‘Cambridge is a small place. A very small place compared to London. Anyway, what do you want to know about?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Joe firmly. ‘We just want to go up there and talk to Paul. Nothing heavy, just to pick his brains. Can you tell him to be there to meet us?’

  ‘Sure,’ Clement shrugged. ‘Term finished last week, but he’s still there. He’s marrying one of his students, so they’re doing up their house.’

  ‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Joe asked. ‘Knocking off your students, I mean – not doing up your house. Isn’t it a violation of teacher-student ethics, or whatever?’

  ‘You would have thought so. But she’s switched her course from Medieval English to Media Studies, so it looks like he’s got away with it. She’s Serbian, twenty years younger than him, with a hell of a body. He’s a lucky sod.’

  ‘Rather him than me,’ said Joe.

  Amen to that, thought Carlyle. Nice body or not.

  ‘You’ve got to be careful with East Europeans, though,’ Joe continued, graciously prepared to share the wisdom of a second-generation Pole who was married to an Indian. ‘The girls are fantastic, some of the best-looking babes in the world, but they don’t age well. They go from thirty to sixty in about three years. By the time she’s thirty-five, she’ll look even older than him.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’ll care by then,’ said Clement wistfully.

  ‘Give us Paul’s mobile number and we’ll give him a call to let him know when we know when we’ll be coming,’ interrupted Carlyle, boring of the chat. ‘And remember to tell him it’s not a big deal, just a few general inquiries. It will be nothing taxing. Not like an academic test.’

  After Clement had gone back to the bank to churn a few billion of this and that, just in order to help keep the world’s currency markets in business, Carlyle sat in the corner of the Frying Pan pub, pondering what to do with the rest of his afternoon. Joe had returned to the station to book in Clement’s stash (every little helps for the year-end performance tables!) and prepare for making a court appearance in the morning. This had already been cancelled three times, but one never knew. Carlyle thought about heading for home, or maybe going to the gym. Realising he still had most of the whiskey in front of him, he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one go. He thought about another but decided against it, heading for the door via a quick trip to the gents.

  Stepping out into the street, he was assaulted by a grubby, muggy afternoon. He could already feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. A couple of streets away, someone was digging up the road, and the drilling just upped Carlyle’s discomfort level a notch further. Still trying to formulate a plan, Carlyle pulled out his ‘private’ mobile and switched it on. The Nokia 2630 was one of the cheapest, most ubiquitous pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash, and would top it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. He didn’t flash it around, and gave out the number to very few people. Even then, he changed both the handset and the SIM card every three or four months. This didn’t guarantee complete secrecy, but it meant that no one was routinely checking his calls. It allowed him some privacy, and for that the additional hassle and cost was worth it.

  Crossing the road, he stood at the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street, and scrolled down the list of names. He stopped at ‘DS’ and hit the call button.

  The response was immediate. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dominic? It’s me.’ No one else called him Dominic.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ The tone was neutral, not exactly guarded but not welcoming either.

  ‘I’d like to have a chat.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m just after some background information. Business-related, obviously, but nothing in any way related to you.’

  ‘Why not speak to your little pal Clement?’

  Jesus, how could he know? Was he fucking psychic? ‘I already have. I’m just moving on up the food chain.’

  There was a sigh at the other end, some muffled noises in the background. ‘OK, meet me at the usual place in an hour.’

  They met Simpson in a discreet room on the fourth floor of Portcullis House, the?235-million office block for MPs, located across the road from the House of Commons, facing the north side of Westminster Bridge. This close to the election, the place was completely deserted. Gratifyingly, the superintendent seemed suitably desperate to do whatever they wanted from her. Straight off the bat, she had promised a media blackout ‘better than the p
rime minister’s when-’

  Edgar stopped her with a gentle wave of the hand. ‘Everyone knew about that anyway,’ he sniffed,

  ‘Maybe in Westminster,’ she replied politely, ‘but it didn’t make the papers.’

  Xavier snorted: ‘Who cares about it not being in the media, when all your peers know anyway?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simpson, nervously standing her ground, ‘but the situation here is rather different.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Edgar smiled graciously.

  Xavier watched his brother moving into campaign mode. He had seen it so many times before when they needed to build the ‘hired help’ up, not knock them down. It was now time to throw a bone to one of the little people.

  ‘You are absolutely right.’ Edgar’s smile grew wider still.

  ‘Indeed,’ Xavier nodded.

  ‘It is,’ Edgar continued, ‘in the absolute best interests of all concerned – especially the victims and their families – that this most unfortunate and difficult situation is dealt with quickly. A total information blackout, while the matter is resolved, would therefore be a good thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Simpson agreed.

  ‘That should help your people catch this lunatic soon.’

  ‘I have already explained that to my people,’ Simpson concurred.

  ‘I am sure,’ Edgar said gently, ‘that our people will be able to help you, too.’

  Our people?

  Simpson made no comment at all when she was informed, in so many words, that William Murray would be dispatched to mark Carlyle’s card and report back to Edgar Carlton himself.

  ‘Your Inspector Carlyle,’ Edgar said casually, as they were finishing up the conversation, ‘he seems quite… unusual.’

  Simpson finally lifted her head and tried her best to smile. It merely made her look constipated. ‘He has had some issues over the years, yes. To be frank, there are some who consider the inspector an inverted snob with a chip on his shoulder. He is not well liked and amongst ourselves…’ She paused, glancing at the two politicians, wanting to believe in their discretion.

  ‘Of course,’ Edgar said gently, ‘nothing that is said here today goes beyond the three of us.’

  I’ve heard that, too, thought Xavier, smirking.

  ‘Well,’ Simpson continued, ‘I think it is reasonable to assume that he is now in the slow lane to retirement. As I am sure you know, he has had more than a few problems with authority down the years.’

  ‘That’s not really what we need here, is it?’ Xavier piped up.

  ‘No,’ Simpson agreed gently, addressing Edgar rather than his brother, which pissed Xavier off considerably. ‘But it would be more trouble than it’s worth to take him off the investigation at this stage. It might lead people to ask awkward questions.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Edgar, shooting his brother a sharp look.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Simpson, ‘Carlyle has a reasonable track record when it comes to actually closing cases. There’s a chance that he will be able to wrap this business up quickly. If not, and if he takes a few wrong turns, it will be easier to have him replaced later.’

  ‘That all makes great sense,’ said Edgar Carlton sweetly. ‘Thank you for giving us such reassurance. We’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Brixton, London, June 1987

  Yawning widely, Larry Guthrie strolled down Mostyn Road on his way to the New World cafe round the corner. It was a beautiful day, temperature in the mid-twenties, with a slight breeze and the occasional cloud skipping across a sharp blue sky. It was the kind of day that should make you happy to be alive, but the weather currently didn’t interest Larry very much. It had been a late night and the seventeen year old could have done with more than a couple of extra hours in bed. Sleep, however, would have to wait. Right now, Larry was hungry. And he was also on a schedule. There was more work to be done this afternoon too, and his was not the kind of job that allowed you to throw a sickie and hide under the duvet. People needed their gear for Saturday night and therefore business would be brisk. Anyway, some pancakes and coffee would keep his tiredness at bay. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he wouldn’t get out of bed at all.

  Looking up from his plodding feet, he glanced at two young boys playing on the swings in Mostyn Gardens. Only a few years ago and that had been him. In a few years’ time, if not sooner, this life of his would be theirs. Sticking his hands deeper into the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, Larry returned his gaze to the pavement and increased his pace. Eyes down, he didn’t see the man with the lengthening stride walking towards him. Nor did he see the man pull out a gun and aim it at Larry’s stomach.

  When the gun went off, the noise was so shocking that Larry didn’t even realise he’d been hit. His hands went to his ears, rather than his guts. Then, once he went down, everything went silent. He could hear nothing but his beating heart and the blood pulsing in his temples. He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the gun that was now hovering barely six inches from his face. He wondered if he would be able to see the bullet approach. In the event, as the muzzle twitched again, there was only darkness.

  Feeling like a spare prick at a whore’s wedding, Constable John Carlyle watched the forensics team going about their business and wondered what exactly he himself should be doing. For a while, he just stood there looking at the blood-splattered trainers of Larry Guthrie sticking out from under the dark green sheet that had been casually dropped over the boy’s body. Carlyle recognised the Nike high-top Dunks from a recent spread in The Face magazine, and he felt a stab of envy: the sneakers were way out of his price range. The favoured footwear of various local gangs, such as Young Thugs, the Cartel Boys, the Alligator Crew and the Superstar Gang, they weren’t even on sale in the UK yet, but had to be brought over from the United States at a cost of several hundred dollars a time. Carlyle looked on as a technician removed the trainers from Guthrie’s sockless feet and placed each one in its own evidence bag. At least he died with his boots on, he reflected, smiling grimly to himself.

  One of the detectives standing over the body finally took offence at his idleness. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine,’ he shouted. ‘Get across the street and start knocking on some bloody doors.’ Reluctantly, Carlyle trooped off to report for duty with the sergeant who was out organising the canvassing of potential witnesses.

  Ten minutes later, some old codger was bending his ear: ‘The area has become really terrible,’ the man complained. ‘It’s a war zone. Every night you can hear shouting and bawling. Gunfire, too, sometimes. Gangs of kids shouting in street slang. No one feels safe here. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder when you’re out and about. It’s the folk with young families that I feel sorry for.’ He pointed in the direction of the body. ‘How do you explain that to a six year old? It’s a disgrace and you people should do something about it.’

  Carlyle stood there, nodding absentmindedly.

  You people? Thanks.

  He glanced up at a VOTE LABOUR poster in one of the neighbouring windows. He’d have thought that the residents inside would have taken that down by now. It was more than thirty-six hours since Margaret Thatcher had recorded her third crushing election victory on the bounce. According to the media, they were all now officially ‘Thatcher’s Children’. If it was difficult to remember what life had been like before she arrived, it was becoming increasingly impossible to imagine what life might be like after she departed – that was if she ever departed.

  Several hours and dozens of interviews later, Carlyle felt hot, hungry and hacked off. Lots of people had heard the screaming, lots of people had heard the police sirens, lots of people had an opinion on how the neighbourhood was going downhill, and everyone had an opinion on the unbelievably piss-poor job that the police were doing. No one, however, had seen anything or had any useful information to share. He was delighted when the end of his shift finally approached, having turned down flat the sergeant’s offer of ov
ertime. Carlyle needed a shower and something to eat. He was taking Helen to see Angel Heart at the Ritzy, and was looking forward to an enjoyable Saturday night. The job could fuck right off.

  Carlyle was now four months into a stint working out of the station on Brixton Road. If anything, it was a rougher beat than his previous postings at Shepherds Bush and Southwark, but he was enjoying it immensely. In the locker room, someone had scrawled the legend ‘Twinned with Fort Apache, the Bronx’. A not unreasonable comparison considering this was the kind of place where everyone took pretty much in their stride the shooting of a local gang member in broad daylight in a residential street.

  Even here in battle-hardened Brixton, the news that the gun that killed Larry Guthrie was a Browning BDA sent a frisson of nervous excitement through the ranks. The BDA was a modern, Belgian-made, 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, therefore a very fancy piece of kit indeed for a bunch of local hooligans to be using. Even more surprising was the fact that it been deliberately tossed away at the scene. Local criminals getting hold of guns was one thing; being well connected and well resourced enough to casually discard them once they’d been fired was another. At the station, the gossip was that this Guthrie killing threatened the start of a new round of drug-related violence that would have a posse of local and national politicians down on their backs in their usual search for easy answers and quick results.

  At least it’s not my problem, thought Carlyle, as he stepped out of the station. It was just after six in the evening and he was looking good in his best grey and red Fred Perry polo shirt, a pair of black Levi 501s and a new pair of Doc Martens. With plenty of time to spare, he wandered slowly along Brixton Road, before turning into Coldharbour Lane in search of some food. He was standing by a set of traffic lights, waiting to cross the road, when he heard a nearby driver blast on his horn.

  ‘John!’

  He looked up to see Dominic Silver leaning out of the driver’s window of a rather knackered-looking, copper-coloured Ford Capri. ‘Get in,’ Dom shouted, popping his head back inside and pushing open the passenger door. The lights changed back to green and the drivers behind Silver began noisily expressing their impatience. ‘Hurry up!’