by James Craig
The inspector shook his head in dismay ‘Have you not seen the body yet?’
If anything, the woman’s face became even more anguished. ‘No, they won’t let me see it.’
Carlyle thought back to this morning’s papers. The grisly details had been there for all to read. ‘But they told the press?’ Very strange. Someone must have sold the information. So much for the new Commissioner’s promise to clean up the Met; the organization still had more than its share of officers who were as bent as a nine-bob note, willing to sell juicy details of a crime to journalists for some beer money.
His unhappy musings were interrupted by the phone vibrating next to his left breast. ‘Sorry, I need to take this,’ he told her as he pulled it from his pocket.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Where are you?’
Taken aback by the brusqueness of his boss’s opening gambit, the inspector took a moment to get his bearings. ‘Er . . .’
‘I spoke to Charing Cross and they just said you’d gone out.’ Commander Carole Simpson sounded like a pissed-off headmistress. Come to think of it, that was increasingly her default tone when speaking with her erratic underling. Maybe it was simply a reflection of her advancing years. Remembering that, however old she was, the Commander was still younger than him, Carlyle dropped that line of thinking immediately.
‘I’m in a meeting. Not far from you, as it happens.’ Simpson was stationed at Paddington Green, barely five minutes’ walk from where he was sitting.
‘How convenient,’ Simpson drawled sarcastically. ‘So I take it that you could manage to put in an appearance with us, then?’
Bollocks. Whatever Simpson wanted, it would inevitably involve more work. As he got older himself, the inspector was less inclined to take on the cases he was given and more determined to pick and choose the ones he wanted. As far as he could see, it was one of the few perks of longevity in the organization. Normally, the commander was happy enough to keep him on a long leash. There were times, however, when she enjoyed bringing him to heel.
‘Of course, boss,’ he replied, throwing an ounce of fake cheer into his voice, ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good,’ said Simpson, her good humour equally false. ‘I look forward to seeing you in what – the next ten minutes or so?’
Carlyle looked at Taylor, patiently waiting for him to finish the call. The disappointed look on her face made it clear that he should have left the phone unanswered. He felt like a heel. ‘Make it twenty.’ Ending the call, he dropped the phone back into his pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated. ‘That was my boss.’
Taylor nodded. ‘You must be very busy.’
Not really. The inspector thought about the random odds and sods currently on his desk; nothing to get the adrenaline pumping. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time this morning.’ She began fumbling in her bag for her purse. Carlyle leaned across the table and put a hand on her arm.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get this. Tell me what I can do to help.’
She looked at him doubtfully.
Taking his hand from her arm, he said, ‘Marvin was a good bloke and a good colleague. If there is anything I can do to help you and your . . .’ Did they have a boy or a girl?
‘Daughter.’ It wasn’t so much a word as a cry.
‘Yes.’ The couple on the next table had tuned back into Carlyle’s conversation. He tried to ignore them.
‘Laurie.’
‘If there is anything I can do to help you and, er, Laurie, I am at your disposal.’
‘Well, if you could see what you could find out.’
He looked at the hope mingling with despair on her face and tried to smile. ‘About . . .’
‘About anything,’ she sniffed. ‘What happened, why someone did this to him, when we can have him back. Anything.’ From the pocket of her jacket she pulled a business card and handed it to him. ‘This is the person I’ve been dealing with so far. He’s been very nice but hasn’t been able to tell me much. That’s why I spoke to Susan and she suggested I get in touch with you.’
‘Yes.’ Putting his glasses on the top of his head, Carlyle scanned the card. Oliver Steed, Liaison Officer, SO15. Below the name and title, there was a landline number but no mobile, suggesting that Mr Steed didn’t really want to be contacted at all.
SO15? What did this have to do with Counter Terrorism?
What had Marvin bloody Taylor gotten himself into?
Taylor caught him frowning. ‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’ Carlyle carefully entered Steed’s details into his phone, handed back the card, and then took Taylor’s own numbers. ‘I do know some people in SO15 though,’ he added, still peering at the mobile’s screen. ‘So maybe I can find out something.’
For once, Simpson didn’t keep him waiting. Arriving at Paddington Green, he was ushered directly into the Commander’s office by her latest PA – a greasy-looking boy with too much fake tan – and offered a coffee, which he declined. After his meeting with Naomi Taylor, he had more than enough caffeine in his system already.
‘But we have some really nice Jamaican Blue Mountain roasted beans,’ the boy protested, fiddling with the collar of his fuchsia-coloured polo shirt. ‘I got it from Waitrose this morning.’
Waitrose? Jesus. Even Helen complained about the posh supermarket’s prices, and his wife rarely noticed such things. There were times when he wondered if the gentrification of his city had not gone too far. Carlyle shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Simpson appeared from behind her assistant and grinned. ‘Not like you to say no to a coffee, John.’
Not like you to offer me one, the inspector thought grumpily. ‘Helen’s been trying to get me to cut down for a while now. And, anyway, I just had one.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Simpson’s grin grew wider. ‘Your meeting.’ She looked up. ‘I’ll have half a cup, please, Jason. Black.’ The boy nodded and hurried out of the room.
‘New?’ Carlyle asked, happy to prolong the small talk for as long as possible.
‘I’ve had him about a month.’
‘Any good?’
‘We’ll see.’ Jason reappeared almost instantly, placing a faded London 2012 mug on the Commander’s desk, and retreated out of the door doing something that looked to Carlyle suspiciously like a moonwalk. If Simpson noticed, she didn’t let on. Taking a sip of her coffee, she gave a small nod of approval. ‘At least he can make a decent cup of coffee – and in double-quick time too. Not that it matters much, none of them last very long. I worked out recently that the average life expectancy of one of my PAs is about four months. I try not to get too attached to any of them.’
‘Very wise.’
‘So . . .’ Simpson smiled over the top of her mug in a way that was, frankly, unsettling. Trying to look at her without maintaining eye contact, the inspector noted that she looked tanned and relaxed; just back from holiday, perhaps, or a long weekend in the country. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘My pleasure, boss.’ Carlyle braced himself, wondering what he was about to be carpeted for. He ran through his recent indiscretions. Nothing major sprang to mind, but he knew from painful experience that it was always the things you didn’t think of that caught you out.
Sensing his discomfort, the Commander said, ‘Don’t worry, John, you’re not here for a bollocking.’
‘No?’ he enquired, failing to keep the surprise from his voice.
‘No,’ Simpson replied firmly. ‘You’re here because of a woman called Barbara Hutton . . .’
‘OK.’ Sitting up straight, he placed his hands in his lap and adopted a formal paying attention pose.
‘. . . aka Sylvia Tosches. Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Hutton, maiden name Grozer – according to her papers at least. Born in Germany, a UK citizen living in a Georgian pile in Bloomsbury. Her husband is a lawyer.’
‘So far, so boring.’
‘Tosches, on the other hand, is a G
erman national. Born in Frankfurt in 1949, she was a lesser light of the Baader-Meinhof gang, a terrorist group in the seventies.’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I know who they are. Helen took me on a date to see The Baader Meinhof Complex once.’
Simpson looked at him blankly.
‘It’s a movie.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘Not exactly what you would call a date movie. It was her idea of a joke, I think.’
‘I see.’ Not unduly interested in the dynamics of the inspector’s marriage, Simpson moved swiftly on. ‘Tosches was believed to be involved in a bank robbery in Kassel and also in the kidnapping and murder of a businessman by the name of Uli Eichinger. She was arrested by the police but got away.’
‘And now she’s turned up in London forty-odd years later?’
‘Our colleagues in Berlin had a tip-off that Hutton is, in fact, Tosches. They have asked us to investigate.’
‘Now?’ Carlyle pursed his lips. Of all the weird stuff he’d had to deal with over the years, this was right up there with the strangest. ‘Almost half a century on?’
‘Eichinger’s body was found in a wood,’ Simpson said matter-of-factly. ‘His hands were bound and he had been shot in the back of the head. A bank teller was also killed in the robbery. Two murders. There’s no time limit on these crimes.’ She paused, reached for her mug and then thought better of it. ‘And apparently, Eichinger’s family have considerable political influence. Even after all this time, they continue to lobby hard for the cases not to be forgotten.’
Stands to reason, Carlyle thought. If it was just the bank teller we were talking about, no one would be interested.
‘They want justice,’ Simpson continued primly. ‘Which is understandable.’
Folding his arms, the inspector stared in the general direction of the window. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ he asked eventually. ‘Go and beat the truth out of some granny who may or may not have been there at the time?’
‘She’s not a grandmother,’ Simpson observed, ‘as far as we know.’
‘And what proof do we have that she is, in fact . . .’
‘Tosches. Sylvia Tosches. They don’t have any proof – but they can get some. Sylvia has a sister, a retired librarian living in Gelsenkirchen. They want to do a DNA test.’
‘Doesn’t sound legal to me,’ Carlyle grumped. ‘Not without a warrant.’
‘All you have to do, John,’ said Simpson patiently, ‘is to accompany the German police officer who will present himself at Charing Cross tomorrow, on a visit to Mrs Hutton’s home.’ She mentioned the address and he committed it to memory. ‘It will be a preliminary meeting before, inevitably, lawyers get involved.’
A wave of annoyance swept over Carlyle at the thought of being used as a babysitter but he let it pass. ‘Fine.’
Simpson raised an eyebrow.
‘No problem.’
The Commander smiled. ‘But?’
‘But I was wondering if there was something you could do for me.’
The smile evaporated. ‘Why is it,’ the Commander wondered, ‘that everything with you has to be a matter of negotiation?’
‘I’m not haggling,’ Carlyle said evenly, ‘it’s just that I wondered if you could help with something.’ He quickly ran through his conversation with Naomi Taylor and the secrecy surrounding her husband’s death. ‘Maybe you could see why the Counter Terrorism guys are all over this?’
Simpson shook her head. ‘If SO15 are involved, I suggest that you leave it alone. Apart from anything else, the last time you got mixed up with those guys, you almost got yourself killed.’
And almost got kicked off The Job, Carlyle reflected ruefully. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Not that long ago,’ she countered. ‘So keep your distance.’
‘But—’
‘Do as I say.’ Simpson eyed him sternly, then let her visage soften. ‘I haven’t heard something. If I come across anything relevant, I’ll pass it on.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But only if you keep out of it. For once, see if you can surprise me by not causing any trouble.’
SEVEN
Carlyle was dozing in front of the television when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Sleeping?’
‘Not any more,’ he grumped, shuffling along the sofa in order to let his wife sit down beside him.
Helen glanced at the half-empty bottle of Jameson’s sitting on the coffee table, and the empty shot glass next to it, but said nothing.
‘What time is it?’ Carlyle asked groggily.
‘Just after ten.’
‘You’ve had a long day.’
‘Yeah.’ Helen took a sip of peppermint tea from the chipped mug she was holding. ‘There was a Board meeting tonight.’
‘Ah.’ Helen worked for a charity called Avalon. It was the kind of place where everyone had to express an opinion on everything, at considerable length. ‘I suppose you should be grateful that you made it home before midnight.’
‘The whole thing basically degenerated into an argument about whether or not we should take money from Chase Race.’
‘Who he?’
Helen grabbed a cushion, tossed it on the floor and sat down. ‘He’s a rapper who’s got convictions for drug use and also for beating up his girlfriend.’
‘Lovely.’ Carlyle was in no doubt as to which of those offences was the more serious in his wife’s book.
‘On the other hand, he has offered us fifty grand for a project in Liberia which no one else will support. It really needs the cash.’
‘Why?’
She looked at him. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did he offer you the cash?’
‘I dunno. PR, I suppose. Apparently his management is worried that if he doesn’t get his act together his career is toast.’
‘Not exactly a business geared to longevity though, is it?’
‘No,’ Helen agreed, ‘but that’s hardly my problem. Trying to get the Board to agree, that was my problem. Fifty grand . . .’ She heaved a sigh. ‘They’re worried about the risk to our reputation.’
‘Understandable.’
‘As well as the impact on staff morale.’
‘Staff morale?’ Carlyle never paid too much attention to the touchy-feely stuff.
‘People work for us out of principle,’ Helen explained. ‘If they think we’re willing to grab money from anyone, some of them would just up and leave.’
What you mean is that they’re a bunch of highly strung primadonnas. Knowing better than to pass judgement on Helen’s co-workers, Carlyle restricted himself to some sympathetic tutting. ‘Decisions, decisions.’ Helen’s job often made the humble policeman’s lot seem very straightforward.
‘What would you do?’
‘Me?’ Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘I’d take the money. If you can put it to good use, who cares where it came from? Money is just money.’
‘After four hours, going back and forth, we decided to turn it down.’
‘It must be hell having principles.’
‘I know. It’s not as if we don’t need the money. And I’m the one who has to make sure that everyone gets paid at the end of the month.’ The bitterness in Helen’s voice was obvious. Carlyle wondered if she could do with a change of job. So many years in such a physically and emotionally challenging position was bound to take its toll. He gave her a consoling peck on the cheek.
‘All you can do is do your best.’ Jeez. That was something his father used to say. Inwardly, he groaned.
‘Yeah, right. How was your day?’
‘Pff.’ Carlyle took a moment to recall what had happened and select a suitable highlight. ‘I went to see Carole Simpson. Have you ever heard of a woman called . . .’ he thought he was going to forget the name, but it tripped off his tongue after the briefest of delays, ‘. . . Sylvia Tosches?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Apparently, she was a member o
f Baader Meinhof and the Red Army Faction. I don’t remember her in that movie, do you?’
Helen shook her head. ‘It was a movie though, hardly a document of historical record.’
‘I suppose not.’ He repeated what the Commander had told him about the woman. ‘And I looked her up on Wikipedia this afternoon.’
‘So,’ Helen chuckled, ‘you think Jimmy Wales is a more reliable source of information than your boss, do you, Inspector?’
‘Being someone who has to collect and evaluate information for a living,’ Carlyle said airily, ‘I think that multiple sources are a good thing. Especially when they tell me the same story.’
Pulling her legs up under her bum to get comfortable, Helen smiled. ‘Which, in this case, is what?’
‘That it was all a very long time ago.’
‘So why is this woman of interest to the Met?’
‘The German police think she might have turned up in London. Well, not really turned up, more been living here for decades under an alias.’
‘And they want her back?’
‘Of course, assuming it is her.’
‘What if she’s paid her debt to society already?’
‘How?’
‘I dunno. Maybe she’s spent the last forty years working with disabled homeless kids or something.’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said doubtfully, recalling the Bloomsbury mansion and the lawyer husband.
‘Hopefully it’s just a case of mistaken identity,’ was Helen’s final observation on the subject. ‘That would save everybody a lot of hassle – especially you.’
‘Quite.’
She gestured at the TV. ‘What are you watching?’
‘No idea.’ Carlyle rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day, doing essentially nothing. Grabbing the remote, he clicked on to one of the rolling news channels. For a few moments he stared blankly at the ticker scrolling along the bottom of the screen; it was the usual mix of the irrelevant, the banal and the inevitable. ‘Maybe it’s time for bed. I’ve got an early start in the morning.’
‘I spoke to your dad this afternoon.’
‘Oh yes?’ Suddenly on alert, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.