by James Craig
‘There goes the Beemer.’ Carlyle looked over at his sergeant who was staring into space. ‘What do you suggest we do now, then?’
Umar’s only response was to turn on his side and throw up.
After dozing for a while, Carlyle woke with a start. It was properly dark now, after 10 p.m. according to his still signal-less BlackBerry. Helen will be pissed off, he thought dolefully.
In the middle of the cage, Umar muttered something in his sleep. His breathing was heavy but he seemed comfortable enough. Christina won’t be too happy, either.
Enough light from the paddock trickled under the doorway for the inspector to glimpse something rustling in the hay near Umar’s head. Hoping it was just his imagination, he struggled to his feet, his stiff joints protesting all the way up. Conscious of his aching bladder, he stepped up to the bars and unzipped his trousers.
In mid-flow, he was interrupted by a noise outside. There was the sound of multiple vehicles, followed by footsteps and hushed voices. He just had time to finish up before the main door creaked open and a light was switched on. He had to shield his eyes against the sudden glare.
‘So there you are.’ Carole Simpson strode up to the cage and placed her hands on her hips. An amused grin played at her lips as she took in the scene. ‘Inspector John Carlyle behind bars. I have to say I rather like it.’
‘This is no time for jokes.’ Carlyle gestured towards Umar, who was still flat out on his back, seemingly unmoved by the new arrivals. ‘Get us out of here.’
From behind Simpson, Gapper appeared and stared at the padlock. ‘Get an axe, or a set of bolt cutters, or something,’ Carlyle hissed. With a nod, Gapper turned and headed off to see what he could find.
‘You should be a bit more gracious, John,’ Simpson admonished him, once the driver had disappeared. ‘If it wasn’t for young Gapper, you would have been in a world of trouble.’
‘And here’s me thinking we were in Butlins,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.
‘When you went AWOL, at least Gapper had the sense to call the station. Who would you rather have, turning up to rescue you? Us, or the local plod?’
Not wishing to concede the point, Carlyle simply glared at her.
‘Or we could have decided it could wait and then taken a leisurely stroll up here sometime tomorrow.’
Carlyle was momentarily distracted by further rustling in the straw. ‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point. Just get us out of here.’
TWENTY-SIX
In the event, it took Gapper the best part of twenty minutes to find an axe and smash the lock. Once the cage had been opened, the driver used the First Aid kit from the boot of the Astra and carefully cleaned up Umar’s wound.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I did the First Aid course last month,’ Gapper explained evenly, not looking up as he wrapped a gauze bandage around the sergeant’s thigh. ‘I know enough to patch him up until we get to hospital.’
‘It’s just a flesh wound,’ Umar said, decidedly more chipper now that they had been rescued. ‘Let’s get back to London. You can drop me at UCH.’ University College Hospital, at the top of Tottenham Court Road, was barely fifteen minutes from Charing Cross police station.
Simpson looked on doubtfully.
Taping up the bandage, Gapper handed Umar half a dozen ibuprofen in a foil wrapper. ‘At this time of night we can be there in an hour or so,’ he pointed out. ‘At least we know where it is. It could take us almost as long to find a local hospital.’
‘And you don’t want to leave him out in the sticks,’ Carlyle chimed in. ‘We’d have a lot of explaining to do.’
‘We’ll have a lot of explaining to do at UCH,’ Simpson said moodily.
‘Nothing we can’t talk our way out of,’ Carlyle countered. ‘And at least we’ll be on home turf.’
A gust of wind swept through the barn, causing Simpson to shiver. ‘You don’t really operate very well outside of Zone 1 of the tube map, do you, John?’
‘The fresh air doesn’t agree with me,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Not enough lead in it.’
‘You should have protected your colleague.’
Carlyle gave Simpson a disbelieving look. The colleague you are going to hang out to dry in the next few weeks? ‘Look,’ he started, ‘if you want to play the blame game, who got us into the mess in the first place? You were the one who told me we had to help Gregori and Kortmann.’
Ignoring him, Simpson stalked out into the paddock. Following her outside, Carlyle gestured towards the other buildings. ‘Anything of interest in there?’
Relieved that the inspector was not looking to continue the argument, she shook her head. ‘Not really. We can check who owns the property in the morning.’
‘No sign of Kortmann, I suppose.’
‘Nothing. Only the newspaper in your cell to suggest he’s been here.’
‘There was some freshly dug ground.’ Carlyle gestured towards the fallen tree. ‘Over there. Maybe—’
Simpson shook her head. ‘It’s someone’s vegetable garden. There’s no body.’
The inspector looked almost dismayed. ‘So we’re pretty much back at square one.’
‘Hardly,’ Simpson corrected him. ‘We now know that Gregori is our man. I’ll call in Forensics, see what else they can discover.’
Carlyle bridled at the suggestion. ‘Maybe that is not such a good idea. Not right now, at least.’ The lights were on in one of the buildings. Through a ground-floor window, he could see a fridge. Further along was an open door. Carlyle began walking towards it. ‘We don’t have the remotest clue about what’s going on here. Who the hell is this guy Gregori? What’s he playing at? And how was he able to dupe his client? That’s what we need to find out. Not to mention, what the hell is he going to do next?’ Not waiting for a reply, he went in search of the kitchen, hoping that the crazy kidnapper had at least left some decent food behind.
Pulling open the fridge door, Carlyle gave silent thanks to Gregori for at least being organized enough to buy some groceries. Helping himself to a Jamaican beer, some Dutch cheese and the remains of a baguette, he began filling his stomach.
Stepping into the kitchen, Simpson watched impassively as her underling stuffed his face. ‘I hope you’ve left something for Umar,’ she said.
Chugging down the beer, Carlyle stifled a burp. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty.’ He gestured towards the fridge with his can. ‘Want a beer?’
The Commander thought about it for a moment. ‘Why not? It’s been a long day.’ Stepping over to the fridge, she pulled out a can of Red Stripe, cracked it open and took a long drink. ‘Aaah.’ Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she rested her behind on the edge of a workbench. ‘You know,’ she said, staring at her can, ‘even by your standards, today has been quite a cock-up.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle replied unapologetically, shoving another chunk of cheese into his mouth and washing it down with the last of his beer. Crushing the can, he dropped it onto the table. In the corner was a pile of neatly folded plastic bags; grabbing one, he opened it up and placed the can inside. ‘We don’t want to leave any rubbish with our fingerprints on it, do we?’ Placing the bag on the table, he returned to the fridge. ‘Just in case Forensics do happen to turn up, one day.’
‘You’re going to wipe that down, as well?’
‘Of course,’ Carlyle said airily. ‘There’s no harm in being paranoid.’ Grabbing the last can of lager, he closed the door and wiped down the handle with a grubby tea towel. Opening the can, he took a swig as Simpson gave him a look. ‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘it’s not like Umar can drink it. And Gapper’s driving.’ With Simpson making no further objections, they drank in silence for several moments. ‘By the way,’ Carlyle said finally, ‘how did you find us?’
‘Gapper played a blinder,’ Simpson told him. ‘By the time I made it up here, he had followed your trail and found the road that comes in from the other side. He assumed that yo
u were in here as there’s nowhere else for miles.’
‘Good for him,’ Carlyle said, finishing off the last of the cheese and speaking with his mouth full. ‘If he thought we were here though, why didn’t he come in and get us out? Gregori legged it hours ago.’
‘He had no way of knowing that. For all he knew, he could have stumbled right into a nutter with a gun.’ Lifting the can to her lips, she smiled. ‘Just like you did.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ Carlyle grumbled.
‘Like I said,’ Simpson teased, ‘you just can’t function outside of Zone One.’ Taking a final mouthful of beer, she poured what remained into the sink and dropped the can into the plastic bag. ‘So, what do you want to do now?’
‘We’d better put the word out about Gregori,’ Carlyle said. ‘We can’t have him scampering around the Home Counties, armed and dangerous.’
‘Leave that to me,’ Simpson replied. ‘I’ll make sure that it’s done in a way that doesn’t scare the horses.’
‘OK. Then let’s get back to London. See what else we can find out about him. Think how we can manage the mess when the news gets out that we helped a nutter to kidnap some German industrialist.’ Sweeping up the bag of rubbish, he looked at Simpson. ‘Who put the two of them on to you in the first place?’
‘Someone in the Commissioner’s office.’ The Commander exhaled. ‘There was nothing particularly surprising about that. Like I said before, it was the kind of referral that you get on a fairly regular basis. “Just make sure that so and so feels that they are being properly looked after.” You know what it’s like; plenty of VIPs turn up expecting us to do their bidding.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘I just passed them on to you.’
‘Maybe you need to have a word with the Commissioner.’
‘Ha.’ She waved the idea away with a dismissive flick of her hand. ‘What exactly would I say? Anyway, I’m sure he knows nothing about it; it was just a name on a piece of paper that came across his desk that he delegated.’
And we don’t want to lose the Trooping the Colour gig, do we? Carlyle thought. But it was a cheap shot and he knew it. ‘In that case, maybe we need to speak to some people in Germany.’
She looked at him doubtfully.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I think I know where to start.’
With Umar bundled into the back of the Astra, Carlyle took up Simpson’s offer of a ride in her Range Rover. Setting off in convoy, they headed back towards London. Once his network coverage was restored, Carlyle called home. Helen sounded like she’d been asleep. Skipping any mention of his rustic adventure, he told her he should be home in a couple of hours and let her get back to bed. That done, he made a second call. The phone rang for several moments before someone finally picked up.
‘Hello?’
‘Ben? Look, sorry for ringing you so late. It’s John Carlyle, from Macklin Street.’ Ben and Elizabeth Crane lived in a townhouse just off Seven Dials and played a leading role in the Covent Garden Residents Association, which was active in trying to keep the local nightlife to manageable levels. Carlyle had first come across the couple a few years earlier when the Association had helped get a kebab shop closed on Macklin Street. Since then, he and Helen had been out with the Cranes a couple of times socially. The inspector had never been entirely clear what Ben did for a living. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a Registrar at University College Hospital and therefore a good contact to have at times like this.
‘Ye-es?’ The man sounded more than a little drunk.
‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Elizabeth. Bit of a work-related emergency.’
‘She’s not here,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s on shift.’
Perfect. That was a better result than he could have hoped for. ‘OK, I’ll call her at work. Sorry again to have phoned you so late.’
‘OK. No problem.’
Ending the call, Carlyle found a number for UCH on his BlackBerry and phoned the hospital. After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally put through to Dr Elizabeth Crane. She listened patiently while Carlyle explained the nature of Umar’s injury, without going into any of the details regarding how it happened.
‘I’m not on A&E,’ she responded, taking the matter in her stride, ‘but I’ll see what I can do. All the usual paperwork will have to be done, of course, and the police have to be informed immediately. But then again, you are the police, so we’ll take that as read.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘I suppose Helen knows what you’re up to?’ Elizabeth Crane asked finally. ‘Out all night playing cops and robbers. I don’t know how she puts up with it.’
‘It’s a living,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘She would get pissed off if I was under her feet the whole time.’
‘Ben’s the same,’ she confided. ‘He likes his space.’
And his booze, Carlyle mused. As his eyelids began to droop, he thanked her again. Dropping the phone back in his pocket, a sign flashed by, telling him that they were only twenty-three miles from London. Heading in the right direction, he thought, and promptly fell asleep with a smile on his face.
* * *
After dropping Umar off at UCH and squaring things with Elizabeth Crane, it was almost 5 a.m. by the time Carlyle finally made it home.
‘Bloody hell,’ Helen mumbled as he crawled into bed, her voice deep with sleep, ‘you are really late.’
‘Sorry.’
‘S’OK. Just try and get some rest. I’ve got to be up early.’ Letting an arm drop across his chest, she immediately resumed her gentle snoring.
For a while, all that Carlyle could do was stare at the ceiling. After dozing fitfully in the car, he felt quite awake. Umar was being patched up before being sent home in a taxi. According to Dr Crane, the patient should rest – which apparently meant that he should take at least a fortnight off work. Knowing his sergeant, Carlyle expected that it would no doubt get stretched into three weeks, or even a month. He wondered what this latest turn of events would mean for Simpson’s investigation into what he’d come to think of as ‘the willy pictures’, or ‘Willygate’. Getting shot in the line of duty probably wouldn’t do his sergeant much good when faced with several counts of inappropriate behaviour of a sexual nature.
Bloody Umar.
Eventually he let his breathing fall in step with Helen’s and closed his eyes, confident that sleep would come in due course. All he needed was a couple of hours’ rest and then he would be up and at ’em.
It was throwing-out time in Camden and a small crowd had spilled out of the Fristock Arms, gathering behind the tape to watch the firefighters clean up the mess. Some yummy mummy would find her Chelsea tractor missing in the morning. Standing at the end of the alley, Crew Commander Dave Wharton watched the smoking wreckage of the Porsche SUV and shook his head. What a waste of a great motor.
‘Bloody kids,’ someone grumbled. ‘That’s the second one this month.’
Third, actually, Wharton thought.
‘I hope they’re fully comp,’ a woman shouted, prompting a round of drunken laughter.
Wharton took a couple of steps forward, putting a bit more space between himself and the rubberneckers. Where are the bloody police? he wondered. They should be moving these people on, not to mention checking where the vehicle had been stolen from.
Tuning out the voices behind him, the fireman watched his crew going about their jobs. Next week, they would be on strike. The dispute was over pensions being cut back. Wharton had voted to go on strike too. He didn’t particularly see the point, but when the guys went out, you went out. If you didn’t, working together afterwards would be impossible. When they came back to work, everyone would simply go on a go-slow and it would take for ever to get anything done. Already, he had started cutting back on his spending in anticipation of the loss of income. Next year’s holiday was on hold and his daughter’s riding lessons were under serious threat. The financial belt-tight
ening wasn’t going down too well at home, but there was no way around it.
One of his men, Lewis Rotherby, a young lad from somewhere out in the badlands of Essex, finished hosing down the car and popped open the boot. Standard protocol. Wharton nodded approvingly. Lewis was a good lad. Would make a decent fireman. Just wouldn’t have any money when he retired.
At that moment, Rotherby dropped the hose and wheeled away, puking the contents of his stomach over the cobbles.
The drunken chatter went up a notch as Wharton reached for his phone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Opening his eyes, the inspector squinted at the green LED display of the clock on the bedside table: 3.15 p.m. ‘Shit.’ Sitting up in bed, he considered his options. Having slept for the best part of ten hours, he could head into the office and try to salvage something of the day, or simply say ‘fuck it’ and try again tomorrow. After thinking about it for several moments, he decided on the latter.
By the time Helen got home, just after 6.30, he had been to the gym, done some shopping at Tesco and even emptied the dishwasher.
Hovering in the hallway as she walked through the door, Carlyle brushed off her surprise at his presence. ‘I thought we might go out for dinner,’ he said, taking her coat. ‘Alice said she’ll come too.’
‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Helen’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Carlyle said hastily, discomfited by his wife’s ability to make him feel guilty at every turn. ‘I just thought it would be a nice idea, that’s all.’
‘Yes, why not?’ Clearly still suspicious, Helen slipped past him, heading for the bathroom. ‘Just give me a minute and we can get going.’
After much debate, they decided on an Indian next to the Royal Opera House. It was part of a chain, but Alice liked it – the place had a nice, busy atmosphere, it was reasonably priced and the service was prompt and friendly. Hitting the post-work rush hour, they had to queue for ten minutes but were finally rewarded by a table next to the window. Waiting for the drinks to arrive, Carlyle watched as a group of workmen manoeuvred a series of massive sets out of the Opera House and into the back of a large lorry. After spending most of the day in bed, he felt unusually relaxed; successfully parking the cares of the night before, safe in the knowledge that they would be there waiting for him when he returned to his desk tomorrow.