Acts of Violence (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

Licking his lips, Carlyle wondered if he had been a bit hasty declining the offer of something to eat. ‘What does Christina make of it?’

  ‘I told her that the hearing is to do with an investigation into a suspect who claims he was assaulted in police custody.’

  A bus trundled past the window. The inspector looked at the miserable faces on the top deck as they headed slowly through the dusty badlands of South London.

  ‘She’s not happy.’

  ‘She’d be a lot unhappier if she knew the truth,’ Carlyle pointed out. Part of him wanted to understand why the sergeant had done it; an equal part of him didn’t want to know. The pros and cons of photographing your genitals was not, to his mind, a suitable topic of conversation for two grown men.

  ‘Who do you think complained?’ Umar asked.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Not Elmhirst.’

  ‘No. She doesn’t seem to be the sort of person who would be too stressed about that kind of thing.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Umar agreed. ‘She’s definitely one of the lads.’

  ‘O-kay. How many other women did you, er – you know.’

  ‘Not that many, five or six maybe.’

  Jesus. ‘Didn’t you think it was asking for trouble? You send pictures of your willy to half the bloody station, sure enough someone is gonna take offence.’

  ‘Come on,’ Umar protested, ‘half a dozen is hardly half the station.’

  ‘But still.’

  ‘It was just a bit of fun,’ the sergeant repeated, sounding like an eight year old who had just been caught pushing a lit firework through his neighbour’s letter box.

  ‘What does the Federation say?’ Carlyle asked.

  The toast popped up. Dropping it onto a plate, Umar began smearing Lurpak across the first slice. ‘I haven’t spoken to them about it.’

  ‘No?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I would get on to the union asap, if I were you. The hearing’s not that far away.’

  Adding a dollop of marmalade, Umar took a bite of toast, chewing rapidly before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m not going to contest the hearing,’ he said quietly.

  ‘But—’

  The rest of the toast disappeared in three swift bites. ‘I emailed Simpson last night to inform her that I have decided to leave the Force.’

  Not knowing what to say, Carlyle stared into his coffee.

  ‘Better to jump before I’m pushed.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘And anyway,’ Umar said brightly, starting on his second slice of toast, ‘I’ve got a new job.’

  ‘Oh?’ Carlyle looked up from his mug. ‘House-husband?’

  ‘Not at all. A proper job,’ Umar grinned. ‘I’m going to be working for Harry Cummins.’

  ‘You are a very lucky boy. Amelia Elmhirst really saved your skin.’

  ‘That is a fairly superficial reading of the actual situation, as it, er, evolved in real time on the ground,’ said Carlyle, trying his best to smile through the grimace that had set, like concrete, on his visage. He was sitting outside a coffee shop on Garrick Street, the better to have a private conversation with the Commander about their little provincial adventure.

  Carole Simpson allowed herself a chuckle. ‘The sergeant handled herself extremely well. Under different circumstances, she would be in line for a commendation.’

  ‘Under different circumstances,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘we wouldn’t have bloody been there in the first place.’

  ‘Now, now, John,’ she chided, ‘things worked out well enough. Herr Kortmann has given up his search for the terrorist Sylvia Tosches and gone home.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Yes,’ Simpson continued. ‘He couldn’t get out of here quick enough, heading back to Germany as soon as a doctor had given him the all clear.’

  ‘And what about Popp?’

  ‘All been dealt with,’ Simpson said cheerily, meaning: don’t ask. ‘We have earned some brownie points with our German colleagues, now that one of their leading criminals has been caught.’

  ‘Marcus Popp was hardly big-time,’ Carlyle said.

  ‘You can be so negative,’ Simpson scolded. ‘I’ll have you know that he was number 2,356 on the Europol Most Wanted list.’

  Decidedly unimpressed, Carlyle replied. ‘You’re probably higher on the Europol list than that. I certainly am.’

  ‘The point is,’ Simpson said primly, ‘that things could have turned out a lot worse.’

  ‘Yeah, I could have been shot in the head. Game over.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so melodramatic.’

  ‘Why not? I was the one chained to the ground.’

  The Commander raised an amused eyebrow. ‘A moment ago you were claiming it was no big deal.’

  ‘You could have been burying me round about now. Coffin wrapped in the Union Jack, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole works.’

  ‘I’m not sure that you would merit a twenty-one-gun salute, Inspector.’

  ‘Bloody typical.’ He toyed with his empty coffee cup.

  ‘All’s well that ends well,’ the Commander persisted. ‘There’s really no need for you to be so ungracious.’

  ‘Me? Ungracious?’

  ‘Yes, you are. There are plenty of times when it seems like I spend half my working day trying to keep you out of trouble of one sort or another. I do that – willingly, for the most part – because I know that you have certain qualities that many modern law-enforcement officers lack.’

  Carlyle felt himself begin to blush. ‘Don’t try and butter me up,’ he stammered.

  ‘Qualities,’ Simpson continued, ignoring his discomfort, ‘that young, up-and-coming officers like Elmhirst should be exposed to, if only for a short while, under controlled circumstances.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Qualities,’ Simpson persisted, ‘that mean that when we are confronted with very tricky situations like Voisin Towers you are my go-to guy.’

  Go-to guy. How very American. Blushing harder now, he kept his jaw clamped tightly shut.

  ‘Anyway, I knew that Amelia would back you up. That girl really is something special. She will go far.’

  ‘She can certainly shoot,’ Carlyle reluctantly conceded.

  ‘You should be grateful that Elmhirst had your back. Not everyone can be so confident about their colleagues.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He gestured down the road, in the direction of the police station. ‘Where is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her around since the incident with Popp.’

  Simpson eyed him over her cup of tea. ‘As of this morning, Sergeant Elmhirst is seconded to SO15.’

  ‘Oh? For how long?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. For six months, at least – probably nine. It will be an important part of her career development.’

  ‘So where does that leave me?’ Carlyle whined.

  ‘Well,’ Simpson took a sip of her tea, ‘given that Umar Sligo is headed out the door, you’re going to be on your own for a while.’

  ‘Great.’ The inspector watched as a familiar face came down the road. With a couple of oversized tourists sitting in the back of his rickshaw, the pimply driver with the prayer mat was sweating heavily as he pedalled towards Trafalgar Square. You poor sod, Carlyle thought. There’s got to be an easier way to make a living.

  ‘But not for too long.’

  ‘No?’ Carlyle turned back to look at his boss.

  ‘In return the Chief Inspector over there has agreed to let us have Alison Roche back.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle tried not to seem too chuffed at this extremely positive development.

  Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you’d like that.’

  ‘It’s fine by me,’ was the most expansive response he could muster.

  ‘As it goes, the powers that be in Counter Terrorism seem quite happy to see the back of her,’ Simpson revealed. ‘From what I can gather, Sergeant Roche can be a bit of a troublemaker.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Asking difficul
t questions. Tilting at windmills. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Better to keep us troublemakers together, I suppose,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘Easier for the top brass to manage.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ the Commander grinned. Reaching under the table, she took a hold of the handle of the outsized hat box at her feet and stood up.

  Carlyle remembered that Trooping the Colour was less than a week away. ‘Ready for the big day?’

  ‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ Simpson admitted.

  The inspector thought about mentioning Bernie Gilmore and his interest in her £800 hat but thought better of it. The poor woman was under enough stress already. ‘Good luck. Break a leg.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Simpson laughed. ‘You just see if you can behave yourself for the rest of the week.’

  ‘No problem, boss,’ he promised, beaming. ‘No problem at all.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As he entered the station, Carlyle immediately clocked the headline on a newspaper lying on the front desk: PUNTER CALLS 999 OVER UGLY HOOKER.

  ‘Looks like Bernie caught up with Brian Yates, then.’

  Underneath the headline was a picture of the hapless Yates trying to hide from a snapper dogging him by holding up a hand to the lens. It made for a good picture – Yates looked as guilty as sin.

  The inspector felt a momentary pang of shame at having so casually thrown Yates to the wolves, even if it was to save Simpson from getting a public kicking over her expensive hat. Scanning the story, he saw that Sonia Coverdale had not been mentioned.

  His sense of embarrassment evaporated as the desk sergeant appeared in front of him. ‘There’s a friend of yours downstairs. We’ve Seymour Erikssen in again.’

  London’s crappest burglar. Carlyle shook his head. ‘I don’t know why they bother letting him out. What happened this time?’ As if he needed to ask.

  ‘Mr Erikssen was caught carrying a bag of gear out of a house on Rugby Street at one-fifteen this morning. iPads, laptops – the usual.’

  ‘Rugby Street.’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Up near Great Ormond Street,’ the sergeant explained. ‘The constable who came across him had to give chase all the way to the Piazza before he caught him.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘The daft sod almost got run over by a night bus in the process. For such a scrawny old git, it seems that Seymour’s still got quite a turn of speed.’

  ‘Yeah. The silly bugger keeps on getting caught though, doesn’t he?’ the inspector said.

  ‘He must be entitled to his pension by now.’ The sergeant started to laugh.

  ‘If only he would call it a day and retire.’

  ‘Do me a favour.’ The sergeant took a sheet of paper from a printer behind the desk and handed it to Carlyle, ‘Take this downstairs, will you? Seymour just needs to sign it and then we’ll pack him off back home to the Scrubs.’

  The inspector looked at the confession, which was little more than a list of addresses. ‘He’s copping to all this lot?’

  The sergeant shrugged.

  Carlyle waved the sheet of paper in dismay. ‘This must be just about every unsolved burglary this side of King’s Cross.’

  ‘Only about three-quarters of them,’ the sergeant said defensively.

  ‘Bloody Seymour.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Once we get him in here, he’ll sign anything.’

  ‘It helps with the clean-up rate,’ the sergeant countered. ‘Ticks a few boxes. Gets a few break-ins off the books and allows us to deal with other things. Plus, it allows Seymour to maintain his reputation as a hard-working criminal.’

  ‘Some reputation.’ Carlyle ran his eye down the list for a second time, looking for one address in particular. And there it was, third from the bottom: 46 Doughty Street. ‘Good old Seymour, taking one for the team.’ He placed the old lag’s confession back on the desk, ignoring the disgruntled look on the sergeant’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled, ‘but you’ll have to take this down there yourself. I’m late for a meeting.’

  * * *

  Kendrick, the giant American Samoan bodyguard, lifted his head out of his bag of Monster Munch long enough to nod at the inspector as he breezed into Sammy Baldwin-Lee’s office. Inside, the Racetrack’s owner was in familiar pose, feet up on his desk, leafing through a copy of that morning’s Financial Times. ‘Listen to this,’ he said as the inspector dusted off a chair and sat down. ‘Apparently scientists have created an artificial brain.’

  Carlyle gestured towards the man sitting on the ratty sofa in the corner playing on his iPhone. ‘Maybe they can give him one, then.’

  Chase Race, engrossed in a game of Fruit Ninja, didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence in any way.

  Chuckling, Sammy quoted from the newspaper article. ‘According to this, “human stem-cells have been turned into pea-sized mini-brains with a neural structure similar to the brain of a developing embryo”.’

  ‘You can’t believe what you read in the papers, Sammy.’

  ‘But it’s the FT,’ the nightclub-owner protested. ‘They at least try to get it right.’

  Being more of a Daily Mirror man, Carlyle had no real view on the pink paper, one way or the other.

  ‘Anyway, it’s a more interesting story than this one.’ Holding up the paper, Sammy pointed at the headline on the next page: REN QI SHOW TRIAL DESCENDS INTO FARCE.

  ‘It’s all about power, corruption and lies,’ Carlyle observed tritely.

  ‘They reckon he’s going to get twenty years, at least. He might even get the death penalty.’ Letting the newspaper fall on to the desk, Sammy remarked sadly, ‘You lost me a serious investor there.’

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle spluttered. ‘How is that possibly my fault?’

  ‘He could have put millions into this place, millions. We could have signed Oscar 451 on a twelve-month residency.’

  The inspector had no idea what the club-owner was talking about. ‘Never mind,’ he said cheerfully, ‘there are plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to raise a bean in your life.’ Sammy shot Carlyle a look of utter exasperation. ‘Have you ever tried to get a rich man to part with his money? It’s damn near impossible.’

  Still focused on his game, Chase let out a cackle. ‘You tell him, man.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Carlyle, keen to move the conversation along, ‘I have found a way of properly utilizing your excess funds, Mr Race.’

  Dropping his iPhone on the sofa, the rapper finally looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘The money that you wanted to donate to the Avalon charity, in order to boost your reputation,’ Carlyle explained. ‘I’ve found a suitable home for it.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sitting in a busy Soho restaurant, Carlyle allowed himself to be distracted by the TV screen, which dominated the back wall. Less than a mile down the road, Trooping the Colour, the Queen’s Birthday Parade, was progressing smoothly. It suddenly struck him that Her Maj had to be at least ten years older than his father. Despite her advanced years the old girl seemed happy enough as she waved from the back of her phaeton. It was the best part of thirty years now since she had done the ceremony on horseback but, other than decamping to her carriage, she showed no real sign of her advancing years.

  The benefits of a pampered lifestyle, the inspector mused.

  Peering at the various horses trotting past the camera, he tried to pick out Simpson amidst the sea of uniforms. However, of the Commander he could find no sign. Let’s hope her damn hat’s stayed on, he thought.

  Sitting next to him, Helen sent a sharp elbow into his ribs. ‘This is hardly the time to be watching telly,’ she nagged, ‘is it?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Sitting up straight, Carlyle returned his attention to the table.

  ‘There was a guy I read about,’ Alice took a slurp of her Coke, ‘a musician. He was diagnosed with cancer too – of the pancreas, I think. And he decided not to get t
reatment – went on a farewell tour instead.’

  ‘Alice,’ Helen tutted, ‘for God’s sake.’

  ‘She’s got a point.’ Alexander Carlyle patted his granddaughter on the shoulder. ‘Why bother? I feel fine at the moment. They say I could have another eight or nine months like this. Every day now is a gift. Why go through the hassle of treatment?’ He looked at Carlyle and Helen. ‘It will make me feel terrible. And for what? Another month or two? Maybe not even that.’

  Helen gave him a consoling squeeze of the hand. Carlyle simply stared at the large plate of garlic bread in the middle of the table.

  Folding up the letter from the hospital, Alexander slipped it back inside his jacket pocket. ‘At least we know now. To be honest, I feel quite cheerful about it.’

  Looking up, Carlyle frowned. ‘Cheerful?’

  ‘I don’t know why, really, but ever since I spoke to the GP and got the letter, I’ve felt – I dunno – calm.’ Alexander took a sip of his lager. ‘It’s like the game’s almost over. We’re in injury time. You don’t have to worry about the result any more.’

  Carlyle reached for a slice of garlic bread. Good for you, he thought grumpily. I just hope I don’t have to be terminally ill before I can feel relaxed.

  ‘I’m just going to enjoy my farewell tour. When it ends, it ends.’

  I suppose when you’re staring death in the face you can mix your metaphors too. Carlyle made a mental note to get a couple of season tickets for Fulham. If nothing else, it would be a decent gesture. As the conversation lapsed, a procession of waiters appeared with their pizzas and began distributing them around the table. Keen to be distracted by the food, everyone assaulted their plates and began happily munching.

  ‘One bit of good news,’ said Helen, between slices of Padana, ‘is that Wilf has finally turned up.’

  ‘Wilf’s a cat who lived in our block,’ Alice explained to her granddad, who was busy wiping a globule of tomato sauce from his chin with a napkin. ‘He ran away from home and the owners put up Missing posters everywhere.’

  ‘Cats do that sometimes,’ Alexander observed. ‘They like to roam.’

  ‘He turned up somewhere in Camden,’ Alice continued.