by James Craig
‘A copper?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No more coppers for me.’
‘Smart thinking.’
The uniformed sergeant came to a halt in front of them. ‘We’re good to go.’
‘Any sign of life inside?’ Roche asked.
‘Lights are on, but we haven’t seen anyone so far.’
Roche looked at Carlyle. ‘Do we want to wait?’
‘Nah,’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Let’s get on with it before any TV shows up. I’ll go in with the armed officers once they’ve gone through the door. Come in behind me but, remember, we have to assume that there are guys in there who are armed and dangerous.’
At the second time of asking, the door smashed open with a satisfying crash. Job done, the officer wielding the battering ram stepped aside and let the clearing party bound inside. Following on behind, the inspector stood patiently in the hallway and let the trio of officers brandishing Heckler & Koch P30 semi-automatic weapons check each room in the flat. According to his watch it took them approximately twelve seconds to establish that the flat was empty and jog back past him without even a nod of recognition. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he told the waiting forensics team that he wanted a couple of minutes before signalling for Roche to join him.
The flat was, he guessed, maybe about seven hundred square feet, five rooms off a central hall. He moved from the living room to the bedrooms, taking in the scene. The place was in complete disarray, with discarded fast-food wrappers and old newspapers everywhere. The kitchen was worse and the bathroom looked like it had been completely trashed.
‘God!’ Roche groaned once they had completed a quick tour of the premises. ‘What a mess!’
‘Plenty for the forensics boys to get their teeth into,’ Carlyle observed, ‘but nothing on first glance to suggest that your boy is going to be getting his million quid.’ Carefully picking his way back outside, he signalled to the technicians that the place was all theirs.
Outside, the night air was chill and Carlyle suddenly had a hankering for some whiskey, just a little drink to take the edge off things and help him sleep. He pulled out his mobile and called home. Helen answered on the third ring.
‘Hi,’ she said sleepily, ‘I knew it would be you.’
‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No, no. I was just watching some TV. When will you be home?’
Carlyle explained the aborted raid. ‘We’re just finishing up here. I should be an hour or so. Don’t wait up.’
Helen laughed. ‘I won’t. Don’t be long.’
‘I won’t. Lots of love.’
‘You too.’
As he ended the call, the phone immediately began vibrating in his hand.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Dugdale,’ said a gruff voice. ‘I hear you’ve been busy tonight.’
There was more than a hint of the Commander slurring his words. Looks like I’m not the only one with a taste for the hard stuff, Carlyle mused. ‘Acting on a tipoff,’ he said stiffly, ‘we raided a house in Willesden Green about an hour ago, in connection with the St James’s Diamonds robbery.’
‘Any arrests?’
‘No,’ Carlyle said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. ‘The place was empty. Forensics are in there now.’
There was a pause while Dugdale took a mouthful of whatever he was drinking. ‘They’d better fucking find something,’ he hissed, ‘for your sake. The overtime for tonight will be astronomical.’
‘It was a good lead.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Inspector!’ Dugdale thundered. ‘You know how tight money is at the moment.’
Carlyle counted to ten. ‘Of course I understand the situation. I will let you know as quickly as possible what we turn up.’ Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call as Roche stepped out onto the pavement. ‘Wanker!’ he said angrily, resisting the temptation to smash his phone against the kerb.
Ignoring Carlyle’s ranting, the sergeant stepped in front of him and held up a small, clear plastic bag for his inspection. Inside was a single platinum raindrop earring. ‘We’ve got a result,’ she grinned. ‘It looks like they were here and this got left behind.’
Carlyle felt all his frustration with Dugdale melt away in an instant. ‘Out-fucking-standing.’
‘I’ll get back to the station and check it against the insurance company’s inventory.’
Carlyle scratched his head. ‘I’m fairly sure I can remember it being on the list. It can wait till tomorrow.’
‘It’s fine. We’ve got some progress at last. I want to get on with it.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Okay, but it’s getting late. What about the boyfriend?’
‘He’s happy to wait.’ Roche’s grin grew even wider. ‘I promised him a good time when I finally get in.’ She licked her lips suggestively.
Carlyle felt himself blush slightly. ‘L-lucky bugger,’ he stammered.
Roche raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘He’s got about as much chance of that as Sam Smallbone has of getting his million quid.’
‘Oh,’ said Carlyle, somewhat confused.
Tiring of explaining the psychology of relationships to her boss, Roche headed off down the street. ‘Are you coming back to Charing Cross?’
Struggling to regain his composure, Carlyle hurried after her. ‘I think I’ll call it a night,’ he said, ‘but I fancy a whiskey. Let’s go and get a drink first.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Dad! Your phone! It’s been going crazy.’
Yawning, Carlyle opened his eyes in time to see his mobile phone whizz past his head, bounce off the pillow and disappear over the far side of the bed.
‘Shit!’
‘Oops,’ Alice giggled, beating a hasty retreat. ‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Rolling over on to his wife’s side of the bed, he stuck out an arm and groped for the handset. In the bathroom, he could hear Helen humming to herself as she got ready for work.
‘I’m off to school now,’ Alice shouted from the hallway. ‘See you tonight.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle called back, finally grasping the phone, which was buzzing away happily. Six missed calls. Par for the course. Sitting up in bed, he felt tired to the bone and had a vague headache which would need to be addressed with a couple of paracetamol before it had the chance to bloom into something worse. The two double whiskies on the way home from Willesden Green had maybe not been such a good idea after all, but it was rather too late to do anything about that now.
Helen appeared from the bathroom wearing jeans, a simple white blouse and a navy cardigan. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had applied minimal make-up. She looked at him and smiled. ‘Want some tea?’
Gazing at her, he again felt the fear rising in his throat and in his heart. ‘Thanks,’ he told her. ‘Green tea would be great.’
‘Coming up.’
As she disappeared down the hall, he scratched his balls with one hand and pulled up his voicemail with the other. There were two new messages. The first was from Roche, who confirmed that the earring found in the flat on St Gabriel’s Road had been stolen from St James’s Diamonds and said that she would see him at the station later in the morning. The second was a gruff message that simply said: Inspector Carlyle, this is Commander Dugdale. Be in my office at eight thirty this morning. Carlyle checked the time on the alarm clock by the bed.
‘Oops!’
The Central Line had better be working properly or he would never make it. Jumping out of bed, he pulled on some clothes and nipped into the bathroom to clean his teeth and splash some water on his face. Jogging down the hallway, he popped into the kitchen and kissed Helen on the forehead. ‘Sorry,’ he grimaced, ‘got to go.’
She gestured at a mug on the worktop, a sliver of steam slowly rising from it. ‘What about your tea . . .’
‘Sorry.’ He kissed her again, before turning on his heel and heading for the door. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
By
8.39 he was sitting in an ante-room outside Dugdale’s office in Paddington Green police station, sweating profusely. The underground had been working but after getting the tube to Marble Arch, he’d still had to run the length of the Edgware Road. Dugdale’s PA eyed Carlyle suspiciously and made a point of neglecting to offer him anything to drink. Fiddling with his phone, all he could do was wait.
In the event, it was almost 9.15 when the door to Dugdale’s office swung open and the Commander glared at him to come in. Slowly, Carlyle got to his feet and stepped inside. As the door clicked shut behind him, he registered the other man in the room.
‘Inspector,’ Dugdale said dully, ‘I believe that you already know Mr Holyrod.’
Christian Holyrod got up from his chair and extended a languid hand. ‘Inspector.’
What the hell? Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Mr Mayor,’ he said, shaking hands, ‘very nice to see you again.’
‘Sit.’ Dugdale gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk.
Carlyle did as requested, his brain going into overdrive as he quickly ran through Holyrod’s history of interfering with – and trying to block – police investigations.
Dugdale started to speak, but Holyrod held up a hand. The Commander looked peeved but sat back on his chair, arms folded, while the Mayor had the first word.
‘Thank you for meeting with us this morning, Inspector,’ he said mechanically, holding Carlyle’s gaze with a casual stare. ‘I am sure we do not need to take up much of your time.’
Carlyle glanced from one man to the other. ‘What can I do for you?’
The Mayor launched into his pitch. ‘I am responsible for helping to organize,’ he glanced at Dugdale, ‘and also for financing, the London leg of the Pope’s upcoming visit to the UK.’
Carlyle, who neither knew nor cared that the Pope was coming to visit his city, nodded sagely. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘In that capacity,’ Holyrod continued, ‘it has come to my attention that the Catholic Church is currently considering taking legal action against the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Because you couldn’t keep your bloody hands off that priest,’ Dugdale hissed, able to keep out of the conversation that was taking place in his office no longer.
Carlyle gave his boss a gimlet eye. ‘The statements you have received from various members of staff,’ he said tartly, ‘make it clear that the McGowan arrest and interviews were conducted in an entirely proper manner.’
Dugdale’s face started to redden and it looked like he might explode with annoyance. ‘What is clear, Inspector, is that you have a problem with authority in general and with the Church in particular.’
‘That is simply not the case,’ Carlyle replied calmly.
‘For whatever reason, you have jumped on the anti-clerical bandwagon. The Catholic Church is such an easy target, but it is a surprising and perverse attitude for a Metropolitan Police Officer to take, especially at a time when we have to be extremely focused on the threat of Muslim extremism.’ Dugdale glanced at Holyrod. ‘It’s those buggers we need to chase! God knows, if they’re not planning suicide bombings, they’re stoning women for having sex!’
For a second, Carlyle was thrown by Dugdale’s grasp of current events. Then he allowed himself the smallest of grins. ‘If I see anyone trying to organize a stoning in the Covent Garden piazza,’ he said, ‘I will, of course, take appropriate action.’
Holyrod raised his eyes to the ceiling as Dugdale smashed an impotent fist on to the desk. ‘Don’t be flip with me, Carlyle,’ he snapped. ‘Get on the right page here; fight the right enemy or you’re out!’
Carlyle glared at his superior with ill-concealed loathing. ‘I am not fighting any “enemy”, sir. I am simply doing my job, which is to uphold the law. I take people, cases and institutions as I find them, and I do not let any political or other judgements get in the way of performing my duties.’
For a moment, it looked as if Dugdale was having difficulty breathing. ‘This is intolerable. You are the most conceited, arrogant bastard I have ever met in my entire life!’
Dismayed by the complete lack of professionalism on display in the room, the Mayor held up a hand: ‘Gentlemen, please. This is no time for a philosophical debate. And I do not care what happened in that interview room. What I do care about is that this issue is resolved quickly and quietly, and that it does not interfere with the smooth running of the Papal visit.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which was considerably greyer and thinner than Carlyle remembered it from their previous encounters. ‘It is incumbent on us to give the Catholic Church confidence in our good faith. If we can do that, we can resolve this issue and move on to everyone’s satisfaction.’ Holyrod contemplated the inspector as if he could read the policeman’s every thought. ‘Knowing you as I do, Inspector, I would never dream of trying to get you to back down in the case of Father McGowan.’
‘It’s not as if we have much room for manoeuvre there, anyway,’ Dugdale said sourly.
Folding his arms, Carlyle said nothing.
Holyrod picked an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his navy suit. ‘So, what I am proposing is this: in order to demonstrate that we,’ he pointed a crooked index finger at Carlyle, ‘and in particular you, are not prejudiced in matters relating to the Church, you will take charge of the handling of the Roger Leyne situation.’
‘I have agreed with the Mayor that you will take this on,’ Dugdale interjected. ‘Leyne is—’
‘I know who he is,’ Carlyle said quickly. He turned to face Holyrod. ‘What I didn’t realize was that he had anything to do with the Pope or that he was involved in any police investigation.’
‘He is not, at the present time, subject to any enquiry,’ Holyrod said carefully, as if talking to a rather slow child. ‘However, his absurd plans to have His Holiness arrested for crimes against humanity relating to alleged child abuse by members of his Church are, inevitably, bound to fall foul of the law in due course.’
And what am I supposed to be? Carlyle thought angrily. The fucking Stasi? Staring at the worn carpet, he took his time before responding. Then he looked up at Holyrod. ‘If you have any information, sir,’ he said, deliberately aping the Mayor’s condescending tone, ‘regarding either a breach of the law or a potential breach of the law, then of course I will look into it as a matter of urgency.’
Glaring at Dugdale as if to say this is your problem, Holyrod got out of his chair. ‘Deal with this matter properly, Inspector,’ he said firmly, ‘and I am sure that there will be no need for any party to pursue the McGowan complaint. Any alternative outcome will have very serious consequences . . . for both yourself and your colleague Sergeant Roche.’ He nodded at Dugdale, who seemed glued to his seat. ‘You can keep me posted on developments via the Commander.’
As the door closed behind Holyrod, Carlyle turned to Dugdale and quipped grimly: ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent atheist?’
A blank look passed across Dugdale’s face before it reverted to its usual expression of constipated disgust. ‘You’ve got work to be getting on with, Carlyle,’ he said angrily. ‘I suggest that you stop being such a fucking smartarse and get on with it.’
EIGHTEEN
Looking up from her computer screen, Roche said. ‘We’ve had another memo from the Police Federation.’
‘Jolly good.’ Carlyle thought about mentioning his letter offering voluntary redundancy, but decided against it.
Roche scanned down the text. ‘It says . . . “investment in policing has gone up by over 47 per cent in the last decade, but just over 10 per cent of police are visibly available to the public”.’
‘ “Visibly available”,’ Carlyle harrumphed. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Yada, yada, yada . . . “We accept that in the current fiscal climate, economies need to be made, but everything must be done to protect frontline services which ensure the public gets the service the public wants – more police officers on their streets.” Yada, yada. “Ther
e are challenging times ahead, and all those who have a genuine interest in ensuring that the British Police Service remains the envy of the world must work together; to ensure we do not make short-term rushed financial decisions to make small savings which could have a detrimental impact on the service we are able to provide. Losing police officers is not an option where public safety and security is concerned”.’
Carlyle started humming the tune of a long-forgotten punk song about the British police being the best in the world. Roche looked at him blankly before closing down the email with a click of her mouse. ‘Did the Commander give you a hard time?’
‘How did you know I’d been in to see Dugdale?’ Why was it that everyone seemed to know what he was up to in real time?
‘The front desk told me that he’d been looking for you,’ Roche shrugged, ‘so I assumed that’s where you were.’
‘Fair enough.’ Perching on the side of her desk, he glanced around to check that no one was eavesdropping. ‘But the meeting wasn’t just with Dugdale.’ Lowering his voice, he recounted the conversation with the Mayor.
When he’d finished, Roche said, ‘I read a piece about Roger Leyne in one of the Sunday papers a couple of weeks ago. He seems a bit of a twat. I mean, who has a job as a “philosopher”? What do you do? Sit around all day with your hands down your trousers?’
Carlyle laughed.
‘And as for arresting the Pope, come on, it’s just a stupid publicity stunt.’
‘Whatever.’ Carlyle yawned, a wave of tiredness washing over him.
‘It’s not something we should be wasting our time on,’ she chided him.
‘Feel free to tell the Mayor that he can fuck right off,’ Carlyle suggested tartly. ‘We’ll go and have a chat with this guy, keep it light and, hopefully, minimize the chance of any unpleasantness further down the line.’
‘It’s not like we don’t have anything else to do,’ Roche moaned, unconvinced by her boss’s newly found willingness to do what he was told.
‘I know. But Dugdale’s interest in the diamonds case seems to have evaporated. He didn’t even ask me about it.’