by James Craig
‘The good news,’ Webb continued, ‘is that it will crumble.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Church. It is most definitely on the way out, Roger Leyne or no Roger Leyne.’
‘But,’ Carlyle replied, ‘I thought you were just telling me how successful it was?’
‘Exactly!’ Webb beamed. ‘How successful it was. The future is a different matter entirely.’
‘I guess it would be,’ Carlyle said weakly. Never a man for the big picture, he wondered how much longer his little tutorial was going to go on for.
‘When the last Pope came to Britain,’ Webb continued, ‘he drew large, enthusiastic crowds. This time, there will be sullen hostility, reflecting the widespread opposition to the Roman Catholic Church as a political entity. The Church’s moral turpitude, its scandalous disregard for its victims, has stripped it of all moral authority. There is no chance that it will be able to get it back. The Vatican cannot accept that it does not have a monopoly on truth, that individuals have their own values. A changing moral code is part of social evolution. Meanwhile, the Church’s own moral failings should induce more than a little humility.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s not possible. You can take comfort in the fact that they will be swept away by history.’
That doesn’t stop me from wanting to nail that bastard McGowan in the meantime, Carlyle thought as he pushed himself out of the chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Just remember one thing.’ Webb’s eyes sparkled with amusement.
‘What’s that?’
‘If you ever do manage to get round to arresting the Pope,’ she chuckled, ‘you have to address him as either “Your Holiness” or “Holy Father”.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s good to know.’
TWENTY-ONE
Wandering back through Covent Garden, the inspector tried to summon up some measure of enthusiasm for the Leyne case. In a vaguely dissatisfied mood, he allowed himself to be waylaid by a café called Coffee, Cake and Kink on Endell Street. Ignoring the selection of teas on offer, he ordered a latte and a slice of banana and cherry loaf. The place was full but he was able to nab a seat by the window, just as it was vacated by a disappointingly ordinary-looking customer. On the table was a copy of one of the comics CC&K had on sale. Carlyle flicked through it aimlessly; even Fetishman 6 – Nuns couldn’t raise him from his torpor.
After a considerable wait, the waitress, dressed in a black leather cat-suit with matching cap gave him a smile as she brought him his order. The coffee had a sharp edge, which he liked, but it was not hot enough for his taste. He thought about asking the girl to heat it up for him, but couldn’t be bothered. The cake, however, was delicious. Carlyle, conscious of the need for potential replacements for Il Buffone if – or, rather, when – Marcello called it a day, made a mental note to add this one to his list. Popping the last of the loaf into his mouth, he carefully returned Fetishman 6 to the nearby magazine rack and pulled out his mobile. There was a text from his wife. Opening it, he frowned.
Don’t forget the school at 2 x
What the hell? It took him several moments to remember that he had promised to give a talk on drugs to the sixth-formers at Alice’s school. He had been bounced into it by the Headmaster, Dr Terence Myers. Carlyle and Helen had been summoned to the Headmaster’s office after Alice had been suspended for possession of cannabis. They had been so relieved that she hadn’t been kicked out for good that he had happily signed up for the talk. That had been more than a year ago. It had been almost three months since Myers’s office had confirmed the date. He had completely forgotten all about it.
‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, typing in a reply: Sure. No problem. X. As the message disappeared into the ether, the phone started ringing in his hand and Roche’s name appeared on the screen. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘I’m just going in with Dyer now,’ Roche said excitedly.
‘Eh? I thought you would have been finished by now.’
‘We’ve got a major result. Dyer’s fingerprints were recovered from the scene and they’ve found some jewellery at his mum’s flat.’
‘That’s the great thing about criminals,’ Carlyle said. ‘Some of them are so fucking stupid that it’s unbelievable. God bless the cretinous little sod.’
‘I’ve left him and his lawyer to stew for a while and I’m just about to go in and hit him with both barrels. I wondered if you might want me to wait for you?’
‘I’ve got to do something else right now.’
‘Okay,’ Roche replied, some of the enthusiasm draining from her voice.
‘Get as much out of him as you can, charge him and get him processed. In the meantime, can you get someone to do some basic background checks on the recently deceased Professor Leyne. He’s been married three times apparently, so we need to track down the wives. Also, we need to check finances, et cetera, et cetera. I’ll chase the autopsy report and forensics and we can compare notes at the end of the day.’
‘Suppose so.’ Roche sounded more than a little pissed off now, but Carlyle didn’t have time to worry about that. Ending the call, he borrowed a pen from the waitress and began scribbling some notes for his talk on the back of a flyer advertising an exhibition of photographs of female bodybuilders at a gallery in Camden.
Gazing out across the rows of bored faces, careful not to make eye-contact with any of them, Carlyle stood at the front of the classroom, desperately trying not to feel intimidated. After a moment, he turned to the Headmaster and whispered: ‘This is the sixth form, right?’
‘No, no,’ Dr Myers smiled apologetically. ‘The sixth-formers are sitting exams this week. This is the fourth form.’
Good God. Carlyle’s heart sank. Alice would be in this class soon enough, assuming she didn’t get caught with any more drugs in the meantime. The twenty or so girls sitting in front of him oozed self-confidence and maturity. At least half of them could have passed for twenty-five at a casual glance. All of them looked like they could eat him alive. He glanced at his notes. Gibberish. What in God’s name was he going to talk about?
Sensing his anxiety, Myers gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, they are all very interested in what you have to say.’ Turning to face the group, he gave Carlyle a gentle push forward. ‘Ladies, we are very fortunate to have with us today Inspector Carlyle from Charing Cross police station.’
Trying to smile, Carlyle nodded. ‘Good afternoon.’
While a couple of the girls mumbled a desultory ‘good afternoon’ in reply, the majority sat in stony silence.
‘Inspector Carlyle,’ Myers continued, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm that had sucked all of the energy from the room, ‘is here to talk about drugs.’
‘Has he got any then?’ a cheeky voice piped up from the back, precipitating a few giggles from her mates.
‘Thank you for that, Tara,’ Myers said stonily. ‘I’m sure that the inspector will be happy to take any sensible questions you may have.’ He gestured for Carlyle to take the floor. ‘Inspector . . .’
‘Thank you, Headmaster,’ Carlyle replied, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘It is very nice to be here this afternoon. Thank you for inviting me.’ Finally realizing what he was going to say, he broke into a smile. ‘I’m not going to talk for very long, I promise!’ He scanned the blank looks. ‘First, though, hands up anyone who has done drugs.’
His opening gambit got a few bemused looks, not least from the Headmaster, but no hands went up.
‘No one?’ Carlyle’s smile went wider. ‘Are you sure? Dr Myers?’
Blushing slightly, the Headmaster shook his head. There were a few laughs.
Carlyle gave him a quizzical look. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, th-thank you,’ Myers stammered.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle put his own hand up. ‘Well, I have tried drugs,’ he looked around his audience, ‘and lived to tell the tale.’
There was more laughter and some whispering. Carlyle felt
himself begin to relax, knowing that he was going to be fine after all. He put down his hand. ‘I was a bit older than you, but not much. I experimented with them when I was at school and when I was a young copper.’
‘What types of drugs?’ asked a serious-looking girl near the front.
Carlyle shrugged. ‘I did a bit of cannabis but I didn’t like it much; I found it made me feel nauseous. Mainly speed was my thing – amphetamine sulphate. It was relatively cheap and easily available. I would buy it from a mate.’
A hand went up at the back.
Carlyle nodded. ‘Yes?’
‘Why did you give up?’
‘I just kind of grew out of it, I suppose. I was never that into it. If it was there, I would do it; if it wasn’t, I never really felt the need to go looking for it.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘The point is that I’m not here to lecture you that it’s evil and that you should never do it. What you should do is be informed about the issues and the consequences of using and abusing restricted drugs. As a policeman, drugs are not a moral issue . . .’ he paused, scanning the faces to see if they were taking in what he was saying . . . ‘they are a crime issue. Drug dependency is an important factor in robberies, violent crime, people-trafficking, prostitution and money laundering. There are other important issues in terms of drug-related deaths, ill-health, unemployment and the break-up of families.’
A girl in the front row shot him an exasperate look. ‘Isn’t that why drugs should just be legalized?’
Carlyle glanced at the Headmaster. Dr Myers seemed to be getting unhappier by the minute. He turned back to the girl and said honestly, ‘Maybe it is – I don’t know. But it isn’t going to happen. For whatever reason, politicians are just as addicted to the war on drugs as any junkie is to smack. There is some tweaking round the edges – Holland is famous for its liberal attitude towards soft drugs and there have been similar initiatives in Portugal. Even here, in the UK, there have been some attempts to reform the Misuse of Drugs Act, which dates back to 1971. Cannabis, for example, was downgraded to a Class C drug a few years ago and then changed back to Class B later on. However, the basic point that I want you to take away from our session today is that you really need to be aware of both the potential consequences of restricted drug use. You have to be clear about the legal consequences of using drugs. There are various types of drugs offences that might be committed in certain situations: mixing tobacco with another herbal substance in a roll-up cigarette, for example – that’s called possession; carrying several small plastic bags containing a herbal substance is “possession with intent to supply”; smoking cannabis at home with friends is “allowing premises to be used”. And so on . . .’
‘Haven’t the police got better things to do,’ the blonde girl harrumphed, ‘than harass people for smoking a joint?’
‘My point is that you need to be aware of the potential consequences,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘You’ve heard of the phrase, the law is an ass?’ Much nodding. ‘Well, whether it is or not really doesn’t matter. The law is the law. Under the Misuse of Drugs Act, you can go to jail. And lots of people do. Penalties range from life imprisonment for supply of Class A drugs like heroin, to two years for possession of less dangerous Class C drugs.’
‘What a waste of our taxes,’ someone complained.
Don’t you mean ‘our parents’ taxes’? ‘Our priority,’ Carlyle said evenly, ‘is to target the organized criminal groups involved in drug trafficking and confiscate their ill-gotten gains. Local dealers, crack-houses and cannabis factories are other targets. So, if you find yourself in a crack-house, watch out.’
As the girls started laughing, Dr Myers looked like he was about to have a coronary. In the corridor a bell sounded, followed almost immediately by the sound of hundreds of pairs of feet making a dash for freedom. The room emptied in barely five seconds, leaving Carlyle with the Headmaster, who was slowly regaining his composure.
‘What a nice bunch of kids,’ Carlyle smiled, relieved that it was all over. ‘That was really interesting. Let me know if I can come again.’
‘That is very kind of you, Inspector,’ Myers said, leading him quickly towards the door. ‘We will certainly bear it in mind.’
On his desk, back at the station, was a thick file of documents with a Post-it note stuck on the top. In blue biro, Roche had written neatly: background reading on Leyne. Moving the file to one side, Carlyle reached across the desk and picked up the phone. Dialling Roche’s mobile, he let it ring six times, before hanging up and calling the front desk downstairs. The sergeant on duty confirmed that Dyer had given Roche a name for his accomplice. She had taken a team up to Wood Green to raid an address near Alexandra Palace.
Putting the phone down, Carlyle checked his mobile. There were no missed calls. He felt a pang of disappointment that she hadn’t bothered to keep him in the loop, and had an unhappy sense of missing out on the action. But it quickly passed as he realized that she was more than capable of handling the situation without him. Anyway, there would be plenty of other doors to kick in; he could afford to miss out on this one.
‘Fuck it,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘time to go home.’ Sticking the Leyne file under his arm, he headed for the stairs.
TWENTY-TWO
At home, he found Helen on the sofa, sipping some Rooibos tea and doing The Times Sudoku puzzle. Making himself a cup of green tea, he flopped down beside her. ‘Going well?’
She scribbled a couple of numbers on the page and tossed the paper and the pen on the floor with a satisfied smirk. ‘Done it! The Super Fiendish, too.’
‘Nice one,’ Carlyle grinned, not having the remotest idea what the ‘Super Fiendish’ actually was.
‘How did it go at the school?’ Helen asked, cuddling up to him.
Sticking an arm round her, Carlyle recounted his triumph with the fourth form. ‘All in all, I think it went rather well.’
Helen’s face darkened and she pushed him away. ‘Why did you have to be such a bloody smartarse?’
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Carlyle placed his mug on the coffee table. Too late, he realized that he had made a terrible error of judgement. Trying not to panic, he played dumb. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, smearing an approximation of a confused look across his face.
‘Bloody hell, John,’ she complained. ‘All you had to do was go in and say the usual stuff about how drugs are dangerous and you could go to prison and so on. How difficult could it have been?’
‘But—’
‘Why did you have to go in and try to be like the too cool for school policeman?’
‘I didn’t.’
She looked as if she was about to cry. ‘It was a bunch of teenage girls and the bloody Headmaster! What will he think of Alice now? What will he think of our promise to keep her away from more dope?’
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘I tried to treat them like young adults.’ Reaching over, he ignored her protests and kissed her on the forehead. ‘We had an interesting discussion. And I offered to go back. I think the Headmaster felt it went well.’
She looked at him, unconvinced.
‘Alice will be judged on whether she goes around carrying any more cannabis in her bag – which she won’t – not because of what Dr Myers thinks of my talk. It will all be fine. We know that she’s doing well.’ Pulling his wife closer, he again put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Anyway, we have other things to focus on.’
Helen dropped her head onto his shoulder. ‘You don’t have to come. All they will do is take some blood. We won’t get any results.’
‘I know,’ he replied, giving her a gentle squeeze. ‘But I want to be there. We can go for a coffee, or at least a green tea, afterwards.’
‘Yeah.’
Carlyle smiled to himself. The promise of a decent cappuccino was usually a winner where Helen was concerned. For several minutes they sat there in silence, listening to each other’s breathing. After a while, Carlyle found himself idly fondling Helen’s right breast. S
he tut-tutted her displeasure but made no effort to push his hand away. Almost immediately, he felt himself begin to stiffen. With his free hand, he reached down and unbuttoned the top of her jeans.
‘Hey,’ she whispered, looking at her watch, ‘Alice will be home in five minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘is gonna be more than enough.’
Feeling rather pleased with himself, Carlyle had been sitting on the sofa for almost ten minutes by the time the door went and Alice finally appeared in the doorway.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she smiled, ‘where’s Mum?’
Carlyle yawned. ‘She’s having a bath. How was school today?’
Alice’s grin grew wider. ‘I should be asking you that question. I hear you made quite an impression on 4G.’
‘I did?’
‘Yeah. One of the girls said you asked the Headmaster in front of the whole class if he’d ever done drugs. Old Myers wasn’t happy at all.’
Oh shit, Carlyle thought, please don’t tell your mother that. ‘But did they think the talk was any good?’
‘They liked the bit about you being, like, a junkie when you were younger,’ Alice said, eyes wide in mock horror.
Carlyle’s heart sank even further. ‘I didn’t—’
‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘I know. You were just being a know-it-all, as usual.’
Conversation over, she skipped down the hall. Carlyle listened to her bedroom door slam shut, followed almost immediately by the strains of some anaemic pop music. He sat in silence, wondering how he could pull himself out of this latest hole. Failing to come up with a solution, he turned with some reluctance to the Leyne file.
On closer inspection it was basically a series of press cuttings that didn’t really tell him anything that he hadn’t learned from his trip to see Professor Webb at the LSE. The only new information was a single sheet of A4 paper containing the names and contact details of the academic’s three wives. Next to two of the names, Roche had written in capitals: NOT YET INFORMED. However, the third, a Christine Donovan, had a big tick, which Carlyle presumed meant he could call with relative confidence.