A Man of Sorrows

by James Craig

‘Seriously.’

  Holyrod grinned. There was definitely life down there. ‘Quite.’

  Tossing the blouse on the bed, Slater unzipped her skirt. ‘The whole thing is completely ridiculous.’

  Holyrod grunted his agreement. ‘It would help though, if your guy didn’t go round paying fifteen-year-old boys for blowjobs.’ Pulling down his shorts, he grinned. ‘Speaking of which . . .’

  A look of disgust spread across Slater’s face. ‘Forget it,’ she said, heading for the bathroom. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

  Standing in the semi-darkness of her unlit office, Katrin Lagerbäck looked at the portrait of her younger self and sighed. What was she going to do with it when she left Hubaishi Dorning Klee? She didn’t want to take it, but she didn’t want to leave it either. The girl with the impossibly pert bottom and, if she remembered correctly, the rather empty brain just wasn’t her any more, hadn’t been for a long time. Maybe she should just take it into the park and burn it, although that would doubtless break various bylaws.

  The picture wasn’t the only thing she had to worry about. HDK Capital Management had announced that the business was to be wound down and there was a lot to do. Above all, it meant she had to oversee the sale of St James’s Diamonds and transition the business over to new ownership. Various bankers had already started sounding her out about the possibility of leading a management buyout, but she knew that her heart wasn’t in it. An MBO would commit her to staying in London for the next couple of years at least and that wasn’t going to happen. One thing she had decided was that she’d had enough of the capital. Berlin beckoned; it was time to go home.

  The door of her office was pushed open.

  ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  Frowning, Lagerbäck turned to face her visitor. ‘How did you get in?’

  The man smiled. ‘I thought that you wanted a meeting?’

  ‘I thought,’ Lagerbäck said tartly, ‘that we had something in the diary for later in the week.’ She made a move to switch on the lights but he stepped in front of her, pulling a gun from his pocket as he did so.

  ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘Move back in front of the desk.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Lagerbäck asked, more annoyed than scared.

  ‘Just do as I say,’ the man replied, the smile draining from his face. ‘This is an M-1911, apparently.’ He looked at the pistol in his hand as if he’d never seen it before. ‘A round has been fed from the magazine and placed in the chamber. Firing occurs when the grip safety is depressed; the trigger is squeezed; and the released hammer transfers its energy to the firing pin which, in turn, strikes the primer. As the primer ignites the propellant charge in the chambered cartridge, the hot powder gases expand, building pressure that forces the bullet down the barrel.’

  ‘What?’ Lagerbäck had tuned out. This guy could make even murder sound boring.

  ‘Like this.’

  Lagerbäck felt the round tear into her abdomen. Thrown backwards across the desk, she looked up enquiringly at the image of her younger self on the wall, wondering how it had all come to this.

  FORTY

  Christian Holyrod looked over at Abigail Slater and smiled, getting only a frown in return. Noticing the exchange of looks, Katya Morrison grinned. Irritated, the Mayor sent his Special Adviser off to Starbucks to get him a Venti Caramel Macchiato and a chocolate muffin. Once she had taken everyone’s order and flounced out of the room, he turned to Archbishop Brian Crossley and said, ‘The situation we have been monitoring has taken an unfortunate turn.’

  Crossley nodded. ‘So I understand.’

  ‘So,’ said Holyrod, trying to sound diplomatic, ‘I wonder if it might be timely to revisit my office’s previous advice.’

  Sitting next to the Archbishop, a look of pain passed across the face of Monsignor Joseph Wagner. ‘The state visit is less than a week away. I do not see how we can, in all conscience, back down now.’

  ‘I agree with the Papal Visit Coordinator.’ Sitting at the end of the table, Gavin Dugdale eyed Holyrod carefully. ‘We have the Carlyle hearing tomorrow.’

  ‘What about the sergeant?’ the Mayor asked.

  ‘That can wait,’ Slater said sharply. ‘She’s not a big deal. If we see off the inspector, Sergeant Roche will barely merit an afterthought.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Holyrod agreed.

  ‘The judgement,’ Dugdale continued, clearly irritated by the interruption, ‘will be reserved until after the Pope’s visit has ended. Doubtless there will be an appeal, which will drag things out a bit longer, but,’ he smiled at Slater, ‘hopefully things have progressed sufficiently for the Catholic Legal Network to quietly drop its legal action.’

  Nice to know you’re going into this with an open mind, Holyrod noted sourly. He had never thought he’d see the day when he felt a twinge of sympathy for that upstart, Inspector Carlyle, but the blatant railroading of a police officer – one of his police officers, after all – stuck in his craw. ‘I understand, Commander,’ he said stiffly, ‘but all of this seems to overlook the fact that Father . . .’

  ‘McGowan,’ Slater interjected.

  ‘Yes,’ said Holyrod politely, ‘thank you. All of this seems to overlook the fact that Father McGowan was arrested last night for further offences.’

  Slater jumped in again. ‘Alleged offences.’

  Holyrod raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Further alleged offences, where there seems to be some pretty damning evidence that it will, in all likelihood, not be possible to wish away.’

  Leaning forward slightly, he tapped his copy of that morning’s Financial Times, his index finger landing next to the VATICAN BANKERS IN MONEY LAUNDERING PROBE story on the front page. ‘We are all working towards a successful and trouble-free trip,’ he said, and paused, giving everyone on the opposite side of the table the opportunity to nod in agreement. ‘But it is not the case that you are making things as easy as they could be.’

  He picked up the paper and squinted at the type. ‘It says here: Police have seized forty million euro while the Pope’s top two bankers have been placed under investigation for suspected money laundering.’ He waved a hand in the air, ignoring the discomfort of the Church officials. ‘And so on. The Vatican’s bank, the Institute for Religious Works, has been under pressure to fall into line with international norms and regulations on tax havens and money laundering. Originally founded in 1887 and housed within a medieval bastion within the Vatican, IOR was thrown into crisis following the suspected murder of the so-called “God’s banker”, Roberto Calvi, who was found hanging from London’s Blackfriars Bridge in June 1982.’ Letting his exasperation get the better of him, Holyrod burst out: ‘How you people manage it, I simply don’t know! If it’s not child abuse, it’s bloody money laundering! You really are your own worst enemies.’

  Crossley angrily scribbled a note on an A5 pad on the table in front of him and looked up. ‘What precisely is your advice, Mr Mayor?’

  ‘Just drop the legal action. We will cancel the hearing,’ Dugdale made to protest but Holyrod cut him off with a wave of his hand, ‘and we will sit on this McGowan thing until after the visit is over.’

  ‘Will McGowan be released?’ Wagner asked.

  ‘He is already out on bail,’ said Slater. ‘He has been charged with sexually assaulting a minor and is due to report back to Holborn police station at the end of the week.’

  ‘We will get that pushed back for at least seven days,’ Holyrod said.

  Wagner gazed out of the window. ‘Can’t you just get it dropped?’

  Dugdale looked at the Mayor. ‘No,’ said Holyrod firmly. ‘The matter is far too serious.’

  ‘I think,’ said Crossley, ‘that the situation has to be dealt with in the proper manner, both in terms of Father McGowan and in terms of your officer.’ He gestured at Slater. ‘We have taken the necessary legal advice and we have every confidence in the CLN to handle this matter properly. Now, as you know, we still
have a huge amount of work to do ahead of the visit. We cannot waste any more time on this unfortunate distraction.’ Getting to his feet, he handed his notepad to Wagner. ‘Now, you will have to forgive us, but we have work to do.’

  Without getting up, Holyrod watched them leave, swiftly followed by Katya reappearing with a tray of outsized coffees. ‘What happened?’ she asked, handing Holyrod his Venti Caramel Macchiato.

  Rising from her chair, Slater smiled grimly as she loaded papers into her bag. ‘Your boss just got told where to get off.’ She nodded at Dugdale. ‘I will see you at the Carlyle hearing tomorrow, Commander.’

  Dugdale grunted as he grabbed one of the coffees.

  ‘It looks as if,’ said Slater airily, heading for the door, ‘that will be the last chance for you guys to avoid getting your arses sued off.’

  The inspector let his gaze wander from the body covered with a plastic sheet up to the picture on the wall. The young Katrin Lagerbäck looked down, uncomprehending, on the dead Katrin Lagerbäck. Noticing a small amount of blood-splatter on the bottom left-hand corner of the photo, he idly wondered what would happen to it now. Probably, it would end up in the trash, which would be a shame.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s a Helmut Newton,’ said Roche, appearing at his shoulder. ‘It’s probably worth thousands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The portrait.’ She pointed with a latex-sheathed finger, ‘It will make some money for the estate.’

  ‘Practical as always,’ Carlyle observed. ‘Does she have any next-of-kin?’

  ‘Parents, maybe?’ Roche shrugged. ‘As far as I know, she wasn’t married. Certainly no kids. Not that kind of girl.’

  ‘No,’ Carlyle said. ‘I suppose not.’

  Roche nodded at a badly dressed man, about Carlyle’s age, talking on a mobile in a low voice. ‘That’s Chief Inspector Arbuthnot.’

  Carlyle checked the guy out. ‘Haven’t come across him before.’

  ‘Archibald Arbuthnot. Archie to his friends.’

  ‘That won’t include me.’

  ‘No, I guess not. Anyway, this is his investigation. He’ll want to talk to you about the background to what happened.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Carlyle wearily.

  ‘I’ve already talked him through what we were up to,’ Roche said, ‘so he’s up to speed.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So,’ she went on, ‘unless you’ve got other plans for me, I’m gonna head back to Charing Cross. I thought I could chase up some of the loose ends on the Roger Leyne investigation.’

  I’d forgotten all about that, Carlyle realized. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be a lot to go on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe we should do a proper case review.’

  ‘Makes sense. I’ll see you there. We can have a catch-up.’

  She grinned. ‘I hear that you managed to catch McGowan with his trousers down.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘Will it affect the hearing?’

  ‘Nah. I wouldn’t have thought so. Dugdale’s out to get me. If that means protecting a child-abusing pervert along the way – hey, that’s a small price to pay.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ Roche said kindly. Then: ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Okay.’ As Roche disappeared through the door, it came to him that he had forgotten to ask her about SO15. If the transfer was still on, he needed to start thinking about a replacement – assuming he still had a job, that is. Dying for a coffee, he hopped from foot to foot while he waited for Arbuthnot to finish his phone conversation before stepping up to introduce himself.

  ‘Carlyle.’

  Tall, thin and balding, Chief Inspector Archie Arbuthnot had the air of a man who was easily inconvenienced by things like dead bodies. ‘Ah yes. I’ve spoken to your sergeant.’ He smiled lecherously. ‘She’s an impressive woman.’

  You mean she’s got a nice arse, Carlyle thought. ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘She was explaining to me about the St James’s Diamonds situation. Do you think that had anything to do with this?’ Arbuthnot gestured towards the body and Carlyle shuddered as his usual squeamishness came to the fore. ‘Presumably the two things are interrelated.’

  ‘It seems a perfectly reasonable assumption,’ said Carlyle, ‘but we don’t have any evidence of that, so far.’

  ‘I will need to see your files,’ Arbuthnot said next.

  Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is there anything else you think might be useful for me to know?’

  ‘Nothing immediately comes to mind.’ Carlyle tried to look thoughtful.

  Arbuthnot pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. ‘Well, call me if you can think of anything.’

  ‘I will.’ Carlyle held the card carefully between his thumb and his index finger. ‘We’ll speak soon.’ With one last glance at Katrin Lagerbäck’s body, he made for the door.

  Head down, deep in thought, the inspector dived into the constant chaos of Piccadilly. He had barely put one foot on the pavement, when he walked straight into someone coming the other way. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, barely breaking his stride.

  ‘John! I was just coming to find you.’

  Slamming on the brakes, Carlyle finally looked up and did a double-take. The woman in front of him looked tanned, relaxed and ten years younger than he remembered. In jeans, a white blouse and a fawn jacket, Carole Simpson looked more like a Euro-Sloane tourist than a police officer heading for the scene of the crime.

  ‘Commander!’ he explained. ‘You’re looking good.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ replied Simpson.

  Carlyle held his hands from his sides and shrugged. ‘It seems like it’s been a long day already.’ He gestured towards the lobby of the HDK office building. ‘The body’s upstairs.’

  ‘I’m not here for that,’ Simpson told him. ‘I’m here to see you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, surprising him by taking his arm. ‘Let’s go and get a coffee.’

  By the time they’d reached the relative calm of Lansdowne Row, a couple of blocks to the north, Simpson had explained that she was in London for a few days’ catch-up with family matters and to spend some time with her new boyfriend. Carlyle hadn’t been aware that she had resumed dating since the death of her husband, but didn’t pry. In turn, he filled her in on selected developments at home, giving her a quick run-through of the problems with Alice, while steering clear of Helen’s medical issues. Although their relationship had become a lot closer in recent years, he still didn’t feel the need to share everything.

  It was a mild morning, so they took a table on the street outside the Nightingale café, Carlyle ordering a green tea while Simpson went for a black Americano. ‘Are you coming back?’ Carlyle asked, having run out of small talk, as they waited for their drinks to arrive.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said immediately. ‘My life is in London – and I miss it. But the secondment has been interesting. And it’s got a few months still to run.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How are you getting on with Dugdale?’

  Carlyle let out a long breath. ‘Fine. He’s a time-serving drunk bastard on the way out who wants to get me sacked. What’s not to like?’

  The waitress arrived and placed their drinks on the table. Simpson nodded her thanks, waiting for her to retreat from their table before continuing. ‘I hear you’ve been getting into trouble again.’

  Carlyle took the tea bag from the cup and placed it on his saucer. ‘So that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘I took a call from Ambrose Watson last week.’ She waited for the look of exasperation to finish spreading across Carlyle’s face. ‘He’s a good guy.’

  Carlyle daintily sipped his tea. ‘I know.’ It was true. By now he had featured in an unfortunate number of investigations involving the fat IIC man, and it would have be
en more than churlish not to recognize Ambrose’s efforts to try and help him out of several tricky situations.

  ‘Ambrose suggested that it might be a good idea for me to look you up if I was in London. He explained the situation with the priest.’

  ‘McGowan is a nasty individual. We caught him with his trousers down, literally, a couple of days ago.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ Simpson retorted, ‘but the IIC hearing is still going ahead.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dugdale wants me out – no pension, no nothing. He blames me for getting kicked out of SO15, and this is payback.’

  ‘He didn’t get kicked out of SO15,’ Simpson corrected him.

  ‘He got kicked sideways, whatever. No offence, but I’m sure he would still be rather running round after terrorists than keeping your seat warm for you.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  ‘And, realistically, what chance has he got of ever getting back to Counter Terrorism Command?’

  Playing with her cup, Simpson said nothing.

  ‘He’s a waste of space,’ Carlyle continued. ‘But he’s not going to be able to kick me out. My Federation rep is very relaxed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Simpson acknowledged. ‘But it’s not his job on the line.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but my sergeant and I are consistent in what we’re saying and there are no other witnesses. Plus, a doctor looked McGowan over and gave him the all clear.’

  Simpson gave him a careful look but said nothing.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Carlyle took another mouthful of tea. ‘Anyway, with the redundancy terms on offer, I might want to walk anyway.’

  Simpson watched a thin man struggling to return one of the Mayor’s rent-by-the-hour bikes to its docking station. ‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

  ‘I’ve talked to Helen about it,’ Carlyle divulged. ‘The numbers just about add up.’

  Leaning across the table, Simpson pointed a crooked index finger at him. ‘John Carlyle, do not try and kid me. There is bugger all chance of you walking away from the job before you have to.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Carlyle, staring vacantly into the middle distance.