by James Craig
The bartender’s frown deepened. With some amusement, Carlyle watched the cogs going round in his head as he tried to work out his best course of action. Finally, he gestured to a door off to the left. ‘She’s in the office.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, signalling for Roche to follow him.
The door was ajar and he kicked it open with the toe of his shoe and marched straight in, capturing the scene in front of him in the blink of an eye. ‘Good evening, Rachel,’ he said smoothly. ‘How are you?’
‘Shit!’ On her knees, Rachel Gilbert looked up at her unwelcome visitor, sending the line of cocaine that she had been about to inhale across the coffee table and onto the grubby-looking carpet. The table itself was covered in empty beer bottles, amongst which sat a small bag containing maybe ten grams’ worth of coke. On the opposite side to Gilbert, a podgy red-haired girl in a Ramones T-shirt shrank back into the fake green leather sofa on which she was sitting.
‘Who are you?’ Carlyle demanded.
The girl glanced at Rachel, who shrugged. ‘I’m Sam,’ she said nervously. ‘I work here.’
‘Step outside, Sam,’ said Roche, who already had Gilbert by an arm and was lifting her to her feet. ‘But do not move from outside that door. We will want to speak with you in a minute.’
Nodding, the girl slid off the sofa and, careful to avoid trampling any of the coke into the carpet, tiptoed out.
‘Close the door behind you,’ said Carlyle, grimacing as he caught a sniff of her all-too-pungent body odour. ‘And if anyone tries to come in, tell them they have to wait with you.’
Head down, the girl trooped out without another word. As the door clicked shut, Carlyle watched Roche deposit Gilbert onto the seat vacated by Sam. Looking around the room, he realized that the sofa was out of keeping with everything else in the room, which was either black or a grubby grey. At the far end of the room was a desk, on which sat a computer and various sheets of paper. Behind the desk was a large poster for a film called Drag Me to Hell. The place was lit by an underpowered lamp sitting in the corner. He looked down on Rachel Gilbert. Tired and wired, in black jeans and a short black leather jacket, and with too much mascara, she looked almost unrecognizable from the girl he had spoken to on his last visit. ‘Is this your office?’
Slumped on the sofa, Gilbert stared vacantly at the wall behind his head.
‘Rachel?’
‘I just work here,’ she said, struggling to get the words out.
‘You lied to me once,’ said Carlyle sharply. ‘Don’t do it again.’
‘We know you took this place over,’ Roche told her. ‘We’ve gone through your bank accounts and I’ve checked the contract you signed.’
Gilbert gave her a bemused look. ‘Is that legal? Snooping around like that?’
‘It is when you are a fucking murder suspect!’ Carlyle laughed.
‘What?’ Gilbert slowly shook her head. ‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘You needed more money from Roger Leyne,’ said Roche.
‘Yes, but—’
‘And when he couldn’t come up with any more,’ the sergeant continued, ‘you threatened him.’
Sitting up, Gilbert finally shook off her torpor. ‘Yes,’ she squealed, ‘but I didn’t bloody shoot him!’
‘Then who did?’ Carlyle asked.
By way of answer, the door came crashing open and the beefcake barman stumbled into the room, a small semi-automatic pistol in his hand.
‘Shit!’ Gilbert screamed. ‘Julian!’
‘Fuck!’ Taking a step backwards, Carlyle picked up a bottle from the table and threw it at the guy’s head. Then he picked up another, ran forward and began clubbing him around the head with it. The barman sagged under Carlyle’s repeated blows but refused to go down.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle hissed at Roche, who was just standing there with an amused look on her face, ‘fucking brain the fucker!’ With a grunt, he again smacked the bottle across the side of Julian’s skull, this time hitting him so hard that it smashed, leaving the inspector holding nothing but the jagged remains of the neck.
Reluctant to stab the bastard, Carlyle threw his weapon to the floor, turning to grab another bottle just as the barman pumped a round into the side of the sofa. The shot deafened Carlyle and sent Gilbert jumping about three feet in the air.
‘Fucking hurry up!’ the inspector roared at his sergeant.
Finally grabbing a weapon of her own, Roche jumped into action and smacked the gunman twice over the head with a beer bottle, to no obvious effect. ‘Bollocks!’ she panted, switching target and kicking him repeatedly in the balls.
Happily, Roche’s boot had the desired effect where Carlyle had singularly failed. Groaning, Julian dropped his weapon as he sank to his knees. Another kick from Roche, this time to the base of his spine, sent him falling face first, across the coffee table, sending the remaining bottles rolling across the floor.
Carlyle booted the semi-automatic under the sofa. Pulling out a set of handcuffs, he gave Roche a sour look. ‘Better late than never.’
‘I thought you had it all under control.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle huffed. ‘The fucker could have shot me.’ Pulling Julian’s hands behind his back, he snapped on the cuffs. ‘You, mate, are fucking nicked.’
‘I’ll go and call for back-up,’ said Roche, heading for the door.
Carlyle turned to Gilbert. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, unable to spot any obvious sign of injury.
Shivering, she managed half a nod while pointing at the large hole in the sofa.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle joked. ‘A couple of strips of duct tape and it will be good as new.’ He turned to the door. ‘Sam! Are you still there?’ Gratifyingly, the malodorous barmaid stuck her head round the door-frame, her eyes growing wide at the chaos in front of her. ‘Hey!’ Carlyle gestured for her to pay attention. ‘Go get me an espresso.’
The girl nodded.
‘On second thoughts,’ Carlyle amended, ‘make it a double.’
Those patrons who didn’t immediately take the hint when two dozen uniforms descended on Stearns’ were finally shooed out of the door about half an hour after Roche had taken Gilbert and Julian off in a police van, heading for Charing Cross. After finishing his coffee and double-checking that the place was now empty, Carlyle locked up with a set of keys that he’d found in the office. Earlier that afternoon, there had been a triple murder in a gentleman’s club called Heaven’s Gate – some gangland shooting bollocks where a couple of strippers had been caught in the crossfire – and he had been informed by the desk that all the available forensics resources were currently on their knees in Stoke Newington’s finest lap-dancing emporium. A detailed search of the bar would therefore have to wait at least until tomorrow.
For once, the thought of a delay didn’t dismay Carlyle one bit. As he walked through Golden Square, he was convinced that Roger Leyne’s murder would be wrapped up long before then.
Turning into Brewer Street, he called home. Alice answered. ‘Hi, Dad!’ she said cheerily, with no hint of the day’s dramas in her voice.
‘How’s it going?’ Carlyle asked warily, wondering if his daughter had been spliffing up again.
‘Fine.’
‘Is your mum there?’
‘She’s having a bath.’
‘Okay.’
‘And,’ Alice said cheerily, ‘before you ask – no, we haven’t had a row.’
‘I didn’t think—’
‘She is mad with you though.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle stepped off the crowded Soho pavement and straight into the path of an onrushing taxi. He only just managed to jump back out of the gutter as the cab shot past.
‘Watch where you’re going, you fucking wanker!’ shouted the cabbie.
‘Fuck you too!’ Carlyle growled.
‘What?’ said Alice.
‘Nothing.’
‘Mum always said you’re the reason I’ve got a foul mouth.’
‘Why’s she mad at me?’
‘You’ll have to ask her yourself,’ Alice chided him. ‘I’m not a marriage guidance counsellor, you know!’
‘Okay, smartypants,’ Carlyle laughed. This time he checked the traffic before stepping onto the road. ‘Tell her we made some important arrests in one of my cases. I have to go back to the station to sit in on a couple of interviews, so I may be a while.’
‘Will do.’
‘And you make sure you get a good night’s sleep. School tomorrow.’
‘Sometimes,’ Alice sighed, ‘I think it would be easier just to get expelled.’
‘Alice!’
‘Only joking. See ya!’
‘Okay. Lots of love.’ But she had already put down the phone. Reaching the corner of Old Compton Street, his mind was a jumble of competing, confusing thoughts. Then Pâtisserie Valerie hoved into view and he was happy to be distracted by the prospect of Eggs Benedict and a pot of Organic Green Leaf tea.
‘We’ve got them in separate interview rooms.’ Roche looked down at some notes she had scribbled on a pad. ‘The guy is called Julian . . . Vine. Julian Vine. Australian. Been in London for almost three years. Been Gilbert’s boyfriend for the last eighteen months or so.’
‘He told you that?’ Carlyle asked.
Roche shook her head. ‘Nah. Samantha Bramble did.’ And when Carlyle gave her a blank look: ‘Sam – the barmaid. She’s downstairs as well.’
Carlyle shuddered. ‘I’m not going anywhere near her, not with that BO.’
Roche lifted her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Why don’t we start with Gilbert?’
‘Okay.’
‘She’s the only one who hasn’t lawyered up.’
A grin spread across Carlyle’s face. ‘Perfect. What are we waiting for then?’
Sipping a cup of black coffee, Rachel Gilbert looked up nervously as Carlyle and Roche entered the interview room. She’d been crying. Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, she wailed, ‘I didn’t kill him.’
Carlyle took a seat on the opposite side of the table and waited for Roche to do the same.
‘I didn’t . . .’
Carlyle held up a hand for her to shut up. ‘This was a brutal murder of a defenceless man,’ he said quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We know that you and . . .’
‘Julian,’ Roche interjected.
‘Yes. We know that you and Julian were responsible for the shooting.’ He sighed. ‘All we need now is for you to fill in some of the details. You need to be as clear and honest as possible. What you tell us now could mean the difference between being sent to prison for life or maybe as little as five years.’ He paused, watching the last vestiges of her resistance crumble. ‘Do you understand?’
Gilbert nodded.
‘Good.’ Pushing himself away from the desk, Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Make sure you include everything in your statement to Sergeant Roche. We can review it in the morning. This is your last chance.’ Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door.
By the time he got home, Carlyle was relieved to find calm had descended in the flat. When he walked through the door, he was not greeted either by the smell of dope or by the sound of Alice and Helen going at each other, hammer and tongs. Carefully confirming that wife and daughter had both gone to bed, he tiptoed stealthily into the kitchen and made a cup of green tea. Then, repairing to the living room, he slumped onto the sofa and vegged out in front of Sky Sports News for half an hour, the volume kept down low to avoid waking anyone up. When he finally crawled under the duvet, Helen was snoring soundly. Giving her a gentle kiss on the back of the head, he waited for sleep to come.
FORTY-THREE
Carlyle placed the large takeaway coffee on Roche’s desk and took a step back, waiting to see if the peace-offering would be accepted.
‘Thanks for staying around last night,’ Roche said sarcastically, not looking up from the screen of her computer as she typed out her report, hitting each key on the keyboard with unnecessary venom.
‘Marcello sends his regards,’ said Carlyle, nodding at the coffee.
Roche cursed as she made a typo and began bashing the backspace key.
‘He’s finally gone and sold the place,’ Carlyle continued, ‘so there won’t be many more where that came from.’
Roche grunted. ‘There are plenty of other cafés.’
For fuck’s sake, thought Carlyle, his reserves of grovelling all used up, give me a break. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry if you think I left you in it last night . . .’
Still typing furiously, Roche finally looked up. ‘You did leave me in it last night.’
‘But you had it all under control,’ Carlyle protested. ‘And I had some domestic stuff to take care of.’
‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ Roche mumbled to herself.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She hit the print button on her computer and a few moments later a nearby printer rumbled into action. ‘There’s the Gilbert report.’
‘Enough to charge them?’
Reaching for the coffee, Roche nodded. Removing the lid, she took a tentative sip. ‘Basically, Gilbert says that she was still shagging Roger Leyne.’
Carlyle made a face. As a man who was only ever going to be married the once, the etiquette regarding sexual relations with ex-spouses was not something he felt the need to have a view on.
‘Leyne also liked to party with the girls who worked at the bar.’
‘Like Sam?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ Roche took another mouthful of coffee. ‘Maybe he liked the pungent aroma of BO.’
‘Fair enough,’ Carlyle shrugged. It would by no means be the strangest peccadillo he’d ever come across.
‘Anyway, Gilbert’s boyfriend, Julian, was happy enough with this arrangement while Leyne continued to bankroll the bar’s losses.’
Carlyle stepped over to the printer and picked up Roche’s report. ‘How can a bar in bloody Soho lose money?’
‘Lots of ways,’ Roche replied, ‘especially if they were sticking large quantities of coke up their noses every day.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Anyway, they wiped Leyne out. When he wouldn’t come up with any more cash, Julian went round to threaten him, things got out of hand, yada, yada, yada . . .’
‘Where did he get the gun?’ Carlyle asked.
‘That, he’s not saying. But we’ve already got a match on the bullets that killed Leyne. Game, set and match.’
‘His choice,’ Carlyle grumbled. The Crown Prosecution Service could try and winkle that information out of him, to be taken into consideration at the time of sentencing, but that wasn’t their problem. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Roche’s head. ‘Shit! Time for Dugdale’s kangaroo court.’ He dropped the report on Roche’s desk. ‘You haven’t had a date for your hearing yet, have you?’
Roche shook her head. ‘Nope. My union rep says the longer they wait, the better my chances.’
That’s handy, Carlyle thought suspiciously.
‘Maybe they want to see how yours goes first.’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going.’
‘Okay,’ said Roche, finishing her coffee. ‘I’ll see you up there.’
The disciplinary hearing was held in a large meeting room on the top floor of the Charing Cross station with a view across Trafalgar Square. Carlyle arrived five minutes before it was due to begin, to find Superintendent Rebecca Buck sitting on the far side of a long table, her back to Nelson’s Column, busily scribbling notes on her set of papers. Next to her, with a large chocolate doughnut in his hand, was Ambrose Watson.
Taking a seat opposite the portly investigator, Carlyle gave him a cheery nod. ‘Morning, Ambrose.’
Ambrose nodded sheepishly. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ Buck half-looked up from her papers and grunted. Ambrose quickly took a large bite out of the doughnut to avoid having to say anything else.
Wishin
g he’d brought in a coffee, Carlyle drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the room. Behind him, the door opened. A moment later, Carlyle’s Union rep, Geoff, appeared, looking like he’d just got out of bed, which he probably had. At least he had made the effort to put on a suit and tie, which made him look slightly more like a grown-up. After shaking the inspector’s hand, he placed a Tesco plastic bag on the table, pulling out a sheaf of papers. Jesus, Carlyle thought, thank God I don’t actually need you here. He made a vow that if Geoff opened his mouth in the actual hearing, he would get a swift and violent kick under the table.
By the appointed hour, the room was quite full, the atmosphere professionally grim. At the far end of the table, a stenographer had taken up position to record the minutes. Roche and Simpson had taken seats behind him, around the wall, as had Abigail Slater, looking at her most demure in a grey trouser suit, with minimal make-up. As far as Carlyle could see, the only person missing was Dugdale. Doubtless struggling in with his usual hangover, Carlyle thought sourly, as he played with his BlackBerry.
‘Use of electronic equipment in this room is not permitted,’ Buck said snidely.
Carlyle gave her a blank look. ‘Have we started? I thought we were still waiting for your chairman.’
Superintendent Buck glanced at her watch and sighed. ‘I am sure he will be here in a moment.’
‘I will go and see if I can find out where he is,’ Ambrose mumbled, wiping the doughnut crumbs from his shirt as he stood up. Lumbering round the table, he fled the room.
‘I’ve tried his mobile,’ Roche piped up. ‘It’s going to voicemail.’
‘He’s only a few minutes late,’ Buck snapped. ‘I’m sure that he is on his way.’
‘If he doesn’t turn up,’ Geoff said cheerily, ‘the hearing will have to be rescheduled.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Buck retorted, looking up at Ambrose as he reappeared.
Ambrose shook his head. ‘Can’t get hold of him.’
‘We’ll give him half an hour,’ said Geoff, putting as much authority into his voice as he could manage.
Carlyle went back to surfing the net. He had just finished reading a story about the latest government peer accused of tax dodging when a mobile phone started ringing behind him.