A Man of Sorrows

by James Craig

  ‘Commander Simpson . . . yes, I see. Where? Okay, I will be right there.’ Ending her call, Simpson got to her feet and stepped forward to the desk, to address Buck and Ambrose Watson. ‘I am afraid that Commander Dugdale will not be coming this morning,’ she said, placing a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder, ‘so this hearing will need to be rescheduled.’ Not waiting for a response, she turned to Carlyle. ‘Inspector, I need you and Sergeant Roche to come with me now, please.’

  Five minutes later, the three of them were squashed into the back seat of a police BMW, moving slowly through the semi-gridlocked London traffic.

  Stopped at a red light, the driver turned to face Simpson. ‘I’ll get us on to the Embankment and go along the river.’

  ‘Fine,’ the Commander nodded. ‘Do the best you can. We’re not in that much of a hurry.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Roche asked.

  ‘Docklands,’ said Simpson. Before she could elucidate, her phone started ringing. While she answered it, the inspector stared out of the window at the barely moving city, letting his mind go blank as he did so.

  Having taken off from City airport moments before, the British Airways jet sailed steadily past the window on its way to God knows where. On the thirtieth floor of the Norman Beresford Tebbit Tower in West India Quay, Carlyle watched it head south and wondered how long it would be before he could get back to ground level. Not a great one for heights, he looked down across Canary Wharf, Margaret Thatcher’s Gotham, and shuddered. Moving back from the floor-to-ceiling windows, he retraced his steps across the carpet of the sixty-five-foot reception/dining room and hovered outside the nearest of the four bedrooms. Inside, the forensics guys were still busy doing their thing.

  ‘You would have thought that they would have cut him down by now,’ said Roche, not quite managing to keep the amusement from her voice.

  ‘Yeah.’ Carlyle glanced back inside the room at the body of Gavin Dugdale and winced. The Commander had been tied with what looked like electrical flex to a ten-foot wooden cross, in the shape of an X, which stood against the back wall. Dugdale’s head was slumped against his left shoulder and there were traces of vomit around his mouth. The smell of different bodily fluids hung in the air and the area around the body looked like it had been hurriedly cleaned up. The rest of the room was strewn with various rubber accessories of different shapes and sizes.

  ‘Fat, naked and dead is not a good look,’ Roche murmured.

  ‘Not really,’ Carlyle agreed, disconcerted by the fact that he didn’t feel happier at Dugdale’s demise. Even though he was relieved to see the back of him, it was a terribly undignified way to go.

  Roche’s smirk somehow made him feel worse as she gloated. ‘I guess his Press Officer won’t be trying to spin this one.’

  ‘No. Where is she?’

  Roche nodded in the direction of the next bedroom. ‘She’s still next door. The forensics boys want her pink PVC underwear, so she’s getting changed before they take her away for questioning.’

  ‘Judith Mahon,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Met Press Officer by day, Mistress Nikita by night.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ Roche laughed. ‘Such a mousey girl and she turns out to be the self-styled “most perverted dominatrix” in London. You should check out her website.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘I think I’ll leave that to you.’

  Roche pulled out her BlackBerry and read from the screen. ‘It says here that she charges two hundred and fifty pounds an hour to inflict “extreme pain, humiliation and torture” on clients.’

  ‘I wonder if Dugdale got a mate’s rate?’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, Mistress Nikita claims to be very good with CP – that’s Corporal Punishment to you – and an expert on bondage with ropes, leather, rubber and clingfilm.’

  Carlyle frowned. ‘Clingfilm?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Roche, affecting an insouciant tone. ‘There’s a vacuum machine in one of the other bedrooms for wrapping clients up in airtight clingfilm.’

  He thought about this for a moment. ‘Why?’

  Roche shrugged. ‘Fuck knows.’ She returned to reading from the screen. ‘ “Beware, I am not a softie. I’m sadistic, intelligent and perverse. I’m a sadist of the worst kind. I have lots of tools to help me be creative to make each session one you will never forget”.’

  ‘On reflection,’ Carlyle remarked, ‘sounds like it might be worth a try.’

  Roche dropped the BlackBerry back into her bag. ‘At the end of the day, it’s just a job, isn’t it? A way to make a living.’

  ‘It’s good to have something to fall back on,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘particularly at times like this.’

  Simpson appeared from down the hallway. ‘I’m glad you two find this amusing.’ However, her stern words were undermined by the smile dancing around her lips.

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘Funny old world.’

  ‘They were taking part in a torture session, apparently,’ said Simpson evenly, as if it were the most common thing in the world, ‘with another dominatrix who did a runner when our man pegged out.’

  ‘They did at least call 999,’ Roche interjected.

  ‘We think he may have choked on a rubber ball,’ Simpson continued, ‘or died after taking nitrous oxide.’

  And when Carlyle looked mystified, Roche cheerily informed him: ‘It’s used as an anaesthetic to make sex sessions last longer.’

  Carlyle felt his buttocks involuntarily tighten. ‘Nice.’

  ‘He was found wearing a leather “gimp” mask with a ball on a chain around his neck,’ Simpson said. ‘That was taken off when the ambulance crew tried to resuscitate him. Anyway, we’ll have to wait for the results of the post-mortem examination to know precisely what caused his death.’

  ‘Will the, erm, ladies be charged with anything?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘That,’ said Simpson, ‘will ultimately be a matter for the CPS. If they’ve got any sense, they’ll not pursue it, but you never know.’

  ‘I wonder if his wife knew about his penchant for S&M?’ said Roche.

  Simpson, herself well aware of the vagaries of married life, gave a sad smile. ‘Mrs Dugdale lives at the family home in Surrey; Gavin spent most of his time in London. I think they had been living separate lives for quite some time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Roche replied, ‘but this is still gonna be a hell of a shock.’

  Simpson gave her a shit happens shrug. ‘I think we need to take a look at how this will impact on your various ongoing investigations,’ she said.

  ‘Does this mean you’re coming back?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Simpson didn’t sound too happy at the prospect. ‘I’ve already been told by the higher-ups that that is the plan. I was due to go back to Canada at the weekend, but that’s now on hold.’

  ‘Great,’ said Carlyle happily. He quickly ran her through where they were on their different cases.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Roche when he’d finished. Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she headed for the door. ‘Time for lunch.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Carlyle objected as he followed her out, unable to imagine his appetite returning for quite some time.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Francis McGowan lit up a Dorchester Superking and started puffing vigorously.

  Taking a step away from the smoke, Abigail Slater shot him an irritated look. ‘I didn’t know that you smoked.’

  ‘I have many vices,’ said the priest grimly.

  Slater took a seat in one of the pews, shivering against the cold. ‘Are you even allowed to smoke in here?’

  McGowan shrugged and took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘I can’t believe they didn’t sack that policeman,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ Slater told him. ‘The hearing was postponed because one of the panel didn’t turn up. They’ll reschedule it in another week or two.’

  ‘I could be in jail by then.’

  Most probably, thought Sla
ter. ‘Possibly. But there’s no point in worrying about that right now.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’ After taking a final drag, McGowan tossed the butt onto the flagstone floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Bending down, he picked up the remains of the cigarette and placed it carefully in the pocket of his trousers. ‘They’ll put me in with the kiddie-fiddlers.’

  Slater yawned. ‘You should have thought about that before you paid a fifteen-year-old boy to give you oral sex. I am sure we will be able to get this all sorted,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was still interested in her client. ‘The policeman will be discredited and we will get the charges against you dropped.’

  ‘But how?’ McGowan wailed. The door to the church opened and a gaunt and tired-looking young woman appeared. Nodding nervously at McGowan and Slater, she hurried past. McGowan waited for her to light a candle and begin her prayers before turning back to Slater. ‘Even if you do,’ he breathed, ‘Wagner says they will kick me out of here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Monsignor has told me that it is time to move on.’ McGowan gave her a pained look. ‘It is not right.’

  Slater half-suppressed a snort of laughter. The capacity of some people for self-delusion never ceased to amaze.

  ‘I have been here almost twenty years,’ the priest continued, his voice rising. ‘This is my home. I am too old to go anywhere else.’

  ‘The Monsignor has to look at the interests of everyone.’

  ‘But it is just not right!’ McGowan repeated, going red in the face. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his cigarettes again and fumbled with the packet before pulling one out and sticking it in his mouth. ‘You must speak to him.’

  Slater looked at him expressionlessly.

  ‘You must!’ McGowan hissed, still searching for his lighter. A look of desperation – or was it low cunning? – appeared in his eyes. ‘Otherwise,’ he croaked, ‘who knows what I might have to say to the police?’

  ‘Okay,’ Slater sighed, struggling to believe that the devious old sod was trying to strong-arm her. ‘I will see what I can do.’

  The inspector reluctantly followed Roche to a Costa Coffee on Canary Wharf’s North Colonnade, cradling a double espresso while his sergeant tucked into an oversized ham and egg bloomer awash in tomato sauce.

  ‘All in all, that’s a bit of a result,’ said Roche, swallowing the last of her sandwich and wiping the corners of her mouth to remove stray traces of ketchup.

  ‘The sandwich?’ Carlyle asked obtusely.

  ‘No,’ Roche said primly, taking a mouthful of her latte. ‘Dugdale’s Jesus impersonation.’

  ‘I think it was more like St Andrew,’ Carlyle corrected her, thinking of the Patron Saint of Scotland, crucified on an X-shaped cross, or saltire, as he deemed himself unworthy to be crucified on the same type of cross as the Son of God.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Whatever. His timing was perfect.’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘Bit of a sad way to go.’

  ‘I can think of a lot worse,’ Roche protested.

  ‘Yes, but even so.’

  Roche frowned. ‘But you hated the bastard.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘But I don’t need to hate him any more – do I?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you,’ Roche grunted.

  Carlyle rubbed a hand over his face. ‘There’s a saying that if you sit by the side of the river long enough, you’ll see the bodies of your enemies floating by.’

  Roche almost choked on her coffee. ‘How very . . . philosophical of you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve found it a very helpful thought down the years,’ Carlyle explained, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘They float away and you forget about them. It’s better than revenge. The inevitability of the process makes it very soothing.’

  ‘If you say so, Chief.’ Roche grinned. ‘The question is: what will it mean for your disciplinary hearing?’

  ‘Simpson will sort it out.’

  Roche looked at him carefully. ‘You two are quite close, aren’t you?’

  Suddenly Carlyle felt quite defensive. ‘I wouldn’t say close,’ he replied, ‘but we’ve worked together a long time.’

  ‘She seems to put up with a lot of your crap.’

  Carlyle smiled. ‘She’s a smart officer, just like you.’

  Roche stared into her empty latte glass. ‘Now who’s taking the piss?’

  Carlyle finished his espresso, placing the demitasse back on its saucer.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Roche slowly, still not looking up, ‘Dugdale did do one thing before heading off to the great sex dungeon in the sky.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Carlyle asked, knowing what was coming next.

  Finally looking up, Roche gave him an apologetic smile. ‘My move to SO15 has been confirmed.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Leaning forward, Carlyle patted her on the arm. ‘Well done. I know that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘My start date is still to be confirmed, but I should be moving in something like six weeks.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’re not pissed off?’ She sounded a little miffed that he was taking it so calmly.

  ‘Nah. You told me it was on the cards. It’s good. I’m happy for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The awkward silence was broken by Carlyle’s mobile, which started vibrating in his pocket. Grabbing the handset, he opened the text message that had just arrived in his inbox. I know you’ve been trying to get hold of me. Am at the usual spot. Carlyle reread the message and laughed. ‘That’s ballsy,’ he said to himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Got to run. Something’s come up. I’ll see you back at the station.’

  Crossing her arms, Abigail Slater scanned the room, letting her gaze glide over the blank face of Eddie Wood and the slightly more reptilian features of Monsignor Joseph Wagner. This was a meeting she knew that she didn’t want to be in. Annoyed at herself for being in the room, she toyed with the idea of just getting up and walking out. But she felt crippled by an unusual indecision, mixed with morbid curiosity.

  Looking at Slater, Wagner cleared his throat. ‘Edward . . .’

  ‘Eddie,’ the boy corrected him, sucking greedily on a can of Sprite as he leaned backwards on his chair.

  ‘Eddie. I know that this has been a difficult time.’

  Eddie shrugged, as if ‘difficult’ was simply his lot.

  ‘And I know that the way the police have abused your trust must make it very hard for you to engage with reputable figures of authority.’

  Eddie gave him an uncomprehending look.

  This is not going to work, Slater thought, relaxing a little.

  Wagner took a deep breath and ploughed on. ‘But we are entering a very important time.’

  Slowly, Eddie sat back upright. ‘How much?’ he said, scowling.

  Wagner frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Eddie came up with his best attempt at a smile. ‘You want me to withdraw my statement and bugger off, don’t you?’

  ‘Father McGowan,’ Wagner said quietly, ‘will be retiring soon. It is surely best for all concerned that we deal with this matter with the minimum of fuss. You should take time to think things through before deciding whether or not to go public with any lurid claims.’

  Eddie let out a loud burp. ‘How much?’

  Wagner took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘I am authorized to offer you five thousand—’

  ‘Ten!’ Eddie shouted gleefully.

  Exasperated, Wagner looked at Slater. The lawyer gave him a wry smile. ‘It looks, Monsignor,’ she said, ‘as if you have a negotiation on your hands.’

  Jumping to his feet, Eddie reached across the desk and grabbed the envelope. ‘Five now, five this time next week. I’ll lie low until then, and if you come up with the rest of the cash, I’ll go and tell Plod that I’m withdrawing my statement.
’ Stuffing the envelope into the front pocket of his jeans, he offered Wagner a hand. ‘Deal?’

  Ignoring the hand, the Monsignor signalled his assent with the curtest of nods.

  ‘Good.’ Eddie slouched his way towards the door. ‘Ten grand – sweet!’ He winked at Wagner. ‘Keep up your end and I might even throw in a free blowjob.’

  As Eddie disappeared into the night, Wagner shook his head. ‘What kind of a child is that? With the morals of the gutter . . .’

  Slater was already on her feet, about to make her exit. ‘That’s the kind of child that you’re doing deals with,’ she said contemptuously, ‘to protect yourself from the truth.’

  ‘The world,’ Wagner smiled sadly, ‘is a complicated place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Slater, ‘I suppose it is.’ At the door, the lawyer remembered her promise to McGowan to raise the issue of his proposed banishment from London. Pausing, she half-turned back towards Wagner.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ the Monsignor asked.

  Slater thought about it for a heartbeat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve got everything covered.’

  Standing by Regent’s Canal, Carlyle nodded at the lone angler sitting on the towpath. Eating a cheese sandwich, the man eyed him suspiciously and didn’t return the greeting. Realizing that he’d been sent on a wild-goose chase, the inspector stood pawing the stone while a pair of cyclists wobbled past. Undecided as to his next move, he watched a Capital Waterbus open-topped narrowboat pull up to a nearby stop on its journey west towards Little Venice. There were a grand total of four passengers on board, and it was only when the boat had come to a stop that he realized that one of them was gesturing at him, telling him to get on. He was an old guy, sitting alone at the back, wearing a quilted Barbour jacket and a West Ham baseball cap pulled down low. Frowning, the inspector hesitated. When, exasperated, the man pushed up the peak of his cap to reveal his face, Carlyle finally recognized him.

  Digging a fiver out of his pocket, he handed his fare over to the boat’s skipper and scrambled on board. Buttoning his jacket up against the cold, Carlyle made for the rear of the boat. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said, belatedly wondering if he should have arranged for some back-up.