by James Craig
Roche looked at the envelope. ‘I don’t think that’s quite what he had in mind.’
‘Well, it’s all he’s gonna get. Tell him it’s better than nothing.’
‘Fair enough,’ Roche said. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘I signed it out as a payment for one of my CIs.’
‘God bless Confidential Informants,’ Roche grinned. Getting to her feet, she grabbed the envelope. ‘I’ll go down and give Sammy Boy the good news.’
Carlyle nodded at the black bin-liner by her chair. ‘Clearing out?’
‘Yeah,’ said Roche sheepishly. ‘I start in SO15 in a couple of weeks but I’m gonna take some time off, so this is my last day in Charing Cross.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ll be having a leaving drink, of course,’ she added, ‘but I haven’t sorted that out yet.’
‘Sure,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘End of an era.’
‘Yeah.’ Roche stared at her shoes. ‘I do have something for you, though.’ Pushing her chair away, she reached under her desk and pulled out Helmut Newton’s outsized print of the young Katrin Lagerbäck. ‘I know you were a big fan. Here.’
Reluctantly, Carlyle took the print. ‘Isn’t that evidence?’ he asked.
‘Her firm threw it out when they closed down the office. I rescued it from the trash.’
He blushed slightly. ‘Thanks. Not sure where I’ll put it, but it was a nice thought.’
‘My pleasure.’ She waved the envelope. ‘Let me go and give Sam his reward. I’ll see you later.’
It took Carlyle less than fifteen minutes to bash out a short account of his escapade on the roof of St Boniface’s Church the night before. He was just printing out a copy when Simpson appeared. ‘Good timing,’ he told her, gesturing in the direction of the printer. ‘That’s my take on what happened.’
‘Your “take” on what happened,’ Simpson said as she plucked the single sheet of A4 from the printer. ‘You never oversell yourself, do you, Inspector?’
Carlyle gave the smallest of bows. ‘I try not to.’
Simpson scanned the text. ‘Anyway, it’s not like there’s anyone who’s going to be able to contradict you about what happened up there.’
‘No.’
‘There was some film producer once,’ Simpson mused, ‘who had a great line: “there are three sides to every story – yours, mine and the truth”.’
Carlyle laughed. ‘Not in this case.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘No Hollywood endings for us.’
‘No.’
Carlyle looked up at his boss. ‘Will McGowan’s skydive have any impact on the hearing?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Simpson told him, ‘although the whole thing does seem a bit cursed. Assume it’s still on and I’ll let you know if I hear any different.’ She watched a doubtful look cloud his face. ‘Don’t worry, John. It will get sorted.’
‘Okay.’
Simpson gestured at one of the various piles of papers on his desk. On the top of this one was the letter from HR about his redundancy terms. ‘You’re not still thinking about that, are you?’
‘What? Early retirement? No.’ Reaching over, the inspector grasped the letter and tore it up, tossing the pile of scraps back on his desk. ‘Not at all.’
‘Good.’ Simpson looked pleased. ‘By the way, I saw Alison Roche downstairs. I hear that you’ll be needing a new sergeant.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Shame,’ said Simpson. ‘I know you rated her.’
‘These things happen,’ Carlyle said philosophically. ‘It’s what she wants to do.’
‘Any ideas on who you’d like as a replacement?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Okay. Let’s think about it.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Meanwhile, I do have one bit of good news for you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Trevor Cole was caught this morning, trying to get on a ferry at Dover.’
‘Excellent.’ Carlyle half-heartedly waved a triumphant fist in front of his face. ‘At least that’s a result . . .’ Suddenly remembering the diamond and ruby bee brooch, he pulled it from his pocket and tossed it underarm to Simpson, who caught it at the second attempt. ‘Cole gave me that as a memento yesterday,’ he explained, getting to his feet. ‘Can you deal with it for me?’
A look of annoyance appeared on Simpson’s face, but it quickly passed. ‘Of course.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, ‘ ’cos I’ve got to run.’
FORTY-EIGHT
Despite the gusting wind and the threat of rain from a darkening sky, they chose to sit outside, on Lamb’s Conduit Street. Two tables down, the Goodfellas regulars were still discussing football and fiddling with their roll-ups. A white delivery van came along the road and pulled up by the kerb. The driver jumped from his cab, trotted to the back and pulled out a tray of fresh pastries. As he tracked the progress of the cakes inside, the inspector noticed a flyer taped to the café’s window and let out a small laugh. Having survived their brush with SO15 in the Strand underpass, the Eternity Dance Troupe was going to perform a gig in Red Lion Square.
‘What’s so funny?’ Helen squeezed his arm as she stared into the middle distance.
‘Nothing.’ Massaging the back of her hand, he let his gaze shift to the other side of the road. The undertaker’s immediately opposite showed no sign of life. In the flower shop next door, an elderly sales assistant was making up a large bouquet of lilies while chatting cheerily to a customer, a middle-aged man in a red windcheater. Leaving them to their conversation, Carlyle glanced at his watch. In less than fifteen minutes, they would be sitting in a consulting room round the corner in Great Ormond Street. Helen would be told whether she had the cancer gene, BRCA2. ‘We should get going.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ she replied, seemingly reluctant to move.
‘But, still. There’s no harm in being a little bit early.’ Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, gently kissing the top of her head before helping her up. Oblivious to the minor domestic drama nearby, the regulars continued their conversation about the appalling standard of referees in the Premier League. Skipping out of the café, the van driver jumped back into his cab, started up the engine and headed off. After a few moments, the customer came out of the flower shop carrying his lilies. Zipping up his jacket, he headed off briskly, in the direction of Holborn.
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘You okay?’
Helen nodded.
‘Good.’ Taking his wife’s arm, he did his best to smile. Together, they began walking slowly down the street.
ALSO BY JAMES CRAIG
London Calling
Buckingham Palace Blues
Time of Death
The Criminals We Deserve
Then We Die
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMES CRAIG has worked in London as a journalist and consultant for almost thirty years. He lives in Covent Garden with his family.
www.james-craig.co.uk
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COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was previously published by Constable & Robinson in 2014.
A MAN OF SORROWS. Copyright © 2014 by James Craig. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the e
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EPub Edition MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780062365392
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062365408
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