by James Craig
Carlyle stood there, nodding absentmindedly.
You people? Thanks.
He glanced up at a VOTE LABOUR poster in one of the neighbouring windows. He’d have thought that the residents inside would have taken that down by now. It was more than thirty-six hours since Margaret Thatcher had recorded her third crushing election victory on the bounce. According to the media, they were all now officially ‘Thatcher’s Children’. If it was difficult to remember what life had been like before she arrived, it was becoming increasingly impossible to imagine what life might be like after she departed – that was if she ever departed.
Several hours and dozens of interviews later, Carlyle felt hot, hungry and hacked off. Lots of people had heard the screaming, lots of people had heard the police sirens, lots of people had an opinion on how the neighbourhood was going downhill, and everyone had an opinion on the unbelievably piss-poor job that the police were doing. No one, however, had seen anything or had any useful information to share. He was delighted when the end of his shift finally approached, having turned down flat the sergeant’s offer of overtime. Carlyle needed a shower and something to eat. He was taking Helen to see Angel Heart at the Ritzy, and was looking forward to an enjoyable Saturday night. The job could fuck right off.
Carlyle was now four months into a stint working out of the station on Brixton Road. If anything, it was a rougher beat than his previous postings at Shepherds Bush and Southwark, but he was enjoying it immensely. In the locker room, someone had scrawled the legend ‘Twinned with Fort Apache, the Bronx’. A not unreasonable comparison considering this was the kind of place where everyone took pretty much in their stride the shooting of a local gang member in broad daylight in a residential street.
Even here in battle-hardened Brixton, the news that the gun that killed Larry Guthrie was a Browning BDA sent a frisson of nervous excitement through the ranks. The BDA was a modern, Belgian-made, 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, therefore a very fancy piece of kit indeed for a bunch of local hooligans to be using. Even more surprising was the fact that it been deliberately tossed away at the scene. Local criminals getting hold of guns was one thing; being well connected and well resourced enough to casually discard them once they’d been fired was another. At the station, the gossip was that this Guthrie killing threatened the start of a new round of drug-related violence that would have a posse of local and national politicians down on their backs in their usual search for easy answers and quick results.
At least it’s not my problem, thought Carlyle, as he stepped out of the station. It was just after six in the evening and he was looking good in his best grey and red Fred Perry polo shirt, a pair of black Levi 501s and a new pair of Doc Martens. With plenty of time to spare, he wandered slowly along Brixton Road, before turning into Coldharbour Lane in search of some food. He was standing by a set of traffic lights, waiting to cross the road, when he heard a nearby driver blast on his horn.
‘John!’
He looked up to see Dominic Silver leaning out of the driver’s window of a rather knackered-looking, copper-coloured Ford Capri. ‘Get in,’ Dom shouted, popping his head back inside and pushing open the passenger door. The lights changed back to green and the drivers behind Silver began noisily expressing their impatience. ‘Hurry up!’
Carlyle jogged over and jumped into the car. He pulled on his safety belt as Dom accelerated away from the crossing, while sticking one arm out the window to flip a finger at the drivers behind.
‘Good to see you, man!’ Dom said with a grin, returning both hands to the steering wheel. ‘Long time no see.’
‘You, too,’ said Carlyle, staring into the traffic ahead. He wondered what Dom wanted. More to the point, why had he himself been so quick to jump into his bloody car? They hadn’t seen each other for more than a year and this part of south London wasn’t anywhere close to Dom’s turf. With a sinking heart, Carlyle knew that this wasn’t likely to be merely a social call.
‘You OK for time?’ Dom asked, picking out a sign for Blackheath and heading east.
Carlyle made a show of looking for his watch. He had agreed to meet Helen back at Brixton tube station in just under two hours, as the film started half an hour later. ‘I’ve got about an hour,’ he said cautiously.
‘Perfect,’ Dom grinned. ‘Let’s go and have a little drink.’
The traffic was light for a Saturday evening. Less than twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the beer garden of the Railway Arms in Blackheath Village. Carlyle wasn’t much of a drinker but, at the end of a hard day, the cold lager tasted good. A couple of pretty girls in short skirts and skimpy T-shirts were talking animatedly at a table nearby, and he casually gave them the once-over. Nothing special, but worth a look. Feeling the alcohol kicking in, he began to relax and waited for Dom to talk.
After a few minutes, Dom put down his glass. ‘Do you know what the “Great Stink” was?’
Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘No.’
‘I forgot,’ Dom grinned, ‘you didn’t pay much attention at school, did you?’
Carlyle made a face and took another swig of beer.
‘The Great Stink,’ Dom continued, ‘was in 1858. Back then, the smell of sewage in the Thames was so bad that it, quite literally, got up the noses of the politicians in the House of Commons. They eventually demanded action, and the great Joseph Bazalgette came to their – and our – rescue.’
‘Who?’
‘The chief engineer of the Metropolitan Board of Works. He spent seven years building a 1300-mile system of sewers and pumping stations.’
‘I’ll remember that the next time I take a dump.’ Carlyle wondered what the hell Dom was on about.
‘It was a truly fantastic achievement.’
‘The history of shit.’ Carlyle took another sip of his lager. ‘How interesting. I don’t remember them teaching us about that at school, at all.’
‘I know,’ said Dom, shaking his head. ‘It’s criminal really. Joseph Bazalgette was a truly great Londoner. He got a knighthood in 1875 and there’s a small monument to him on the Victoria Embankment. Altogether, it’s a very, very small recognition of his genius. Any idiot can get a knighthood. Did you know that all civil-service permanent secretaries get them as a matter of course? What do they ever do?’
Carlyle shrugged. He forgotten how Dom could go off on one, once he’d picked a subject on which to pontificate.
‘The same goes for senior judges,’ Dom continued, warming to his theme, ‘and generals and ambassadors. At the very least, Joseph Bazalgette – the man who sorted out our shit – deserved a statue in Parliament Square. Or they could have named a bridge named after him, or … something.’
‘And the relevance of all this is?’ Carlyle smiled, demonstrating his willingness to indulge his ‘mate’.
‘The relevance of all this, Constable,’ said Dom, not missing a beat, ‘is that one of Bazalgette’s finest monuments is the Abbey Wood sewage works, which is not all that far from here.’
‘And?’
‘And … that’s where you’ll find the body.’
Carlyle glanced round. The plain girls had gone. Checking that no one else was within earshot, he looked at Dom. ‘What fucking body?’ he hissed.
‘The body of the muppet that shot Larry Guthrie this morning. It’s in one of the settlement tanks. There are a few … I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.’
‘Guthrie?’ Carlyle struggled to get his brain into gear. ‘That was only eight hours ago.’
Dom shrugged modestly. ‘We … they moved quickly. No one wants this thing to get out of hand. Both sides have lost a soldier. Additional compensation will be paid. It is time to call it quits and move on. All this cowboy bollocks is bad for business.’
‘So it was a drugs-related killing?’
Dom raised his eyes to the heavens and said nothing.
‘What’s the name of this “muppet”?’ Carlyle asked, gulping down another mouthful of lager.
D
om finished his pint. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Did this guy really do it?’
‘Absolutely.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Evidence?’
‘Guthrie’s blood is on his clothes. Along with his own now, of course.’
Carlyle put his glass carefully on the table and looked Dom in the eye.’You didn’t …?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’
‘So why are you telling me this?’
‘It needed sorting. You don’t need … you don’t want to know the details. This way, everybody wins: You look good, while keeping my name out of things, and I get kudos on my side for putting this business to bed, police investigation included. The message gets out that this thing is over, a score draw, and the streets are that little bit safer again for the Great British public.’ He waved his empty glass at Carlyle. ‘One for the road?’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘And just how am I supposed to have come across this info?’
Dom grinned. ‘Sources, old boy. Informants. Just make sure you don’t have to go in there yourself. I’m told that the stink really is something terrible.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘My pleasure.’ Dom got up and gestured in the direction of the bar. ‘Sure you don’t want another one?’
Carlyle shook his head. While the shit expert went inside, he sat biting his lip, trying to keep in check his annoyance at being patronised. This was all bollocks. No way was he going to end up with any glory. He was a police constable, for fuck’s sake. Dom was really dropping him in it, and treating him like an idiot to boot. There was no chance he could get away with closing a murder case in just a matter of hours and not find himself questioned very closely about it. If he didn’t come up with a decent explanation, he would be under investigation himself. He couldn’t even think what a decent explanation might be.
After a little while, Carlyle decided that there was only one thing for it. He stood up and walked round the side of the pub to an old-fashioned red phone box that he’d noticed on the way in. Stepping inside, he dialled 999. Putting on a hopeless Irish accent (that being the only one he felt he could do), he relayed the details to a bored-sounding girl, mentioning the Browning BDA in the hope that would help convince her that this was more than just another nutter calling in with a useless tip. That was as much as he could do. Ultimately, they could check it out, or not; he couldn’t really give a fuck.
Finishing the call, he walked back to the table, while Dom was steadily draining his second pint.
Carlyle didn’t sit down. ‘I think we better get going now.’
‘No problem. I’ll drive you back.’ Dom emptied his glass and stood up.
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took a final mouthful of his own beer, which has lost its cold edge and now felt warm and flat. ‘Let me just take a leak first.’
TWENTY-THREE
Their usual meeting place was one of a string of properties Dominic Silver now owned in central London. Over the last couple of decades, he had steadily built up a London portfolio that was worth easily north of £20 million, even after the recent market crash. This one was a small Georgian house on Meard Street, a short pedestrianised alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street, in the heart of Soho. It was set back from the pavement, behind a wrought-iron gate, with a small plaque on the door that said NO PROSTITUTES HERE. Carlyle pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. A voice on the intercom said, ‘Come right to the top.’
The house was home to Gideon Spanner, a former paratrooper who was currently Silver’s number one bodyguard, debt collector and personal trainer. Carlyle found both men in a large room that covered almost the whole third floor. It was empty apart from a sofa and two armchairs, which were positioned facing a fifty-inch Panasonic plasma TV screen. Carlyle stood in the doorway, eyeing the two men watching a boxing match. The fighters were really going for it and the commentary was reaching fever pitch. There was a station logo in the corner of the screen, but he didn’t recognise it, probably another one of those premium sports channels he didn’t subscribe to. Carlyle knew next to nothing about boxing, but this bout clearly wasn’t live. It looked like a tape of an old fight from the 1970s or the 1980s.
‘Drink?’ Dom looked up from the screen long enough to wave his glass in Carlyle’s direction.
‘What is it?’
‘Guavas, mangoes and goji berries. Not bad.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘In the kitchen, downstairs. Help yourself.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, go on.’ Dom nodded at the screen. ‘This is nearly finished.’
It took Carlyle five minutes to find the kitchen and pour himself some juice. When he came back, he plonked himself in the free armchair, and they all watched the boxing in silence. After a couple more rounds, one of the fighters called it a day.
Dom muted the TV and turned to Carlyle. ‘Leonard-Duran Two, generally considered one of the greatest fights in history.’
Carlyle made a non-committal kind of noise in response.
Dom looked at it him. ‘You know what I’m talking about?’
‘Not really,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran – the artist and the street fighter. Both of them were great, great fighters. They had three famous contests, back when we were kids. This was the second and the most famous one.’
‘The No Más fight,’ said Gideon, who may not even have been born when the fight actually took place.
‘No Más meaning “No more”. That’s what Duran was supposed to have said when he quit in the eighth round.’ Dom gestured at the screen with his chin. ‘Duran denies saying it, but it’s such a good story. No Más – what a great ending. No one was going to let the truth get in the way of a story like that.’
‘Interesting,’ was all Carlyle could think of to say. Other people’s passions invariably left him bemused.
‘Anyway,’ said Dom, ‘it’s nice to see you, John. You’re looking well.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle replied, bowing his head slightly. ‘You too.’ And it was true. Dom was one of those annoying guys who looked better in his late forties than he did in his early twenties: richer, healthier, more relaxed. Carlyle wished that he could say the same about himself. Dom’s cheeky-chappy demeanour had been long since jettisoned, replaced by a professional/academic look that was underpinned by a degree in Business and Management from Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. Dressed in Comme des Garçons, with rimless spectacles, greying, shoulder-length hair, and some flattering lines around his eyes, he was currently on top of his game.
Finally finishing his trip down boxing’s memory lane, he gave Carlyle his full attention. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘That remains to be seen,’ said Carlyle, smiling.
‘As always.’ Dom turned to Gideon. ‘The inspector and I go back a long way.’
Gideon kept his eyes on the silent screen. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘Yes,’ Dom smiled, ‘John is one of my earliest comrades. We’ve worked together a lot over the years.’
Carlyle said nothing. Dom was right, up to a point. They had known each other for a long time and the relationship was both stable and cordial. It wasn’t complicated but it wasn’t clear either. Neither of them would necessarily have wanted to create it from scratch if it didn’t already exist, but they could both see its advantages … as well as its disadvantages.
Dominic Silver had left his old picket-line mates like Carlyle a long way behind. He had built up his business slowly, one step at a time, wherever possible avoiding conflicts and solving problems without needlessly resorting to violence. As the years turned into decades, his reputation grew. In a business where to survive two years was rare, to have survived two decades was a miracle. He had never been arrested, never mind convicted of any offence. In the last few years, he had reached his peak, settling comfortably in the third or fourth tier of the capital’s drug-related entrepreneurs. Near the top but not
aiming for the top. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable and avoiding the problems facing those above him and those below him. His operation was turning over maybe low millions each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and some of the newer entries in Who’s Who. Before the recession took hold, he even had a couple of corporate clients, major City financial institutions who bought on account.
Business school had shown Dom how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. With all of his property and other investments, drugs probably now accounted for less than a third of Dom’s income. However, it wasn’t the kind of business you could easily retire from. Similarly, despite the risks, Carlyle could not easily walk away from their relationship which, after all this time, was almost as much personal as professional. Dom, like Carlyle, was a family man. He’d had the same girlfriend for more than twenty years and, as far as Carlyle knew, they enjoyed a happy, monogamous relationship, one which had been blessed with five kids. The families knew each other well, and Alice had played with the Silver kids plenty of times over the years.
Carlyle drained his glass of guava, mango and goji. Dom was right; it was good. ‘I’m in the market for some information.’
‘Obviously.’ Dom sat further forward on the sofa and eyed Carlyle intently. ‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m interested in five men specifically. Their names are George Dellal, Ian Blake, Nicholas Hogarth, Harry Allen and Sebastian Lloyd.’ Hewasn’t yet ready to mention Holyrod and the Carltons.
Dom made a show of thinking about that for a few seconds. ‘This is the thing you were on the TV for last week?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Not making much progress, then?’ He grinned. ‘So what do you want to know?’
‘The usual. At least some of them use drugs, cocaine mainly and a bit of ecstasy. Where do they get them from? Who do they like to indulge with? What else do they get up to? Any interesting peccadilloes?’
‘Interesting peccadilloes?’ Dom laughed. ‘We all have some of those.’