by James Craig
Steve Bucknell. Whatever happened to him? Almost forty years on, that didn’t really bear thinking about. Simpson tried to drag herself back into the here and now. How long was this torture going to go on? Careful not to make eye contact with the teacher, the Commander scanned the room. Sitting in front of her were some of the Metropolitan Police’s brightest and best. Each one of them had been hand-picked by the Commissioner to attend the three-day course on Happiness, Focus & Decision-Making. Sitting behind their desks, out of uniform, they all looked rather dazed.
Gazing out of the window, Simpson watched another group of senior police officers as they went about the ‘bonding with nature’ module of the event. Unfortunately, the skies had darkened, so that the bonding exercise meant a dash for the shelter of the nearest elm tree before the heavens opened. At least I’m not getting rained on, Simpson thought smugly. One of the last officers to make it under cover was a Deputy Assistant Commissioner from Leyton called Anna Arendt. Arendt was one of the Met’s ‘super-women’. Married with four kids, a husband who was a lawyer and a Labrador called Eddie, she was seen as a plausible medium-to-long-term bet for the first female Commissioner. Irritatingly, she was also one of the most stable and happy people that Simpson knew. What does Anna make of all this, the Commander wondered, as her colleague disappeared into the trees in an attempt to escape the downpour.
According to the gossip, this whole fiasco was costing somewhere in the region of seven grand a head. Apparently, the Commissioner had been persuaded that it was a good idea by his wife. That wasn’t such a surprise – the woman ran a PR company for health spas and holiday resorts. What were the odds, Simpson asked herself, of the comedians hosting this course being one of her clients? For the police force, however, it was a shocking amount of money to be spending on such nonsense at the best of times, never mind at a time when operational budgets were being cut and public-facing staff being reduced.
Biting her lower lip, Simpson realized that she was genuinely ashamed to be taking part in this circus. ‘Let that be a lesson to you, Carole,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘You need to pay more attention to what’s going on around you.’ The Commander wished that she’d enquired about what the event actually involved, when her PA, Michael, had slipped it into her diary several months earlier. With a bit of foresight and planning, she could have booked a holiday instead; or organized a session of the Women in Policing Forum, in order to create an unfortunate but unavoidable scheduling clash. Under her breath, the Commander cursed Michael for not having properly flagged what precisely she was signing up for.
As it was, the Commander had already been on the train from Paddington before she checked the actual agenda for the course: positive thinking; happiness and decision-making; constructive leadership. By then, it was too late to do anything about it. The Commissioner had decided that everyone at the rank of Commander or above should attend ‘happiness lessons’, in order to become ‘happiness activists’ within the Force. The end result was that Simpson and forty colleagues had been sent on this three-day retreat at Cobb Hall, a decaying stately home in the Home Counties, which served as the HQ of something called the Brighter Smile Organization. Brighter Smile promised to teach ‘better management through happiness’. In practice, the course involved learning meditation techniques to help students live in the present and not to brood about the past. Tutors helped them focus on their breathing and also on allowing their minds to wander. By learning ‘mindfulness’, the officers were supposed to improve their ‘personal resilience’ at critical periods in their lives and increase their leadership potential.
A new slogan appeared on the whiteboard. Simpson’s eyes refused to focus on the words as she realized that it was going to take all of her ‘personal resilience’ to get through the three days without murdering the stupid bitch at the front of the class. The Commander held on to the hope that one of her colleagues might take matters into their own hands and off the facilitator for her. However, most of them looked too shell-shocked to make a move. Far more worryingly, a few looked as if they were actually enjoying themselves; doubtless those officers were headed for great things in the new, laid-back Met.
‘Now, we want to move to the next level . . .’
Simpson tried to tune out the woman’s inane utterances. God help them if the media ever found out about this nonsense, she thought glumly. The Daily Mail would have an orgasm if it uncovered the story.
Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, the Commander accidentally kicked her bag, which was sitting on the floor. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of her mobile phone blinking inside. Refusing to switch it off had been a small act of insubordination. For the duration of the course, all phones had to be switched off; participants were supposed to have no contact with the outside world. The enforced isolation was intended to help them build up their reserves of happiness. It was another thing driving her mad.
‘Now,’ said the teacher, barging her way back into the Commander’s consciousness, ‘we’re going to look at how we focus on thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations.’
Oh sweet Jesus. Grabbing the bag, Simpson gently pushed back her chair, careful not to let it scrape against the wooden floor. Getting to her feet, she bolted for the door.
Outside the classroom, Simpson stood in a long, empty corridor which smelled strongly of damp. After a moment’s hesitation she headed left, slipping round a corner and ducking into the ladies’ toilets. Happily, it was empty. Locking herself in a stall, Simpson put down the toilet lid and sat with her bag on her lap before taking out her phone and checking the screen.
Six missed calls.
Three of those were simply her answerphone calling to tell her she had a message. That left three actual messages from real people. Simpson felt a stab of disappointment; she would have hoped for more than that after almost a day and a half away from her desk. That was another thing that was so profoundly depressing about these kinds of events – they reminded you just how effortlessly the world kept turning when you were removed from it. A meteorite could land on top of Cobb Hall, taking out a large swathe of the Force’s ‘brightest and best’ and it would matter not a jot. Everything would go on exactly as usual. Indeed, there was a 50:50 chance that the crime rate would go down.
Giggling at the thought, she turned her attention to the three bona fide calls. The first was from her financial adviser, an excitable young man called Jonathan who was trying to get her to invest in an Emerging Markets Investment Fund. Simpson had foolishly shown an interest in the thing a few weeks earlier when she had visited his offices in St James’s to have her annual financial health check.
‘You could easily afford to retire,’ Jonathan had told her.
‘I’m not thinking about that right now,’ Simpson smiled. ‘I like my job.’
For a moment, the boy looked flummoxed, unable to compute the sentiment. ‘Lucky you,’ he said finally.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘lucky me.’ That, of course, had been before she had arrived at Cobb Hall. Just for a moment, the Commander tried to think about what retirement might look like. Nothing came to mind.
Jonathan could wait.
Simpson hit the delete button, confident that the financial adviser would ring her back in the next few days.
The second voicemail was more cryptic. A message from Sarah Ward: ‘There’s something I need to ask you about. It relates to an ongoing investigation. If you could give me a call as soon as possible, I would appreciate it.’
Simpson sighed. Ward was an inspector from West End Central; she had first met her at one of the Women in Policing events a year or so earlier. Without quite knowing exactly how it had happened, the Commander had turned into something of a mentor to her younger colleague. Increasingly, Ward had proved to be hard work. A pessimist, depressive and generally high maintenance, she was the type of person who might conceivably benefit from this damn happiness course. One thing was for certain: speaking to the woman right now would do nothing to improve th
e Commander’s own happiness quotient. Deleting the message, she made a mental note to call Ward when she was safely ensconced back in Paddington Green.
Which left call number three.
John Carlyle.
‘Boss, it’s me. I know you’re tied up on a course, but there have been a few developments. I just wanted to keep you informed. Give me a bell when you get the chance. Bye.’
‘I just wanted to keep you informed?’ Ha! Simpson had known Carlyle long enough to understand that the inspector liked to give the impression of sharing information, the better to allow him to go off and do whatever the hell he wanted, without paying due attention to the chain of command i.e. herself. Normally, she did not have the time or energy to bring him to heel. Now, however, was different. It was time to call her tiresome underling’s bluff.
*
Seeing Simpson’s number flash up on the screen, Carlyle hesitated before deciding to take the call.
‘Boss!’ he said cheerily. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m out of town.’
‘Why are you whispering?’
Simpson dropped her voice even lower. ‘It’s a long story.’
Sensing she was on the defensive, he kept probing. ‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, no,’ she muttered irritably. ‘Why would I be in any trouble?’
‘No reason. It’s just that you sound a little stressed.’
‘I’m fine,’ Simpson snapped.
‘I heard you were on a course.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ah, well. It’s good to know they’ve still got money for that sort of thing.’
‘Mm.’
‘What kind of course is it?’ he asked innocently.
‘A management course.’
‘Oh.’ Carlyle smelled a rat. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘It’s about happiness.’ She knew he was fishing, but the words just kind of slipped out before she could stop them.
‘A happiness course?’ Predictably, he chuckled. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘It’s about how to develop a positive frame of mind, in order to boost your decision-making and leadership skills.’
‘Come again?’
‘It is about,’ she repeated, exasperated, ‘trying to keep focused on the positive, so that you can do your job better.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle thoughtfully. ‘And is it any good?’
‘Not really,’ Simpson admitted.
‘Ha! I can see how being sent on something like that could really piss you off.’
‘Yes, well. Keep it to yourself.’
‘Don’t worry, boss, you know me. The soul of discretion.’
Yes, thought Simpson, when you want to be. Regretting having let the cat out of the bag, she struggled to remember why she’d called him in the first place. ‘So what’s going on? You said you wanted to keep me informed about something or other.’
‘Ah yes. There’s been quite a bit going on here. None of it happy.’ He explained about the apparent abduction of Mel Hunter and her kids and the assault on Roche.
‘Fuck,’ Simpson hissed. ‘I sent her over there to see that cyclist.’
‘That’s okay,’ Carlyle said cheerily, ‘he didn’t manage to video any of it.’
‘Eh?’
‘The guy who smacked Roche took the cyclist’s cameras.’
‘That hardly seems to be our most pressing concern right now,’ Simpson said, her voice sharp.
It would be if we had a starring role on YouTube, Carlyle thought sourly. Aloud, he said, ‘Anyway, Roche is going to be fine. She’ll probably be back at work tomorrow.’
‘Good, good.’
‘In the meantime, I’m making a few enquiries of my own.’
Simpson started to protest then thought better of it. Carlyle was a law unto himself. By now, she knew better than to try and micromanage him. ‘Okay. What else have you got on your plate at the moment?’
Carlyle mentioned a couple of routine cases. The clear implication was that they were ongoing; in reality, he had wrapped them both up the week before.
‘Fine,’ Simpson conceded. ‘As long as those are put to bed, you can try and chase down Roche’s attacker.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘Just remember though, that it’s part of a wider investigation. Someone else’s investigation. Don’t go wading in and start causing aggravation.’ Even as the words were coming out of her mouth, the Commander knew that they were wasted.
‘No, boss.’
‘Who is the lead investigating officer in the Hunter case?’
‘An inspector out of West End Central by the name of Ward,’ he said casually. ‘I’ve never come across her before, but she seems all right – a bit touchy.’
Simpson’s heart sank. ‘Sarah Ward?’
‘Yeah. She mentioned that she knew you. Any good?’
‘Highly thought of,’ was all Simpson could think of by way of reply. ‘Just make sure you don’t get in her way.’
Ending the call, she pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest. Here she was, a grown woman hiding in a toilet stall. Out in the real world, her troublesome charges were being – well, troublesome. Rarely had she felt as unhappy as she did in that moment. ‘Bloody hell, Carole,’ she said to herself. ‘How on earth did you end up here?’
FOURTEEN
‘Who was that?’
Scratching his ear, Carlyle gave a rueful grin. ‘The boss.’ Tipping back his head, he drained the last drops of Jameson’s from his shot glass. Should have got a double, he thought, or maybe even a treble. His bum had barely reached his seat and already he needed to get back to the bar.
‘They should leave you alone when you’re not at work.’
‘You know what it’s like. There’s no such thing as off-duty these days.’
Alexander Carlyle nodded. ‘Checking up on you, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
Alexander looked at his son. John was more than a little worn around the edges, but still a boy in his old man’s eyes. ‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Carlyle placed the empty glass on the table, next to his mobile, a pile of change and a copy of the Standard.
‘Good.’ Alexander watched a couple come in from the street. ‘How much longer is it until you can retire?’
Carlyle waved a hand airily. Retirement wasn’t something that he wanted to think about. ‘That depends.’
‘You wouldn’t want to mess things up before you got your pension.’
‘There’s no chance of that.’
‘You have to be careful,’ his father insisted.
Like you would know.
‘It’s the same everywhere, these days,’ the old man grumbled. ‘They’ll always try and do you if they can.’
‘You know me, Dad,’ Carlyle chuckled, ‘always one step ahead. There’s no worries on that score.’
The inspector stared across the table at his father. The old man was deathly pale, with a clammy look to his skin, like a vampire, perhaps; hiding away from whatever weak sunshine London had to offer in the back snug of the Salting House. I wish you were a bloody vampire, Carlyle thought unhappily. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about you keeling over any time soon.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind being a vampire myself. It would make life simpler in a lot of ways.
What a ridiculous line of thought! He tried to physically shake the frivolous idea from his brain.
Alexander gave him a funny look. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘What are you shaking your head like that for?’ He looked around the pub, genuinely embarrassed at his boy’s behaviour.
‘Like what?’
‘Like a nutter.’ Alexander tried to shrink further into his seat. ‘People will think you’re soft.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Carlyle tutted. Of the dozen or so other afternoon drinkers present, none was sho
wing any interest in the gathering of the Carlyle clan in the corner.
‘I’m just saying,’ Alexander sulked.
‘Rubbish,’ Carlyle snorted.
For several moments, they sat in uncomfortable silence.
‘Your boss is still that woman, is it?’ Alexander asked, attempting to return the conversation to a more neutral topic.
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle replied, happy to go along with it. ‘I’ve been working with Carole Simpson a long time now.’
‘I suppose you’re used to her then.’ Alexander frowned, as if still coming to terms with the various changes in gender equality that had occurred in his lifetime.
‘It doesn’t bother me.’ Carlyle was aware he sounded rather stiff and defensive. ‘She’s a good cop.’
‘Mm.’ Alexander Carlyle rubbed a hand over his chin. Two days’ growth covered his jaw, the grey stubble crawling up his sunken cheeks in an irregular line. ‘Strange business though, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Wasn’t her husband a crook?’
Carlyle nodded. Joshua Hunt, aka Mr Carole Simpson, was indeed a convicted fraudster. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘So how can you stay in the police force if your husband is bent? Surely that’s not on?’
‘The stuff he got up to – that was nothing to do with her,’ Carlyle said evenly. The last thing he wanted to do now was get into a discussion of Simpson’s unfortunate marriage.
‘He died though, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cancer?’
Ah.
‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle lied. Joshua Hunt had been diagnosed with cancer of the colon while in prison. He had been released on compassionate grounds, so that he could die in his own bed.
For a moment, his father was lost in thought. Through watery eyes, he watched a girl feed a succession of pound coins into a slot machine in the far corner of the room without any reward. ‘Did she ever remarry?’