by James Craig
‘Where’s the stuff?’ he asked quickly. ‘Let’s get this sorted before your mother gets back.’
Noah considered the question for several seconds while he tried to construct a bemused expression. ‘Whaddya mean? I don’t understand.’
With a theatrical sigh, Carlyle placed a hand on Noah’s shoulder. ‘Look, son. You fell down a few stairs, you don’t want to take a dive off the balcony as well. Then you really would have to go to A and E.’
The boy bridled. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘No,’ said Dom grimly, getting to his feet, ‘but I would.’
‘But only after I tell your mum what you’ve been up to,’ Carlyle added. ‘Look at it like this: we’re making a problem go away for you. Much easier to hand the stuff over to us than explain to Duty Command why you didn’t put it in the Evidence Locker.’
‘That would be your career over like that.’ Dom snapped his fingers. ‘The only reference you’ll have will be a criminal record. You wouldn’t even be able to get a job as a security guard at the local supermarket.’
‘Okay, okay.’ With a groan, Noah flopped into the room’s only armchair. ‘It’s in my bedroom. In a bag under the bed.’
‘Very original.’ Dom brushed past the returning Mrs Templeton and headed out of the room, in search of the drugs. Carlyle tried to ignore the smell of the fish supper as he watched Noah’s mother clean his wound with some cotton wool doused in antiseptic.
‘I still think you should go and get it seen by a doctor,’ she said.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Noah harrumphed, his regression to a sullen teenager now complete.
‘There’s no way that you’ll be fit for work tomorrow,’ she went on.
‘Stop fussing.’
‘I think a day off is probably not a bad idea,’ Carlyle ventured. ‘The Met will be able to cope.’
‘See? Your boss agrees with me,’ Noah’s mother chipped in. ‘They won’t miss you.’
‘He’s not my boss,’ Noah sulked.
‘No?’ Mrs Templeton looked enquiringly at Carlyle. ‘Who are you then?’
‘Just a colleague,’ he said blandly.
The woman bit her lower lip; the wheels were slowly starting to turn now. ‘And why were you chasing him?’
‘It was just a misunderstanding.’ Carlyle glanced back down the hall. What the hell was Dom doing?
The woman gestured towards him with the TCP bottle. ‘Could you show me your ID again?’
Noah shifted in his seat. ‘It’s okay, Ma. He is a cop. We’ve worked together on a few things. I just mistook him for someone else when I came in. That’s why I tried to leg it.’ It was the feeblest of lies and his mother did not believe it for a second. However, she said nothing as she returned her attention to cleaning the boy’s wound.
‘I wanted to speak to you about Lucio Spargo,’ Carlyle said casually, not addressing either one of them in particular.
Mrs Templeton didn’t look up as she said. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Mum!’ Noah tried to rise out of his seat, but she pushed him back down with surprising force.
‘Stay still!’
‘Do you know him?’ Carlyle asked.
‘ ’Course I do,’ the woman said calmly. ‘Noah’s dad worked for Mr Spargo for almost ten years.’
‘Why did he stop working for him?’ the inspector asked.
‘He died,’ she said matter-of-factly.
Oh. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t worry about it, love. It was a long time ago now. Got run over by a taxi on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Died instantly.’ She sighed. ‘The silly sod never did watch where he was going. Noah took it very hard, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Poor lad. I sometimes think he’ll never get over it. I was so pleased when he made it into the police. It’s good that he’s got a proper job, a career.’
‘Yes.’
‘Makes me feel a lot happier about things.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘I can remember the funeral like it was yesterday. The vicar was a right doddery old git. He kept getting the name wrong – calling him Kevin instead of Kelvin. Noah was only little, but he wanted to go up there and sort him out.’ The memory seemed to cheer her a little. ‘Mr Spargo was very kind. Calmed Noah down during the service and bought him some Smarties afterwards. Smarties were always Noah’s favourites. Especially the yellow ones.’
‘I liked the red ones when I was a kid,’ Carlyle recalled.
‘I remember Noah coming home with six tubes of Smarties that Mr Spargo had bought him. I hid them in a drawer and rationed them out. Otherwise he would have eaten them all in one go and made himself sick.’
‘That’s kids for you.’
‘Mr Spargo didn’t even need to come to the funeral. Kelvin was just an employee, after all. How many bosses would do something like that?’
‘Not very many,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘He’s a very nice man. Always extremely polite.’
‘So I’ve been told,’ Carlyle said drily.
‘I never believed any of those things about him in the paper. I think that they just make that kind of thing up, don’t you?’
‘Most of the time, yeah.’
‘Anyway, what’re you interested in him for?’
Before Carlyle could construct some kind of an explanation, Dom finally appeared at his shoulder. When the inspector looked round, he held up a paper sandwich bag bearing the legend FitzGibbbon’s, above a line drawing of a trio of cheery-looking Aberdeen Angus cattle.
‘Got it!’
Carlyle nodded, before turning to Mrs Templeton and giving her a big smile. ‘We can sort all this out later. Right now, I’ve got to go. Noah, I’ll come and have a word with you when you get back to work.’
The boy grunted something that just about managed to convey his combined annoyance and acquiescence.
‘Good.’ Feeling very pleased with his night’s work, the inspector quickly followed Dom down the hallwayand out the door.
Outside Victoria train station, they prepared to go their separate ways. Dom handed Carlyle the paper bag and fumbled in his pocket for an Oyster card.
‘Thanks,’ the inspector said.
‘You do realize,’ Dom pointed out, ‘that a couple of dozen security cameras have just caught you taking possession of enough Class A to put you away for at least six years?’
‘There’s nothing like hiding in plain sight,’ the inspector inspected the logo on the bag. ‘What’s FitzGibbbon’s, anyway?’
‘It’s an upmarket burger chain. My kids love it. You should check it out.’
‘Not our kind of place, I don’t think. Alice has refused to eat hamburgers on principle since she read an article about the use of growth hormones in cattle.’
‘Smart girl,’ Dom said. ‘She’ll doubtless go far.’
‘Yes, she probably will.’ Carlyle enjoyed a small frisson of parental pride as he watched a number 38 bus manoeuvre its way around the omnipresent roadworks that circled the station like barricades put down against an invading army.
Dom gestured at the bag. ‘In all seriousness though, do you really want to be carrying that around in Central London?’
‘Who’s gonna stop me? And even if they did, I’m an officer of the law. I know my rights.’
‘Yes, but still—’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It’s got to be safer than letting you keep it. Anyway, I need to get my dad sorted out asap. I’ll go and pay him a visit tomorrow.’ Carlyle glanced at the clock high up on the station entrance. Assuming it was telling something approximating the right time, it was barely more than five hours since he had been sitting in the pub, watching the old man let his Guinness evaporate. After the evening’s main event, it felt like months ago – almost a different lifetime.
‘Give Alexander my best.’
‘I will.’
‘And make sure he uses that stuff spari
ngly.’
‘Of course.’
‘No more than two tablets every twelve hours.’
‘Okay.’
‘If that’s not enough, we can review the situation. One step at a time though. Imagine the palaver if he were to OD on us.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘I know you are,’ Dom said kindly. ‘If he’s careful, there’s more than enough tablets there to keep him going for the foreseeable.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
Dom waved away the question. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle patted him on the arm. ‘I really am very grateful for this. And sorry for all the hassle.’
‘Pfff. These things happen. Funny old night, huh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think that kid Noah’s playing at?’
Carlyle related his brief exchange with Mrs Templeton. ‘Noah’s father worked for Spargo. It looks like the boy is Spargo’s stooge.’
‘Okay.’ Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘But how would he know about the drugs? And what was he going to do with them?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle said. ‘But it was a stroke of luck that he tried to nick the tablets. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have got the damn stuff back.’
Arriving home, Carlyle found Helen and Alice asleep and the flat in darkness. Taking off his shoes, the inspector slipped quietly into the kitchen, carefully closing the door shut before filling the kettle and putting it on to boil. He dropped a green tea bag in a white mug bearing the legend Keep Calm and Support Fulham. While the kettle laboured towards boiling point, he took his mobile phone from his jacket and plugged it into the charger by the bread bin. As the screen lit up, the inspector was dismayed to see that he had six missed calls. They came from a mobile number that he didn’t recognize. ‘Fuck it,’ he yawned. ‘If it’s important, they’ll ring back tomorrow.’
The kettle finally came to the boil. Placing the charging phone on top of the bread bin, he half-filled the cup with boiling water. Looking around the kitchen, he wondered where to stash the FitzGibbon’s bag. Just for a second, he had an out of body experience, as if he was looking down on the scene, laughing at himself as he tried to hide his illegal score.
‘What a bloody stupid carry on!’ Pulling open a cupboard above his head, the inspector lifted out a large cardboard box containing Helen’s breakfast cereal of choice. Removing the cellophane bag inside holding some form of designer organic French muesli, he folded up the paper bag and shoved it into the bottom of the box, replacing the muesli on top. Putting the box back in the cupboard, he took a couple of gulps from his tea before placing the mug in the sink. Then, taking a moment, he gazed out of the window, with its view across the Thames towards the drab flatlands of South London. Under the cover of darkness, the city seemed relaxed enough; it certainly didn’t care about his little adventures. Comforted by the thought, he switched out the light and headed for bed.
TWENTY-ONE
A brief rain shower had cleared the air, bringing with it, if not a new sense of optimism, a fresh burst of energy. Hunter glanced at his watch. He had hardly slept in the last two days, feeding on his exhaustion like a bodybuilder gobbling steroids. He would not rest until Mel and the kids had been found, safe and sound. In the meantime, rest was simply not an option.
Neither was standing around like a spare prick at a whore’s wedding under the glare of arc-lights that looked like they’d been set up to shoot the latest Docklands gangster B-movie. The only reason for him being here was to get a line on Andy Carson and his crew. Otherwise he was no better than the rest of the gawkers trying to get some interesting shots of the crash on their mobile phones.
It looked like the Range Rover had smacked into the side of the Astra and headed straight into one of the concrete supports holding up the elevated stretch of the motorway above. Even at this late hour the A13 hummed with a relentless stream of traffic doing 70 mph a hundred feet over their heads. Giving the Fire Brigade and the medical staff space to get on with their jobs, Hunter stood well away from the wreckage, contemplating his next move. It was more than three hours since he’d had the call from Colonel Naylor telling him that one of Andy Carson’s associates had died in a car accident following a police chase.
One of the firemen, a square-framed Yorkshireman who had been directing the teams trying to cut away the wreckage, walked past. The two black bands on his yellow helmet told Hunter that he was a Crew Manager, while the name on his tunic said Fitton.
‘Any developments?’ Hunter asked.
Fitton stopped and looked at him suspiciously. ‘And who are you, lad?’
‘Police.’ It was not the time for detailed explanations.
‘Aye, well. It’s not good.’ Fitton went back on his way. Hunter nodded. He already knew the reality of the situation; the pace of activity around the two cars had slowed noticeably in the last twenty minutes. This was no longer a rescue operation. He was still watching the retreating figure of the Crew Manager when there was the crunch of footsteps on his blindside.
‘What have we got?’
Recognizing the voice – a perfect mixture of Harrow, St Andrews University and the Guards – Hunter threw back his shoulders and stood to attention. ‘Sir!’
Stepping into his line of vision, Colonel Trevor Naylor said gruffly, ‘No need for any of that here, Dan. We’re in mufti, remember?’ He pointed towards the growing group of TV crews who had set up camp behind the police tape. ‘We don’t want that lot getting wind of our presence.’
‘No.’
‘There’s more than enough for the media to wet their pants about already; it’s rumoured that a fortune in diamonds was stolen at the airport. We’re talking tens, if not hundreds, of millions.’
Hunter let out a low whistle.
‘Diamonds really are a crook’s best friend, eh? Portable, basically untraceable and hugely valuable; acceptable currency anywhere in the world. Who needs Bitcoin?’
Not really sure what his boss was getting at, Hunter stared at his shoes.
‘If they find out that there’s a connection to Andy Carson as well,’ Naylor continued, ‘they’ll go crazy. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel quite ready for my close-up.’ For a man pulled from his bed to make a mad dash down the M1, he looked remarkably composed. He’d even taken time for a shave, with his pencil-thin moustache looking like it had been carefully groomed. Dressed in a Barbour jacket and a tweed flat cap, all that was missing was the open Purdy resting in the crook of his arm and the Retriever at his feet. All in all, it wasn’t really much of an E16 look.
It occurred to Hunter that this was probably the first time he had ever seen his CO out of uniform. Together, they watched as a body was carefully brought out of the back of the Astra and placed on a gurney.
‘So here we are, out in the real world, God help us. What have you found out?’
Hunter began reeling off what he had gleaned while his boss had been speeding down the motorway, trying to pad it out with a mixture of backstory and supposition in the hope of making it sound more substantial than it actually was. ‘Adrian Colinson was driving the Range Rover. The irony of it was, I think they were in the clear but it looks like he might have taken a wrong turning.’ He pointed in the direction the SUV had been travelling. ‘This road would have taken them back to the airport.’
‘That’s what happens when you rely on bloody satnav,’ Naylor muttered. ‘People can’t do anything for themselves any more.’
‘Anyway, forensics estimate he was doing a hundred and twenty when he took out the Astra and hit the pillar.’
‘Who was in the Astra?’
‘Four teenagers, apparently. They were all dead when I got here.’ Hunter felt a wave of cold disinterest pass over him. ‘They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not relevant to us.’
‘No, suppose not. So what about the Range Rover?’
‘Again, four occupants. Colinson is dead, along with t
he security guard who was couriering the diamonds. Carson, we think, and a fourth man were able to get away – with the stones.’
Naylor looked around at the impressive collection of police vehicles which had congregated around the scene, while gesturing at the two helicopters circling overhead. ‘How is that possible?’
Hunter just shrugged.
‘Any ideas on the identity of the fourth man?’
‘My guess is that it’s Ryan Fortune.’
Naylor grimaced as he played with his moustache. ‘Really?’
‘I’ve had plenty of time to stand here and think about it. Fortune is a known associate of both Carson and Colinson. He certainly has the skills – and the balls – to try and pull off a job like this. And he certainly has previous.’
Naylor nodded. He didn’t need reminding of Ryan Fortune’s sheet; it was longer than a politician’s nose. ‘Didn’t you put him away that last time?’
‘That last time’ was the robbery of six million pounds of banknotes, fresh from the printer in Malta. Only about half of the cash was ever recovered.
‘Yes,’ said Hunter. ‘He was supposed to do eight years. It was reduced to five and half on appeal. He got out eighteen months ago on parole.’
Naylor shook his head sadly. ‘You’ve got to love our judicial system.’
‘The crooks certainly do. Fortune is a hard bastard. He skipped through multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as if it was some kind of holiday. He’s the sort of guy I rather wish was on our side, to be honest.’
Naylor was clearly not impressed by the sentiment. ‘He’s not though, is he?’
‘No, not by a long chalk. When he was on active, I’m sure he did a lot worse than Andy Carson; he didn’t do it on bloody video, though. He’s nobody’s fool.’
‘So he was the brains behind this diamond job?’
‘Maybe the connection between the brains and the brawn. Fortune knew he needed a three-man crew for tonight, so I think he and Colinson went and sprung Carson. They must have been under a bit of time pressure, otherwise they would have surely tried to find someone less high-profile. Fortune knew I would be on the case faster than a rat up a drainpipe, so he tried to scare me off. He only needs the distraction of Mel and the kids for a couple of days and then he’s gone.’