All Kinds of Dead

by James Craig

  Biting his lip, Hunter struggled to pull up an earlier image of his family, one from a time when they were all together, happy. Bowing his head, he crossed the road and started to walk down the street.

  Sitting in the Arcade Café, Joseph Isaacs closed his book, placing it on the bench in front of him as he watched Hunter consult his phone. Even at this distance, he could see that the man was in some distress. That was understandable, was it not? The security consultant was not a family man himself but that did not mean he was incapable of empathy. The day’s trauma must be placing a crushing weight on Captain Hunter’s frame.

  Isaacs half-expected the man to step off the far pavement and jump in front of the next taxi barrelling down the street. Instead, after an extended period of deliberation, he began walking away from the police station in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.

  Giving him a ten-yard start, Isaacs slipped from his seat, heading for the door.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he wheeled around to face a pretty blonde woman who, on first glance, could have been anywhere in age between twenty-two and thirty-five. Smiling, she picked up the discarded paperback and offered it to him. ‘You left your book.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he replied, trying not to be rude. ‘I’m finished with it. Feel free to take it.’ He hoped that she wasn’t one of those wretched creatures who only read e-books. ‘I like to think of it as recycling.’

  Turning the paperback in her hand, the woman looked at the cover doubtfully. ‘Heart of Darkness? What’s it about?’

  Isaacs glanced down the street. Hunter was still in sight. The man didn’t seem to be in a major hurry to get anywhere. Perhaps he had no immediate destination in mind. In his dazed state, that wouldn’t be such a surprise. He smiled at the girl. ‘Where to begin?’

  The woman looked hesitant as she read the blurb on the back cover. It reminded Isaacs of a child being offered a new flavour of ice cream. Would it be better than chocolate? Grabbing the handle, he pulled open the door.

  ‘Is it any good?’ she asked, still unable to make up her mind unaided.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Isaacs replied, talking over his shoulder as he headed into the street. ‘It’s an acknowledged classic. Definitely worth the read.’

  Perched on his chair, Lucio Spargo studiously ignored the FitzGibbon’s bag sitting on his desk and glared at the unwelcome visitor. ‘I know you,’ he hissed. ‘You were at the Molby-Nicol Gallery.’ Lifting an arm, he clicked his fingers as if summoning a waiter. ‘The guy who runs it.’ There was more clicking as he tried to remember. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Silver.’ Standing under a large framed black and white print of a seascape hanging on the far wall, Peter Montrose lifted his handcuffs to his face and scratched his nose. The serene look on the heavy’s face suggested that this wasn’t the first time he had ever been arrested. He certainly didn’t seem fazed by the experience. ‘Dominic Silver.’

  ‘That’s right – Silver. Smug bastard. Thinks he knows everything about everything.’

  The inspector stifled a grin.

  ‘Thinks he can pretend his previous career never existed,’ Spargo spat out. ‘Everyone’s bent and everyone tries to pretend that they’re not. Anyway, how do you know him?’

  ‘I know a lot of people,’ Carlyle observed airily. ‘It’s part of my job, after all.’

  Spargo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you in his pocket? Is he paying you to do this? I should have expected something like this from the little shit.’

  ‘Harder than putting the frighteners on some old granny, eh?”

  Spargo ignored the reference to Sally-Anne Mason. ‘How much is he paying you?’ he demanded.

  ‘He isn’t paying me anything. I don’t work for Dom—Mr Silver.’

  ‘Crap,’ snorted Montrose.

  ‘Corruption is a very serious accusation,’ Carlyle said stiffly.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Spargo gave him a sickly smile. ‘We won’t be making a formal complaint.’

  ‘But,’ Montrose added, taking a step towards Carlyle, ‘when I get out . . .’

  Waving away the threat, the inspector called in the two uniforms who were standing in the hall and told them to take the heavy to the van that was parked outside.

  Spargo waited until they were alone. ‘How much is Silver paying you?’ he asked again. ‘I can pay more, much more. Put you on a retainer, as well. After all, in my business, there are always issues that need to be . . . managed.’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  Spargo looked at him with contempt. ‘I have to say that, in my experience, it invariably does.’

  ‘Speaking of Noah Templeton . . .’

  A look of disgust crept across Spargo’s face. ‘That little shit was in on this, was he?’

  ‘Leave him out of it,’ Carlyle said firmly. ‘Noah’s just a boy, who you’ve exploited. He’s made a big mistake but there’s no reason why he can’t have a second chance.’ He was feeling a little warmer towards Templeton now that the kid had finally delivered Spargo. In the event, he had missed Carlyle’s deadline by the best part of two hours. The inspector had just about convinced himself that Noah was going to bottle it when the text finally arrived:

  Job done.

  Better late than never.

  ‘If you don’t take my offer, you’re the one making the mistake,’ Spargo snapped.

  ‘Story of my life,’ Carlyle chuckled. Removing a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, he dangled them from the index finger of his right hand.

  ‘Bastard!’ Spargo slammed a palm on the desk.

  ‘Look,’ said Carlyle evenly. ‘We can do this the hard way, or the easy way, it’s up to you. You can walk out of here under your own steam, without these on, after you’ve spoken to your lawyer, and it all gets done by the book.’

  ‘By the book. Ha!’

  ‘In this case,’ Carlyle said slowly, ‘by the book means that I write up my report and walk away, job done. You take your chances with the CPS and – if your lawyer kicks up enough of a fuss – it might not even come to court. Just another chapter in the colourful history of Lucio Spargo – adding to the legend, if you like.’ Spargo started to say something, but Carlyle lifted a hand to cut him off. ‘Even if you walk though, I want you to lay off Dominic Silver. If I hear that Molby-Nicol has got any problems, I will really come after you.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ Spargo whined. ‘It’s only a bloody gallery. I’m trying to create something special here; a quality development. It’s not as if he can’t go and set up round the corner.’

  ‘Dom wants to stay,’ said Carlyle. ‘It’s his call.’

  ‘And if I don’t play ball?’

  Carlyle affected the air of a man who didn’t much care one way or the other. ‘In that case, you can stew in the cells overnight, without access to your brief. Meanwhile, we will ring round every news desk in town, telling them that you have been arrested for possession with intent to supply. The main investors in your Cork Street project will all get a personal visit from me and I would be very surprised if at least some of them are not taken in for questioning.’

  Spargo’s face hardened. ‘I’d like to see you try that.’

  ‘In that case,’ Carlyle gave the handcuffs another jiggle, ‘feel free to call my bluff.’

  Spargo lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if hoping that some divine intervention might rid him of this troublesome cop. None was forthcoming. Finally, he acknowledged the illegal drugs sitting on his desk. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No one’s interested in the details,’ Carlyle sighed. He began reciting the words he knew better than the Lord’s Prayer. ‘You have the right to remain silent. However . . .’

  ‘Spare me,’ Spargo interrupted. ‘I know the details.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Now, it’s decision time. Which way do you want to do this?’

  Gritting his teeth, Spargo reached f
or the phone sitting on his desk. ‘Okay, okay. You win. Let’s get this pantomime over with. I’ll make the call to the lawyer and then we can go.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  After carefully composing an arrest report which was as short as it was anodyne, Carlyle booked the contents of the FitzGibbon’s bag into the Evidence Room at Charing Cross before calling it a day. Leaving Lucio Spargo deep in conversation with his lawyer in one of the station’s basement interview rooms, he headed out into the Covent Garden night.

  Sniffing the polluted air, the inspector realized that he had a taste for some whiskey. He also had jobs to do. Resisting the temptation to pop into The Globe for a quick Jameson’s or two, he headed straight back to Winter Garden House.

  Arriving home, he discovered that Helen had not yet returned from work. Approaching the living room, he hovered in the doorway. Sprawled across the sofa, mobile phone clamped to her ear, Alice remained oblivious to his arrival. The TV was on, tuned to one of the numerous music channels kindly piped into the living room by their cable provider.

  ‘I can’t do that!’ Alice exclaimed, over the sound of what the inspector vaguely recognized as a Nirvana song. ‘Edward would have a fit!’ Belatedly sensing her father’s presence, a look of mild annoyance crossed her face. Quickly sitting upright, she added: ‘Look, I’ve gotta go. We can sort it out later. Yes. Sure. Bye!’ Ending the call, she launched a professional scowl at her father. ‘How long have you been standing there, spying on me?’

  Nice to see you too, Carlyle thought wearily. ‘I wasn’t spying on you.’ Grabbing the remote, he muted Kurt Cobain. ‘Boy trouble?’

  ‘No.’ As she frowned, Alice’s brows knitted together in a way that made her look so perfectly like her mother that Carlyle almost gasped. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just thought,’ Carlyle tossed the remote on to the sofa, ‘that with you having to play the imaginary boyfriend card, that you were having to fob someone off again.’ He was still struggling to come to terms with the idea of boyfriends, whether real or imaginary; at the current rate of progress, he expected to have gotten over his reservations by the time Alice was about thirty-five.

  Or maybe forty.

  Dodging his attempt to plant a kiss on her forehead, she said, ‘Mum told you about that, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Stepping away from her personal space, he bowed his head, relieved that she hadn’t gone ballistic about the two of them gossiping behind her back.

  ‘In fact, that worked quite well. But this one is a real Edward.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He’s the brother of Katarina.’

  Katarina. The name vaguely rang a bell. After a couple of moments’ reflection, he recalled Helen telling him about a Swedish girl who had arrived in Alice’s class at the beginning of the current school year. ‘Older or younger?’

  ‘Older, only by a year though.’

  That was something, Carlyle thought. The last thing they needed right now was Alice falling for some predatory twenty year old.

  ‘He’s really cute. Got a nice bum.’

  That’s way too much information. Carlyle tried to hide his embarrassment behind a feeble cough.

  ‘We started officially going out together yesterday.’

  Yesterday? ‘What happened to . . .’ Carlyle couldn’t quite remember the name of the last one.

  ‘Oliver and I simply weren’t compatible,’ Alice announced. ‘We had a good talk about it and decided to call it a day.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s the mature thing to do, isn’t it?’ Picking up the remote, Alice unmuted the TV and the room was filled by the sound of a band he didn’t recognize. Their conversation about relationships was now officially over. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, her attention firmly fixed on the screen.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to cramp your style.’ Carlyle reversed towards the door. ‘I need to go back out.’

  Alice muttered her approval.

  ‘I’m off to see Grandpa.’

  When she looked up from the TV screen, he could see that the concern on his daughter’s face was genuine. ‘How’s he doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, I think. Under the circumstances. He has a nurse coming in every few days to check if he needs anything, and he has a hotline to call if there is a problem.’

  ‘How long do you think he’ll be able to keep living on his own?’ Alice wanted to know.

  ‘Dunno.’ Carlyle knew that Alexander would fight as long as possible to keep his independence. Once he had to leave the flat, the Doomsday Clock would start ticking. He dreaded the day he would have to put his father into care. That really would be the beginning of the end.

  ‘Give him our love.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Me and Mum will be over to see him at the weekend. Ask him if he wants us to bring anything when we come.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Retreating into the kitchen, Carlyle went through the now familiar routine of taking down Helen’s luxury muesli from the cupboard. Removing the bag of cereal from the box, he closed his hand round the small packet, about half the size of a paperback book, that had been stored in the bottom. Before returning what he had come to think of as Spargo’s drugs to Noah Templeton, the inspector had removed maybe 30 per cent of the pills from the original package. With the benefit of hindsight, it had been a canny move, getting Dom to acquire the drugs. The way things were turning out, he would be able to deal with two problems at once – both Spargo and his father.

  The inspector weighed the packet in his hand. It was worth the equivalent of a month’s salary, maybe more. He guessed he had kept back enough of the pills to keep his father in pain relief for six weeks or so. That would leave Dom plenty of time to source whatever additional supplies that might be required thereafter.

  Placing the now drug-free muesli back in the cupboard, he rooted out a small Waterstones plastic bag from the ever-expanding collection that Helen stored under the sink. Putting the pills inside, he took his leave of Alice and headed off to Fulham.

  Letting himself into the flat, Carlyle found his father sitting in the kitchen. In contrast to the previous time, Alexander was looking remarkably chipper. Bathed and shaved, and wearing a new cardigan, bought for him by Helen, over a check shirt left open at the neck, he appeared relaxed, if a little frail. His eyes were clear and some of the colour had returned to his cheeks. The empty plate on the table suggested that some of his appetite had returned as well. In his hands he grasped a faded Fulham mug, three-quarters full of milky tea.

  Alexander watched his son place the small package in front of him. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘The best pain relief money can buy,’ Carlyle said cheerily. ‘A little something for when you need it. Put it somewhere safe and make sure that the nurse doesn’t see it when she comes in.’

  The old man reverted to grumbling mode. ‘It’s a bit late in the day for me to be getting into the drugs business.’

  ‘It’s a bit late in the day for both of us,’ Carlyle said, more than a little miffed at his father’s lack of enthusiasm. After all the risks he’d taken, he would have appreciated rather more gratitude from his old man.

  ‘I’ve got my pills,’ Alexander pointed out. ‘And when I go into the hospital, they’ll give me a drip.’

  ‘This is about keeping you up and about for as long as possible.’ Carlyle ran through Dom’s advice on how to take the tablets. ‘It’s to keep the pain manageable and give you some kind of quality of life.’

  ‘Quality of life,’ the old fella scoffed. ‘They never had that in my day.’

  ‘It still is your day – just about.’

  ‘Face facts, son. I’m done.’

  ‘What’ll we do, then?’ Carlyle gestured in the direction of the Fulham Road. ‘Head out and I’ll nudge you under a bus?’

  ‘Dinnae be daft,’ Alexander scolded.

  Carlyle tried a change of tack. ‘This is the best stuff.’

 
‘Why don’t they give it to me at the hospital, then?’

  ‘They have to play by the rules.’

  Alexander looked at his son for what seemed like the longest moment. ‘That was always your problem – you always thought the rules were for other people.’

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ Carlyle responded, bridling at his father’s comment. ‘I spend my whole life playing by the bloody rules.’

  ‘Aye.’ Alexander gestured towards the bag with his chin. ‘Like right now.’

  Carlyle had to resist the temptation to grab the bag and smack his old man over the head with it. ‘Look,’ he spluttered, failing to hide his exasperation, ‘I realize that we find ourselves in an interesting situation, but can we save the moral philosophy debate for some other time? All you need to do is keep this stuff somewhere safe and sound. If the medication you do get from the hospital isn’t working, try a little.’

  ‘We’ll see, we’ll see.’ The old man eyed the illegal drugs suspiciously.

  ‘And if these don’t work, I’m sure we can try something else.’

  ‘Like what? Horse tranquillisers?’

  ‘Now there’s a thought.’

  ‘You’re gonna turn me into a right old junkie at this rate,’ Alexander complained.

  ‘Dad! You’re gonna be dead! What does it matter?’

  For several moments, they glared sullenly at each other.

  It’s just like the old days, Carlyle thought. He recalled the night – more than half a lifetime ago – when he had come home and announced he was joining the police. The news had gone down like a lead balloon. Even now, he could hear his mother scolding his father that he should ‘do something about it’ before stalking off to bed to leave them to have a man-to-man talk.

  The same looks exchanged over the same table.

  ‘What does it matter?’ he repeated. Scooping up the packet, the inspector opened a succession of cupboards before dropping it in a large saucepan and covering it with the lid. ‘Don’t forget it’s there. And like I said, don’t go showing it to anyone. This is strictly between us.’