by James Craig
Carlyle squeezed the juice bottle tightly, saying nothing. The room was hot and stuffy, but now was not the time to get up and try to open a window. In the breast pocket of his jacket, his phone started vibrating. That would be Dominic, but now was not the time to answer it. In fact, now was not the time to do anything but sit very still and listen.
‘Someone tried to run her over last night,’ Brown continued.
‘So?’
‘So,’ Chan replied, trying and failing to keep a grin from his face, ‘she says that it was you.’
TWENTY-FOUR
After a further twenty minutes, Chan and Brown departed. Carlyle had explained that firstly, he didn’t know how to drive, and secondly his wife could provide him with an alibi for the time when Sandra Groves was suffering a vehicular assault. The pair didn’t seem particularly concerned by what he had to say one way or another and, after mumbling the usual stuff about being back after making further enquiries, they left him sitting alone in the conference room, wondering what to do next.
The first thing he did was check his voicemail. As expected, it was Dominic Silver: John, it’s me. I thought you were definitely going to pick up? Anyway, don’t call me back. I’m busy this afternoon. I’ll try you again tonight.
It took Carlyle a moment to remember what he had called Dominic about in the first place, even though it was barely an hour ago. When he remembered, it didn’t seem so much of a priority any more. Standing up, he dropped his empty juice bottle into a bin in one corner of the room. Then he unfolded the newspaper and laid it out on the table. Reading the full headline, he grimaced:
TELEVISION PRESENTER FOUND DEAD AT HER FLAT
With a sick feeling in his stomach, he read on:
Leading London television presenter Rosanna Snowdon was found dead at her flat in Fulham early this morning. She had fallen down some stairs and it is believed she suffered a broken neck, as well as arm and head injuries. The police have declined to comment, but at this stage, sources suggest that foul play has not been ruled out.
Under a picture of Reith Mansions, the block where Rosanna had lived, the rest of the article consisted of filler about her career-history and her personal life. Thinking back to their meeting, Carlyle reread the article. If she fell down the stairs, maybe it was an accident. But if the police hadn’t ruled out something more sinister then they must have some serious doubts.
There was no reference in the paper to the stalker that Rosanna had been worried about. Carlyle tried and failed to recall the guy’s name. Perhaps he was involved? Refolding the paper, he dropped it back on the table.
Should he have taken her concerns more seriously?
Could he have stopped this?
As usual, there were lots of questions and no answers.
‘John,’ he whispered to himself as he left the room, ‘this is really not looking like it’s going to be a great day.’
Under the circumstances, Carlyle decided that it would be sensible to make himself scarce, for a while at least. That meant switching off his work mobile and getting out of the station for the rest of the afternoon. Deciding to head for the one place where he knew that he wouldn’t be disturbed, he took the keys to the Mills flat from his desk and headed for the street. Once outside, he walked slowly up through Covent Garden to Ridgemount Mansions, taking care to avoid any more arguments with bus drivers, protestors or anyone else on his way there.
Stepping inside, however, he realised that coming back to the flat had been a bad idea. The place had not been aired for a fortnight. The heat was oppressive and the atmosphere was rank. Closing the front door behind him, Carlyle stepped quickly down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Glancing round the room, he saw that nothing had been touched since the original investigation. A chair lay overturned beside the kitchen table and Agatha Mills’s dried blood was still caked on the floor. Carlyle wondered how long the place would stay like this. It could take months, if not years due to legal reasons for the flat to get sold and have someone else move in. It struck him that this place would be great for Helen and Alice and himself, but it was way out of their league — probably about a million quid out of their league. He wondered who actually owned it now — whether the Millses had left it to anyone in their wills, or whether it would just revert to the Government, to help pay down the National Debt. God knows, the public finances needed all the help they could get.
Moving over to the kitchen window, he flicked open the latch and stepped out on to the same fire escape where he had found Sylvester Bassett, the pathologist, having a smoke on the morning after Agatha Mills’s death. Sitting on the small landing just below the windowsill, Carlyle let his head rest against the metal handrail of the fire escape and closed his eyes. In the cool silence of the stairwell, he spent a minute or so running through the day’s events in his head. Reaching no particular conclusions, he dug into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a list of the Chilean guests who had attended the Mayor’s reception at City Hall, a week earlier.
The list had arrived, as promised, from the Ambassador’s office the day after the actual event. A couple of days after that, Carlyle had stuck it in his jacket pocket and basically forgotten about it. Now, for want of anything better to do, he began scanning the rows of names and organisations, none of which meant anything to him. After a short while, his eyes glazed over. Putting the list back in his pocket, he just sat there, staring into the darkened windows of the empty flats opposite.
After a while, his thoughts turned to Rosanna Snowdon. She had asked for his help: had he let her down? He really had no idea. Had he got her killed? Surely not. The bastard who killed her was the bastard who killed her. He had long ago realised that he was not the kind of guy who tried on other people’s guilt for size.
He was spared any extended reflection by the phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. He frowned, convinced that he had switched it off, before realising that the one ringing was his private phone. Muttering to himself, he checked the incoming number — Dominic Silver.
‘Hello?’ he barked.
‘So you do actually know how to answer your phone,’ Dominic chuckled.
‘I thought you were supposed to be busy,’ Carlyle said, remembering the man’s last message.
‘I was… I am, but you sounded harassed.’
‘I am.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Dominic, exuding unreasonable reasonableness. ‘So how can I help?’
Carlyle took a moment to remember the problem in question. ‘Michael Hagger.’
‘Yes,’ Dominic said breezily, ‘what about him?’
‘He came to see me.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Dominic’s tone remained determinedly cheery, but Carlyle could now detect an underlying wariness. ‘Did he bring the boy?’
‘No, but he said that Jake was okay.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘Hagger also said that he would be returning him soon.’
Dominic said nothing to that.
‘And he also said,’ Carlyle continued, ‘that I was to tell you to back off.’
Dominic laughed. ‘And what did you say?’
‘What could I say?’ Carlyle shot back, with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘I didn’t have a bloody clue what he was talking about.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘How should I know?’ Carlyle snapped.
‘You let him go?’
‘Dominic, what was I supposed to do? We don’t know where the kid is or even why he’s being held,’ Carlyle pointed out, glossing over the fact that Hagger could have easily decked him if he had been silly enough to try and arrest him.
‘Ever the pragmatist,’ Silver joked. ‘Let’s hope that no one finds out how you let London’s Most Wanted walk away from you.’
‘Hardly,’ Carlyle muttered.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘No, but you can see how it could look.’
Carlyle f
elt a stab of anger. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, no,’ Dominic said quickly. ‘Of course not.’
Carlyle grunted.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dominic continued. ‘All I’m suggesting is, don’t go round telling anyone.’
‘As if.’
‘Good.’
‘So,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what is going on here?’ There was a pause and the inspector could almost hear the hum of his mate’s brain as he edited the information that he was about to share.
Finally, Dominic spoke. ‘As you know, Hagger sometimes worked for Jerome Sullivan.’
‘Who?’
‘You know — the bloke on that video I showed you; the genius who shot himself and fell off the roof of his own building. The clip on the mobile phone where you spotted Hagger in the background?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle, not liking where this was going.
‘Well, it seems that Hagger and Jerome’s other idiot mate, Eric Christian, have been trying to keep the show on the road since the demise of their glorious leader. But they’re clearly not up to it. One of my… associates has asked me to sort it out.’
‘ Asked you?’
‘Instructed me.’
Carlyle sighed. Normally, he didn’t like knowing too much about the mechanics of Dominic Silver’s profession, but here he needed to know what he was getting wrapped up in. ‘I didn’t think you did that sort of thing,’ he remarked.
‘I don’t,’ Dominic said. ‘All I’m trying to do is facilitate a satisfactory resolution for the mess.’
‘Including Jake?’
‘Including Jake.’
Carlyle shifted uneasily on his perch. ‘Will it involve more people falling off buildings?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ was the best Dominic could manage.
‘So where does the kid fit into all of this?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Hagger put him up as collateral for a debt owed by Jerome.’
‘Collateral?’ Carlyle snorted. ‘How much can the boy be worth?’
There was another pause. ‘Quite a bit, if you know the wrong sort of people.’
Carlyle felt his stomach turn. ‘How much?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who holds the debt?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Speculate.’
‘No, I won’t. Not at this stage.’
‘How long have we got?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What happens if Hagger doesn’t come up with the money?’
‘The kid gets auctioned off,’ said Dominic matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious.
‘C’mon,’ Carlyle whined, ‘don’t give me this bollocks.’
‘I’m not giving you any bollocks,’ Dominic retorted. ‘I’m just telling you how it is. Don’t shoot the fucking messenger. I’m only trying to help you here.’
‘Jesus,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘What are you doing, getting involved in this type of shit?’
‘I’m trying to sort it out,’ Dominic said testily.
Carlyle coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it out over the side of the fire escape and into the alley below. His mouth was dry and he felt terrible. What type of degenerate scumbag would sell their own kid? Never mind Dominic: how did he manage to get involved in these type of situations?
‘John, I’ve got to go…’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle pulled himself together. ‘All I want is the boy. Whatever you need to do to get him back, I will do my best to make sure that any official fallout gets dealt with.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Dominic said.
‘Just fucking get him back,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Unhurt and unmolested.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing happens to Jake, even if I have to pay for him out of my own pocket.’
‘You’d better.’
‘What sort of a man do you think I am?’
You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Carlyle thought. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Can’t, because I have no idea. Look, just sit tight — this thing will get resolved soon.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle said resentfully.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch. I’ll make sure you get the tip-off, rather than that idiot Cutler.’
With that gentle reminder to Carlyle that he wasn’t the only policeman in town, the line went dead. The inspector put the phone back in his pocket and scratched his ear. Stepping back to the window, he tried to lift it open again, but it was stuck. Cursing, he gave the frame a push with both hands, but with no success. Peering inside, he could see that the latch must have re-engaged itself after he had stepped outside. His initial thought was to break the glass, then he realised he could just walk on down the fire escape and out on to the street. He thought about that for the moment. Even if the window had been locked when they found Agatha Mills — and he would have to check that with Bassett — someone could still have left the flat and exited the building this same way. Maybe they could have got in this way too. With the possibilities bouncing round in his brain, Carlyle carefully made his way down to the alley below.
Reaching the bottom of the fire escape, Carlyle opened a metal gate and stepped out into a short passageway filled with waste bins and bags of rubbish, which led out on to Great Russell Street. Noting the familiar stench of rotting food and urine, he lengthened his stride and held his breath. He was about ten feet from the street itself when a large black sack in front of him started moving. Assuming that it was disturbed by a rat, Carlyle kept moving. However, his further progress was impeded when the mound of rubbish stood up in front of him, yawned and let out an enormous belch. Unable to hold his breath any longer, Carlyle was forced to inhale an eye-watering mix of curry, eggs and Special Brew. Taking a step backwards, he watched the tramp shake himself fully awake. The guy was dressed for winter, with at least three layers of clothing under a heavy black woollen overcoat. He wore a pair of grey slacks that looked as if they had not been cleaned during this century, and some fairly expensive-looking but heavily worn tan shoes. A blue Chelsea beanie hat rounded off the ensemble nicely.
Belatedly realising that he was not home alone, the man looked Carlyle up and down. He spent a few moments trying to work out what to make of the policeman, his eyes widening all the while, as if he had never seen another human being before. Finally, his mouth opened. A couple of seconds later, some words crawled out.
‘Got any money?’
It look Carlyle another moment to realise who he had standing in front of him, larger than life and ten times as smelly. ‘Dog?’ he said, puzzled. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Walter Poonoosamy thought about that for a moment, as he looked around the alley. ‘Maybe I am,’ he sniffed.
Stepping away from the pile of rubbish from which he had emerged, Dog continued to block Carlyle’s exit from the alley. If anything, the smell was getting worse, and the inspector was keen to be getting on his way. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, with as much fake bonhomie as he could manage, ‘it’s good to see you are still with us. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you at the station some time soon.’
The tramp grunted and looked down at the mess from which he had emerged. Tentatively, he began poking at one of the bags with his foot, in case there was some tasty morsel that he had missed. Taking this as his cue to leave, Carlyle eased his way past, heading for the bustle and the glare of the street beyond.
‘Excuse us, please?’
No sooner had the inspector emerged on to the street, than a couple of Chinese tourists thrust a street map in his face and asked him very politely — and in the kind of perfect English that no one in England had used for as long as he could remember — for directions to the British Museum. Resisting the temptation to send them in totally the wrong direction, he pointed at the massive building just across the road and forced himself to smile. With a cheery ‘Thank you’, the pair st
epped off the pavement and almost walked straight into the path of an oversized tour bus. Once they had finally made it safely across the road, Carlyle watched them negotiate the pavement artists and the hot-dog sellers and safely reach the museum gates. Turning away, he decided to head for home.
He had barely gone twenty yards, however, when an idea popped into his head. Turning round, he retraced his steps back towards the alley. When he arrived, the tramp was still there, sitting serenely on a mound of rubbish sacks, as if surveying his kingdom. In his hand was an anonymous-looking bottle from which he carefully sipped a brownish liquid.
The tramp gave no indication of noticing the policeman’s return. Trying once again to ignore the smell, Carlyle stepped towards him. ‘Dog,’ he asked, when he thought he might finally have gained the tramp’s attention, ‘do you come here often?’
Walter didn’t even look up, but took his lips far enough from the bottle to mumble, ‘Sometimes.’
‘At night?’
Nodding, Dog stuck his lips back on the bottle and sucked out the remaining dregs.
‘Were you here a couple of weeks ago?’ Carlyle persisted.
Dog scratched himself behind his left ear, like a man trying to come to terms with the concept of time. Finding it too much though, he gave Carlyle a look of infinite weariness. ‘Dunno.’
‘The last few times you were here,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you see anyone else?’
Dog did another excellent impersonation of a man thinking for a long time. ‘No,’ he said finally.
Damn! Carlyle thought. ‘No one?’
Another pause.
‘Just the man with the beard.’
‘The man with the beard?’
Dog tossed the bottle over his shoulder and stood up. He looked at Carlyle. ‘You don’t have to repeat everything I say,’ he grumbled. Reaching into an inside pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out what looked like a slice of beef. Tilting his head back, he dropped the morsel into his mouth. Resisting the urge to gag, Carlyle waited for the man to chew his food, swallow and then let out a satisfied burp. He willed himself to show some patience. After all, he had caught Dog on one of his more lucid days — maybe coming back from the dead had helped sharpen up his thought processes — and knew that he should now be prepared to wait it out.
