Then We Die ic-5

by James Craig

  ‘Oh,’ Simpson replied, clearly not that interested. ‘What’s the story?’ Pulling a couple of small glasses from a drawer in her desk, she carefully poured a double measure into each of them.

  ‘He was called Julius Jubelitski. We think he was killed in December 1940.’ Carlyle filled her in on the remaining historical details.

  Simpson played with her glass while he was speaking, but didn’t yet take a sip. Once he’d finished, she said: ‘Good. It sounds like Roche can put that one to bed. How’s she getting along, by the way?’

  ‘Fine.’ Carlyle was beginning to feel uncomfortable, since Simpson usually got straight to the point. Whisky and small talk were rather out of character — at least where their relationship was concerned.

  She finally took a small sip and gestured for him to do the same.

  Carlyle let a tiny amount of the Glenfiddich coat his tongue, and he smiled appreciatively. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Your health,’ said Simpson quietly, knocking back the rest of hers in one gulp.

  Jesus, thought Carlyle, what next? Dancing on the table? He took another small sip and placed his glass on the floor beside him.

  Simpson noticed the gesture and put her own glass to one side. ‘Roche has a good reputation,’ she said finally, ‘and I think she will be good for you. Leyton are happy to let her stay on indefinitely, so I’ve agreed that’s what she’ll do.’

  Carlyle wasn’t sure what to make of that. Personally he thought that the jury would still be out on Sergeant Roche for a while. And he was put out that Simpson should agree to extend the officer’s time at Charing Cross without consulting him first. But he could also see that this was not the time nor the place for nit-picking. He just had to go with the flow. ‘Okay.’

  She gave him a probing look. ‘Make the most of her, John. Good coppers are few and far between, as we both know.’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘And maybe she can help keep you out of trouble for a while?’

  He pretended to look hurt. ‘Me? I’m never in trouble.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ she chided. ‘But there is some good news on that front, too. The IPCC investigation into the death of Charlotte Gondomar has been concluded. The report doesn’t make great reading, but I’ve seen plenty worse. It seems that there may have to be some procedural changes at Charing Cross, but nothing that directly relates to you.’

  That’s because I did nothing wrong, Carlyle thought irritably. But he was happy nevertheless to be able to forget about the Independent Police Complaints Commission. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s one less thing to worry about.’

  ‘Quite,’ Simpson replied. ‘And how are things with the Joe situation?’

  ‘I was hoping that you might be able to tell me,’ Carlyle said. ‘We know that a Mossad hit squad has been let loose in London. Meanwhile, Counter Terrorism Command and MI6 are fighting over who should be leading the investigation. I have to speak to the CTC guy, but it doesn’t look like we’re making much progress.’

  Simpson refilled her glass with a smaller measure of Glenfiddich. She gestured with the bottle to Carlyle, who shook his head. Pushing it to one side again, she leaned forward in her chair. ‘Keep at it, John, I know you won’t give up on that one.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘The family know that you will look out for their interests.’

  ‘The family?’ Carlyle stared at her blankly. ‘The family hate me. Anita wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. And you were there yourself when one of her brothers thumped me at the hospital.’

  ‘I know,’ Simpson sighed, ‘but you have to understand the truly terrible situation they are in right now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And whatever else they might feel, they know that you won’t let Joe get forgotten amongst all of this.’

  ‘No pressure then,’ Carlyle smiled ruefully. Reaching down, he retrieved his glass and took a decent swallow. Feeling emboldened, he looked at Simpson. ‘And what about you?’ he asked, settling back into his chair.

  Simpson clasped her hands together and glanced down at the desk. ‘My situation’s not great, it’s true,’ she said, ‘but it’s nowhere near as difficult as Anita Szyszkowski’s. Joshua and I didn’t have any kids, for a start. I think that’s the most important thing. And he had been ill for quite some while, so I had plenty of time to prepare for what was coming.’

  ‘Does that make it easier?’ Carlyle emptied his glass and pushed it onto the desk. Simpson refilled it almost to the brim. Then she added another dash to her own glass. Christ, he thought, they’re going to have to carry us both out of here.

  ‘I think that maybe it does,’ she said, taking another mouthful of whisky. ‘I was able to come to terms with things, and sort out all the practicalities.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle slurped down some more Glenfiddich. The way this conversation was going, all he could do was to try and get pissed as quickly as possible.

  Simpson let out a grim laugh. ‘And anyway, it wasn’t like I had seen a lot of him over the last couple of years, given that he was in prison.’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle was trying to stick his head as far into his glass as possible.

  ‘The stupid bugger. I still don’t understand how he could have done that to me.’

  ‘When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Been and gone.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, thank God. It was a major relief to get that over with.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  She tapped her desk and stifled a hiccup. ‘His ashes are in the drawer here.’

  ‘O-kay.’ Carlyle nodded, as if bringing your husband’s ashes to work with you was the obvious thing to do.

  ‘Why I wanted to speak to you tonight. .’ Simpson deposited her glass on the desk and sat back in her chair. ‘I wanted you to hear it directly from me. I’ve decided to quit.’

  ‘What?’ Carlyle reached over and grabbed the bottle, pouring himself another healthy measure. That’s it, he said to himself. No more after this one. He could feel the effects of the alcohol now; if not exactly drunk, he was well under the influence. Looking at Simpson, he spoke slowly, being careful not to slur his words. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ she replied, breaking off eye-contact.

  ‘So why pack it in?’

  ‘It just feels like the right thing to do.’

  Carlyle watched her take another gulp of scotch. Either Simpson could hold her booze far better than him, or she was now three sheets to the wind.

  Staring into her glass, she went on: ‘I just want to draw a line under things. Ever since Joshua’s. . fall from grace, things haven’t been too great for me here. Career-wise, it’s over for me. I’ll never get further than Commander.’ Her voice started to waver and for a horrible moment Carlyle thought that she might start to cry. But she pulled herself together and eyed him with something approaching defiance. ‘I’m just an embarrassment — “the fraudster’s wife” — and the sooner I retire the better, as far as everyone’s concerned.’

  Bringing his glass to his lips, Carlyle exclaimed, ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘Well, thank you, John,’ she sniffed. ‘That’s a very helpful insight.’

  Carlyle put his glass on the desk-top. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Well. .’ Simpson looked rather put out at the question.

  ‘Whatever age you are,’ Carlyle continued, ‘you’re certainly younger than me.’

  Simpson nodded.

  ‘And you’re a copper, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That’s who you are,’ he pressed on, fuelled by the drink, ‘and that’s what you do. That business with your husband wasn’t your fault, was it?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, eyes glazed and looking a little befuddled now.

  ‘And, anyway, it’s all in the past now. So why should anyone be pressuring you to retire?’

  ‘Come on,’ Simpson told him, �
��you know what it’s like here. No one comes out and says anything. But the way the Met feels is made clear.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carlyle pointed out, ‘so you’ll never make Commissioner, or even Deputy Commissioner, but so what? I’ll never make Commander. If I was interested in a career, my parents were right: I chose badly in becoming a policeman. I don’t have a career, I have a job. But it’s my job. I chose it. It puts bread on the table and, sometimes, I can go home and say “I actually did something good today”.’

  Taken aback, Simpson let out a girlish giggle. ‘In the words of Inspector John Carlyle,’ she slurred, ‘copper, philosopher and cynic, that’s “bollocks”.’

  ‘It’s not bollocks,’ Carlyle protested. ‘It’s my choice, simple as that. I choose to do the job, despite all the bullshit, because it is what I do.’ He beamed. ‘Same as you.’

  Simpson slumped back in her chair and studied him, unconvinced.

  ‘Look,’ Carlyle continued, ‘when your old man was rolling in it and you lived in that multi-million-pound place in Highgate, did you ever think of packing in the day job?’

  ‘No.’ Simpson shook her head so vigorously that he thought it might suddenly fall off. ‘I think Joshua would have liked me to, but he knew better than to push it. What else would I have done?’

  ‘So what’s changed? What will you do now?’

  As Simpson thought about this question, her head dropped onto her chest. Then she started hiccupping. Next, she’ll be puking in her lap, Carlyle thought. Standing up, he felt himself begin to sway slightly on his feet. Holding onto the edge of the desk for balance, he drained the last of his scotch. ‘Carole?’

  Simpson forced her head up and squinted at him. ‘I’m okay,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know you are,’ Carlyle said. ‘Now jump in a cab and go home. Get some rest. And, above all, don’t do anything rash. Think about what I’ve just said. Not everyone here wants you to go.’

  ‘Okay,’ Simpson whispered.

  ‘Good,’ said Carlyle, as he slithered towards the door. ‘We can talk again tomorrow.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Sitting in the Flat White cafe, Carlyle played with his phone. He was feeling annoyed that DI David Ronan hadn’t returned any of his calls. With no idea what Counter Terrorism Command were up to, he felt completely out of the loop and totally useless. After a few moments, he hit Roche’s number, but that call went straight to voicemail. Sighing, he hung up without leaving her a message. Looking across at Louisa Arbillot, he said, ‘He’s not coming, is he?’

  Arbillot gave him a pained look. ‘He promised me that he would.’

  ‘Mm.’ Carlyle was not in the mood to believe it. If he was not particularly surprised that Fadi Kashkesh had failed to appear at the appointed hour, he had not been expecting the man’s estranged wife to show up, either. He wanted to conduct a serious interview, not a marriage guidance session.

  Louisa saw the annoyance on his face. ‘Fadi is usually fairly reliable,’ she said unconvincingly.

  The Grace Jones poster was still on the wall. It was incredible to think that the singer was now well into her sixties. The original and the best, Carlyle thought. Lady Gaga, eat your heart out. He glanced at his watch. Fadi was now more than half an hour late. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have to go.’

  But Louisa ignored that statement. She was already struggling to her feet with a look on her face that contained hope and fear in equal measure. ‘He’s here!’

  Carlyle waited while a small, wiry type pushed his way through the throng of customers and pulled up a stool at their table. While Louisa made the introductions, Carlyle sized the man up. Fadi Kashkesh was twenty-eight years old but, dressed in a faded denim jacket and white T-shirt, he could have passed for ten years younger. The youthful look was helped by the fact that his hair was neatly trimmed and he was cleanshaven. The dark rings around his eyes and the hollow cheeks suggested a boy in need of some looking after by his mother. Maybe that was where Louisa had come in.

  Sitting there, his fists clenched tightly and a neutral expression on his face, it wasn’t clear whether Fadi was more suspicious of Carlyle or of his wife. While Louisa jumped up to get him an espresso, Carlyle showed him some ID and explained what he wanted. ‘What I need,’ he concluded, ‘are some leads.’

  Fadi nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Two members of Hamas have already been killed,’ Carlyle continued, willing himself to show a degree of patience, ‘and maybe that is the end of it. Maybe there will be no more.’

  Still the Palestinian looked at him blankly.

  ‘However, if there are still people here who are currently Mossad targets, I want to get to them first.’

  Louisa returned with the espresso and placed it in front of her husband. He downed it in one, the coffee seeming to confer on him the power of speech. ‘That is not something I would know anything about,’ he said quietly. ‘My life is very different now.’

  His wife gave him a sharp look, but he ignored her.

  ‘There can be no more bloodshed on our streets,’ Carlyle told him. ‘This city is not a war zone.’

  Fadi gazed into his empty cup. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘You can help me,’ Carlyle insisted.

  The man shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Inspector, but you are wrong.’

  Carlyle glanced at Louisa, whose face was now a picture of helplessness. Time for a change of tack, he thought. He stuck out a hand. ‘Show me your papers.’

  The two of them stared at him.

  ‘Your papers,’ Carlyle repeated.

  ‘But I told you,’ Louisa whined. ‘He is legal.’

  Carlyle looked at her with contempt. ‘I could spend a lot of time and effort making sure.’

  ‘I am not a part of any of this. . situation any more,’ Fadi said, his lower lip trembling slightly.

  ‘But you can help me,’ Carlyle said again. He had no idea whether that was correct or not, but then again, he didn’t have anything else to go on.

  Fadi glanced at his wife and again lowered his head. ‘Maybe I could talk to some people.’

  ‘Good. Do it.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Do it quickly.’

  Clearly nervous at the prospect of being left alone with his wife, Fadi jumped up. ‘Let me walk outside with you.’

  Carlyle watched Arbillot’s face crumple into a mess of hurt and resignation as they left.

  Outside, a chill wind swept along Berwick Street. While Fadi buttoned up his jacket against the cold, Carlyle pulled a business card out of his pocket. ‘Call me on this mobile number when you have something for me.’

  Fadi took the card. As the policeman walked away, he shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. Picking a large red apple from one of the fruit and veg stalls standing in the street, he paid the stallholder and took a bite. His first inclination was to run, but he knew that was not a sensible option. You have the right papers, he told himself. You have a right to be here. Standing on the kerbside, deep in thought, he finished off the apple.

  By the time he dropped the core in a waste-bin and began heading towards Oxford Street, he had something approaching a plan.

  Sheila Sekulic shifted uneasily on the bed. Her piles were playing up and the pink plastic bikini that she was wearing only added to her discomfort. She wondered how much longer she could bear to spend in this squalid room above a cut-price video store in Soho. For the millionth time she told herself that once she went home to Adelaide, that would be it: no more travelling. Europe was a dump and England was a total shithole; she wouldn’t be coming back. Tossing a copy of yesterday’s Daily Star newspaper onto the floor, she sat up and checked the clock sitting on the bedside table. The session was almost up. She glanced over at the shabby man who was still standing by the window. Her heart had sunk when he walked through the door, but he’d turned out to be the perfect punter — not really interested in her at all. All he seemed to want to do was stand by the window and take pictures of something out in the s
treet below. As far as she was concerned, he could do that all day, as long as he paid her. She coughed politely. ‘Your time’s almost up.’

  The man grunted and continued gazing out of the window.

  ‘It’ll be seventy-five,’ she said optimistically, ‘if you want to stay another half-hour.’

  Sid Lieberman watched Fadi Kashkesh toss the remains of his apple into a bin and then disappear up the road. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, dropping the Leica V–Lux 20 digital camera back into his pocket. ‘I’m done.’ He turned away from the window, feeling a stab of gratification as a look of disappointment swept across the whore’s face. ‘Nice to meet you, though,’ he smiled as he moved towards the stairs.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Reclining on the sofa, Carlyle looked on nervously as Helen flicked rapidly through a succession of television channels, searching for some suitable crap to watch. His wife was clearly not happy about something and he knew that meant he was in for a stern talking-to. From past experience, it would not be long before she explained to him what he’d done wrong. Over the years, he’d become philosophical about it; after all, it was always best just to get the unhappiness over with as quickly as possible.

  In the absence of finding anything better, Helen settled on one of the news channels. A British woman had killed her two young children in a Spanish hotel, for reasons that were not immediately apparent. It was just the kind of story that Carlyle found infinitely depressing. More than that, he resented being confronted by other people’s tragedies in his own living room. He had to deal with more than enough of that kind of shit while he was at work.

  Helen must have entertained a similar thought, because she quickly muted the sound. Finally turning to face Carlyle, she gave him a dirty look. ‘Why did you do it?’ she asked.

  Carlyle tried his best to look innocent. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb with me, John Carlyle,’ she replied, tapping him on the arm with the remote. ‘Louisa Arbillot was in a terrible state when she got back to the office after your meeting.’