by James Craig
She gave him a firm punch on the chest. ‘That’s not advice I remember you yourself ever sticking to.’
‘And look what happened.’ Carlyle flung his arms wide in frustration. ‘People got killed. The Israelis basically got what they wanted. It was all a bit messy, and they had a few casualities of their own, but they don’t really care about that. They sit there, doing their American TV interviews, smugly refusing to confirm or deny ever doing anything to anyone. Meanwhile, I saw two kids in the piazza today walking around wearing Don’t mess with the Mossad T-shirts, like those guys are some kind of rock stars. The whole thing might be totally fucked up, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Trying to fight against it will just drive you mad.’
‘So you think you got it wrong?’
He let out a terrible sigh. ‘What did we achieve in the end?’
‘Oh, John.’ Stepping towards him, Helen buried her face in his chest.
‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘you are a small charity. You do great work all over the world. There is never going to be any shortage of places for your people to go and things for you to do. You have to live to fight another day.’
‘I suppose so,’ she sniffed.
‘The other thing to remember is that it won’t be you who’s sitting in some shitty jail, wondering if you’ll ever get home again. You can’t play politics with other people’s lives.’
She looked up at him. ‘Haven’t I heard that somewhere before?’
‘Probably,’ he grinned.
‘There’s an emergency board meeting at nine a.m. tomorrow to discuss what to do,’ she said. ‘I think that there will be a fairly energetic debate.’
‘I bet there will.’
‘But we will make a decision.’
‘Good.’
‘Then I have to leave at lunchtime, to go to Louisa’s funeral in Reims.’
Carlyle had completely forgotten about that commitment.
‘I catch the Eurostar at two-fifteen. The funeral is at eleven the next morning. I’ll be back around seven in the evening.’
‘Okay.’
‘Alice has promised to look after you while I’m away.’
‘Great. How are things with her boyfriend?’
Helen raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Like that, eh?’
‘All part of growing up,’ Helen sighed.
A thought popped into his head. ‘Is Louisa being buried with Fadi?’
‘No. Her parents didn’t approve of the marriage, so that was a non-starter. I was told that he was cremated.’
‘And will his ashes be returned to his family?’
She shrugged. ‘I hope so, but that will be a matter for the Foreign Office.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘Poor bugger.’
‘That’s exactly why we have to fight for these people,’ Helen reminded him.
‘Fight and lose,’ he said sadly. ‘Fight and lose.’
SIXTY-NINE
Sitting in the same basement interview room where they had met previously, Carlyle watched Ambrose Watson happily polish off a jumbo croissant before picking up a sheet of IIC-headed paper and then passing it across the desk.
The inspector quickly scanned the tiny font. ‘What’s this?’
Ambrose said, as if it should be blindingly obvious, ‘It’s the form you need to sign to say that you have voluntarily agreed to take part in this investigation, that you understand its conclusions and that you agree to undertake any suggested remedial actions relevant to yourself. There’s a copy for us and a copy for you.’
‘What remedial actions?’
‘Nothing really.’ Ambrose scratched his nose. ‘Just that you agree to continue seeing the psychiatrist that Commander Simpson has arranged for you.’
‘For how long?’ So far, Carlyle had endured three follow-up visits to Dr Wolf, and the novelty had long since worn off.
‘That’s hardly for me to say, now, is it?’ Ambrose chided. ‘That is something you will have to agree with the good doctor in due course. The Met is by no means prescriptive in these things. It just wants what is best for you.’
‘Right.’
Ambrose handed Carlyle a biro and pointed at the two small xs pencilled at the foot of the page. ‘Just sign here and here.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Inspector,’ Ambrose sighed, ‘you really can get too suspicious sometimes. Normally when I hand over an X 37/C, people can’t sign it quickly enough.’
‘What’s an X37/ C?’
‘It’s the form that you’ve now got in front of you,’ Ambrose replied tartly. ‘It’s our standard investigation-completed form. In this case, it’s a bit of a miracle that it’s ever got to see the light of day. With so many bloody corpses, I would have expected the investigation to run for years, if not decades.’
‘So what happened?’ Carlyle asked innocently.
‘It was dealt with at a higher level,’ was all Ambrose would say.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle scribbled something approaching his signature in the appropriate places and returned the form to Ambrose
‘Thank you.’ Ambrose took back his pen and gave Carlyle his personal copy of the document. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you’ve been more than a little lucky in all of this.’
Carlyle grunted.
‘It could have hung over your career like a big black cloud for a very long time.’
Tell me something I don’t know, Carlyle thought.
Stuffing his papers back into his briefcase, Ambrose got to his feet. ‘Well, Inspector,’ he said, ‘that concludes our business on this occasion. Please don’t take it the wrong way if I say that I hope our paths don’t cross again for a while.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Carlyle, smiling.
After Ambrose had left, he sat for a while with his mind empty, simply enjoying the silence.
SEVENTY
Carlyle took his seat by the side of the runway, rather disappointed that he hadn’t been invited backstage to get another chance to gawp at the naked models getting ready to showcase the final collection from the late, lamented Rollo Kasabian, whose giant portrait now hung above the entrance to the runway. All the talk this evening was of Rollo and his genius, but Dominic Silver had decreed that tonight’s show, being held in a disused railway station, would be a benefit for the family of Lottie Gondomar, the model who had hanged herself in the police cells at Charing Cross. Closing his eyes, Carlyle spent several minutes trying to recall the girl’s face, but his mind remained blank.
The business was now being run by one of Rollo’s erstwhile assistants, a dour fellow by the name of Karl Auclair. Before putting him in charge, Dom had Auclair checked out by a firm of private investigators, who had given the young man a clean bill of health, or had at least reported that his drug use was within socially acceptable limits and that his sexual appetites were modest and dull. Noting that they were now almost thirty minutes late in getting started, Carlyle presumed that good timekeeping had not been a key part of the job description.
It was decidedly chilly on the station platform and Carlyle wished that he had brought along a coat. He idly watched the seats around him fill up till finally the lights dimmed and a bombastic rock track that he didn’t recognize began blaring out of the speakers positioned beside the runaway. Moments later, the first model sauntered into view, wearing what looked to Carlyle suspiciously like a bog-standard kaftan.
Dom slipped into the seat beside him. ‘What do you think so far?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s only just started.’
Dom punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Don’t sound too excited, will you.’
‘Would you wear that?’ Carlyle grunted, pointing to the kaftan.
‘You’ve got to broaden your horizons, Johnny boy,’ said Dom, waving a hand in the air. ‘You’ve got to broaden your horizons.’
At least the show was mercifully brief. Passing on Auclair’s afterpart
y, the pair of them headed for a quiet bar half a block away.
‘Do people actually buy that stuff?’ Carlyle stared into his glass of Jameson whiskey.
‘There’s no accounting for taste.’ Dom took a swig from his bottle of Peroni beer. ‘And don’t forget this is Rollo’s swansong; the last ever Kasabian collection. The fashion editors can’t get enough of it. The fat, rent-boy-loving, drug-snorting fuck-up has been offi-cially rebranded a genius.’
Carlyle laughed.
‘Now, you know and I know that genius,’ Dom continued, ‘is almost certainly the most over-used word in the English language. But the point is that his legend has already been written. Anything with his name on it will now sell like hot cakes.’
‘Was he really any good?’ Carlyle asked. ‘I mean, how difficult can it be to design a shirt? Or a pair of jeans? It’s not like it’s never been done before.’
‘I know, I know,’ Dom agreed. ‘I don’t understand it either. But I’m not complaining. Rollo did me a big favour by shuffling off this mortal coil so quickly. The business might even move into profit this year.’
Carlyle let a mouthful of whiskey lie on his tongue before swallowing it. ‘Of course,’ he said casually, ‘that would have given you a pretty good motive for having him killed.’
Dom took another gulp of his beer. ‘Is that a question or an observation?’
‘No one has ever been charged with the murders of Kasabian or Sam Hooper,’ Carlyle observed matter-of-factly.
‘These things happen.’
Carlyle emptied his glass and said, lowering his voice, even though there was no one else within earshot: ‘We have an unusual relationship.’
Dom smiled, knowing where the conversation was going. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we do.’
‘But we can only stretch things so far.’
‘That is understood.’
Carlyle exhaled slowly. ‘So — there are certain lines that cannot be crossed.’
Dom nodded. ‘That has always been not only understood but respected.’
‘So, I need to know. .’
‘What do you need to know, John?’
‘Were you responsible for the deaths of Kasabian and Hooper?’
‘Responsible?’
‘Did you have them killed?’
‘Bloody hell!’ Dom laughed. ‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘I need to know,’ Carlyle said grimly.
Dom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you really want to know?’
No, screamed a voice in the inspector’s head. Absolutely not. Never in a million fucking years. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Grabbing Carlyle’s empty glass, Dom got to his feet. ‘Let me just nip to the bar and I’ll be right back with an answer. Same again?’
Feeling sick to his stomach, Carlyle merely nodded.
Dom handed Carlyle the double whiskey and sat down with a fresh bottle of beer. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ Carlyle repeated, without enthusiasm.
‘Remember the night you arrested Lottie?’
‘Yeah.’ That seemed a hell of a long time ago now, but even if he couldn’t remember her face, he could recall what the rest of her looked like, standing naked, backstage.
‘And remember I told you about Marina and Cockayne Syndrome.’
‘Yup,’ Carlyle said.
‘Well, since then, there have been more tests and the news isn’t getting any better. The other day, the child even asked me “When am I going to die, Dad?” ’ He shook his head. ‘Five years old. What kind of a fucking question is that?’
‘What did you say?’ Carlyle asked, wondering where Dom was going with this.
‘What could I say?’ Dom cleared his throat. ‘I told her that we loved her and we would look after her and that we wouldn’t lie to her, but that we didn’t know the answer to everything.’
‘How did she react to that?’
‘She went off to play with her dolls.’ Dom said in a low voice, ‘It drives me insane, worrying about what’s going on inside her head.’
‘It must be tough.’
‘That’s the understatement of this or any other fucking lifetime.’ Dom waved his beer bottle in the direction of Carlyle’s face. ‘But you are doubtless wondering what this has to do with your question.’
Carlyle shrugged.
‘It means that Marina is a brutal reminder to me of which way is up,’ Dom said forcefully. ‘Of what’s important.’
‘Certainly,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘Family is the most important thing. That’s true for you, just as it is for me. That’s why we have managed to work together so well over the years. Both of us have our priorities right. We do our jobs and we go home to our families. We do what we have to do in order to make sure, as far as we can, that they are safe and sound.’
‘Maybe so.’ Carlyle rubbed his temples. ‘However, that does not mean that you can operate outside of the law.’
‘John, just listen to yourself! You were standing next to me when I took down those crazies in Sol Abramyan’s house.’
‘There’s a difference between that and killing a copper, for fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle argued.
‘Hooper was bent.’
‘And Rollo, what was he? Just collateral damage?’
Dom raised his eyebrows.
Carlyle knocked back the rest of his whiskey. ‘I knew it, I fucking knew it. Have you gone crazy?’
Dom gave him a hard stare. ‘I was crazy enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you when that Browning was being waved in my face,’ he hissed. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’
‘Fuck. . fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Dom reached over and gave Carlyle’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly, ‘it’ll be fine. After all, we’re in this together.’
SEVENTY-ONE
Simpson’s office at Paddington Green still looked as if no one had occupied it for many months, if not years. There was not one thing — book, file, photo or piece of office stationery — to suggest that it was in use. Staring at the grime on the window, Carlyle did a mental inventory of his current workload: there were a couple of expensive car thefts from a garage in Drury Lane; a home invasion in Bloomsbury; and a couple of cases of ID theft — all in all, nothing very exciting. That made for a nice change. Roche, now happily ensconced in Charing Cross for the foreseeable future, could take the lead in most if not all of them. Meanwhile, he himself could enjoy some downtime, get home at a reasonable hour every evening and put the horrors of recent weeks behind him. Maybe he could even persuade his mother-in-law to come up to London and look after Alice, allowing Carlyle and Helen a couple of days by the sea.
Carlyle smiled at the prospect of having a more ‘normal’ existence. That would be fine, for a while. But he knew perfectly well that, after a fortnight or maybe a month at the most, he would need to find something to occupy both his brain and his time. Otherwise he would start feeling restless and grumpy. Helen and Alice would start to find him annoying, and would be relieved to get him out from under their feet. Not for the first time, it struck him that he needed the bloody criminals to help keep him sane. Well, some of them, anyway. Did that make him a bit mad? Maybe it was something that he should be discussing with the shrink?
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Eh?’ Carlyle looked up at Simpson, who had suddenly materialized behind her desk.
‘You seemed deep in thought,’ she said, placing a mug of steaming coffee on the blotter in front of her, and then slipping into her seat.
‘I was just looking forward to things being a bit quieter for a while.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ she grinned.
‘I thought I might take Helen to Brighton.’ Immediately the words were out, he cursed himself. Being recently widowed, Simpson wouldn’t want to be hearing about his domestic plans.
If the remark caused her any upset, however, she didn’t show it. ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ she said
warmly, taking a sip of coffee.
‘There’s nothing hugely pressing to deal with back at the station,’ he added, keen to get back onto matters of work, ‘and Sergeant Roche is very much on top of things.’
Simpson nodded. ‘I’m glad that it’s working out so well with her. It’s good that you have been able to deal with that aspect of the Joe situation so. . professionally.’
‘It’s difficult to get the balance right,’ Carlyle explained. ‘You can’t go to pieces, but you don’t want to appear a heartless bastard either. I did try to reach out to Anita, but, well, you know what happened there.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson sighed, ‘you just have to leave it for now. At least, you were able to tell her that Joe’s killer had been. . dealt with. Even if she doesn’t seem particularly grateful for that now, you have to hope that it will provide some succour in the future.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe things will change over time.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘There is one thing, though.’
‘What?’
‘The case on Joe’s murder isn’t going to be officially closed.’ She quickly held up a hand before he could begin his protest. ‘The bodies of the Israelis were repatriated yesterday. The Foreign Office is not going to further annoy Tel Aviv by publicly naming one of its people as being the man responsible for shooting a policeman on a London street.’
Carlyle made a noise of disgust.
‘It’s better than the other way round,’ Simpson went on, ‘with a situation where the case was closed and the killer was still running around flipping us the finger.’
‘Fair point,’ Carlyle reflected.
‘I’m told that Lieberman, Ryan Goya and Maude Kleinman will be buried in a military ceremony with full honours.’
‘Maude Kleinman?’
‘That was the name on the ID they presented for the woman you knew as Sylvia Swain.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘All this cloak and dagger shit is just so wearisome.’
‘Did you speak to Ambrose Watson?’ Simpson asked, moving the conversation on.
‘Yeah. He told me that his various investigations are now closed, so I signed the necessary bits of paper.’
