by James Craig
‘Ambrose is very fair.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ever mention a man called Dominic Silver?’
Carlyle looked her squarely in the eye. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’ Simpson paused, then went on: ‘You do understand just how terribly problematic your relationship with Mr Silver is, don’t you?’
‘I do not have a relationship with Silver,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
‘Don’t get all mealy-mouthed with me, John,’ Simpson shot back. ‘It just doesn’t suit you. What is he? A CI? I haven’t seen him on any list.’
Confidential informant? Carlyle thought. Hardly. The whole bloody world seems to know about me and Dom. ‘Dom is not a CI,’ he said evenly. ‘I wouldn’t describe him as an informant at all.’
Simpson grimaced in exasperation. ‘So what would you describe him as?’
‘I would describe him as a former colleague who is still keen to help the police whenever the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Oh? So you wouldn’t describe him as a drug dealer who gets you to do some of his dirty work for him?’
That’s a pretty fair summary of our relationship, Carlyle conceded. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t.’
Sitting up in her chair, Simpson gave him a long, hard look.
A terrible thought suddenly hit him. ‘Are you suggesting I killed Hooper?’
‘No, no,’ she said irritably. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘I don’t think even you could be that stupid.’
‘That’s good to know,’ he said humourlessly.
‘Look,’ she jabbed an angry finger at the space between them, ‘never forget how bloody lucky you were here. This whole thing became such a terrible nightmare that in the end no one wanted to touch it. Everything has been buried and any paperwork beyond the absolute bare minimum will be destroyed. Under a different set of circumstances, you could have been hauled over the coals. You could easily have got the sack — and ended up in jail.’
Carlyle held her gaze but said nothing.
‘If the Sam Hooper killing hadn’t got lost in this total mess — if he wasn’t just one body among so bloody many — the investigation into his death would doubtless have been a lot more detailed,’ she persisted.
‘Ambrose told me that Hooper was bent,’ Carlyle commented.
‘I still don’t think that is sufficient justification for someone executing him,’ Simpson said tartly.
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘It is a very, very serious crime indeed and I would expect anyone with information relating to his murder to come forward immediately, regardless of the status of the investigation.’
‘Absolutely.’
Simpson stared at him for several more moments. When Carlyle said nothing, she warned him, ‘If this comes back to haunt you, somewhere down the line, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. More to the point, there is nothing I would want to do to protect you.’
‘I will keep my eyes and ears open,’ Carlyle promised. ‘If I discover anything, I will let you know immediately.’
Simpson glared at him.
‘But,’ he went on, unable to resist the dig, ‘there are always grey areas. Things are never black and white, as you know from your own personal experience.’ The message was clear: I supported you when your husband was arrested and people wanted to believe that you were his accomplice, so get off my fucking back now.
For a heartbeat, it looked like Simpson was going to hurl her mug of coffee at him. Carlyle sat, unflinching, as he watched her slowly bring her anger under control.
‘I understand what you are saying, Inspector,’ she said finally.
Nodding, he got to his feet.
‘There’s one other thing. .’
‘Oh?’ Slowly, he sat back down again. A sly grin appeared on Simpson’s face, making him brace himself.
‘You’ve been put forward for a Commendation.’ Simpson dropped her gaze to the desk. ‘I assume it will be a formality. You should get written confirmation in the next couple of weeks.’
Carlyle waited for her to restore eye-contact, daring her not to laugh. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, trying to recall her ever having done so in the past.
Keeping a straight face, Simpson said, ‘No. The citation will read: For bravery in attempting to apprehend armed criminals and showing unflinching courage in the line of duty. Or something like that. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Unflinching courage.’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I like that.’
‘It relates to the incident at the Ritz.’
Carlyle had already garnered a number of Commendations during the course of his career. Another one was of little interest. ‘Do I get a pay rise?’ he asked cheekily.
This time Simpson did laugh. ‘Don’t push your luck. And don’t think that this in any way invalidates what I’ve said. IIC could have buried you after this business here. Having decided not to do that, you’re being made something of a hero.’
‘To better put a lid on the whole bloody thing,’ Carlyle mused.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Simpson said, ‘and I suggest, for once, you just act bloody grateful and go along with it.’
‘I think I will,’ Carlyle told her.
SEVENTY-TWO
One important thing that Carlyle had learned from his sessions with Dr Wolf was that the coffee in the doctor’s office was truly dreadful. To get round this problem, he quickly developed a routine whereby, on the way to each session, he would drop into the Starbucks next to Wolf’s office. This morning, he sat happily drinking the last of his Venti Latte, wondering if the doctor, head bowed, was contemplating their earlier exchange or had simply fallen asleep. Draining his cup, he reached forward and dropped it in the bin at the side of the shrink’s desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wolf from his slumber. He looked up at Carlyle, who smiled blandly.
‘I was wondering,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘if we could maybe spend some time talking about your parents. .’
SEVENTY-THREE
Helen assumed her best smile as she handed a plate of snacks round the table. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ken Walton, happily dropping a couple of cucumber sandwiches onto his plate. ‘Lorna has told me so much about you all. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’
Refusing to look at her son, Lorna Gordon nodded sagely as she sipped her peppermint tea.
Looking Walton up and down, the inspector wondered what his dad was doing right now — probably sitting in his shitty little bedsit, looking through the record collection he couldn’t play. Seated in the Palm Court with his mother and her new boyfriend, he felt a mixture of guilt and embarrassment. At least Helen had been pressganged into coming along, too. She had been in a foul mood since Avalon’s board had decided to pull out of Gaza, and Carlyle hoped that this little outing would help take her mind off work troubles for a short while.
He glanced at his wife for some moral and spiritual support, but in return simply got a look that said For God’s sake, say something.
‘So,’ Carlyle mumbled, ‘how did you two meet?’ Grabbing a slice of lemon cake from his plate, he took a large bite.
‘Lorna and I have known each other for a long time,’ Walton replied vaguely.
Carlyle gave his mother an enquiring look. ‘Oh, is that right?’
Lorna put her cup back on the saucer and placed a gentle hand on Helen’s forearm. ‘And how is Alice?’ she asked, changing the subject with a lack of subtlety for which the Carlyle family had long been famous.
Helen looked at Carlyle and grinned. ‘She’s not on the best form, to be honest. She’s just split with her boyfriend and things are a bit — well, tense.’
‘It’s just part of the growing up process,’ Carlyle remarked.
Head down, Ken Walton gave the cucumber sandwiches his full attention.
‘These things are always hard to take,’ said Lorna, effortlessly ignoring her son’s churlish
ness. ‘She will snap out of it soon enough.’
Helen smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t help things by getting into a row with the boy’s mother.’
‘Ach,’ said the older woman, ‘the child’s still very young. It’s right that you are still getting involved.’ She glanced at Carlyle with amusement. ‘There will be plenty of time for her to make mistakes all on her own.’
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle said nothing. Instead he scanned the restaurant, hoping to spy some outrageous criminal activity in progress that might serve to rescue him from this latest domestic nightmare. Sadly, this time round, there was none to be found.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-b5fbd5-7e87-4340-768c-4cc5-8321-a86685
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 12.08.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.43, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
James Craig
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