Then We Die

by James Craig

  ‘We haven’t fixed a date yet, but I thought it was the least we should do, given that Alice has been round there twice already.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle said, dreading the occasion already. He knew for sure that he was going to hate the little tosser. ‘Maybe we could take them out somewhere?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘My treat,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen leaned over and gave him a kiss on the back of the head. ‘So,’ she asked, ‘how was your day?’

  Knowing that full and frank disclosure was now the only sensible policy, Carlyle explained his run-in with Sylvia Swain at the Garden Hotel.

  After he had finished, Helen struck him again with the remote, considerably harder this time. ‘So, this woman flashed you her bits and then offered you a shag?’

  ‘More or less.’ Carlyle sat up straighter on the sofa in the hope of avoiding another thwack, but aware that he would have to accept some immediate grief before he got any longer-term benefit out of coming clean. ‘She was drunk. As soon as I realized what was going on, I made my excuses and left. That’s when you called.’

  His wife gave him one of her stock pissed-off looks. ‘So you were already on the way out of there when I rang you?’

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘And who was this woman?’

  ‘Some Canadian journalist writing a piece about Joe. She claimed to have some useful information for me.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘We didn’t get that far.’

  Helen pondered the information she had been given. ‘So this journalist threw herself at you and you declined because you didn’t want to, or because you were worried about getting caught?’

  This was a conversation that they had reprised many times over the years, whenever The Job put temptation his way. It was always best to avoid temptation – which was the main reason why he had never worked in Vice, where temptation was The Job – but sometimes that was impossible. However, over the years, he had always been able to explain whatever had gone on with a clear conscience. ‘I didn’t do anything silly,’ he declared, drinking the last of his tea, ‘but it was a strange situation. I mean, how often do women actually throw themselves at me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Helen said huffily.

  ‘Well, you certainly didn’t,’ he smiled, leaning over to kiss her tenderly. Even after all these years, it was still a standing joke between them that it had taken Carlyle such an inordinate amount of time to win her over.

  ‘Don’t try and butter me up.’ She tried a scowl but ended up smiling, and he knew that he must have handled the situation well.

  ‘The whole thing didn’t seem right,’ he continued. ‘I’m fairly sure that I was being set up.’

  FORTY-SIX

  Just as I am, thou wilt receive,

  Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve.

  Because Thy promise I believe.

  O Lamb of God, I come. Amen.

  Helen glared at Carlyle as she shuffled further along the pew to make some room for him. ‘You’re late!’ she hissed, as he took a seat beside her. Head bowed, he opened the Order of Service just as the Rector stood up to deliver the Bidding.

  ‘We are here today to celebrate the life and honour the memory of Joseph Leon Szyszkowski, a father, husband and friend.’

  Carlyle tried to remember the last time he’d been inside a church. He also tried to remember the last time he’d worn his full dress uniform. Hot and uncomfortable, he scanned the pews opposite, recognizing a number of familiar faces.

  ‘We remember him with gratitude for his service in the Metropolitan Police, for his faithfulness and commitment to his colleagues, to his friends and his family.’

  At the far end of the church, in the front pew, sat Anita Szyszkowski. Beside her were the kids, William and Sarah, and the rest of the family including the brother who had thumped Carlyle at the hospital. In the rows behind them were seated Carole Simpson and a number of the other top brass. Even from this distance, he could see how Anita looked pale and drawn. She glanced over towards where he was sitting, but Carlyle quickly looked away.

  ‘We give thanks for his generous and hospitable character; his modesty, warmth and charm; his commitment to others; and for all that he meant to us as colleague, friend and father. And we pray that at the end of his life’s voyage he may find a safe harbour and a firm anchorage within the loving mercy of Thee, our heavenly Father. May he rest in peace within the eternity of Thy Love.’

  ‘Amen,’ murmured Carlyle, along with the rest of the congregation. Taking Helen’s hand, he gave it a tight squeeze. Leaning over, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. She had been crying quietly and he felt sick to his stomach. Swallowing hard, he watched as Carole Simpson approached the pulpit. Should he have been giving a reading? It was too late to worry about that now. Simpson cleared her throat and scanned the audience. She looked frazzled and nervous, in a way he had never seen before.

  ‘Sergeant Joe Szyszkowski,’ she said, her voice beginning to crack almost immediately, ‘made the ultimate sacrifice. His is a story of courage, and devotion to duty. Ours is a deep sense of loss: for the Metropolitan Police Service and, above all, for his family and friends. A career in policing has always been much more than just a job. A deep commitment to the notion of public service often leads our officers to put their own well-being at risk in order to help and protect others. This is undoubtedly one of our greatest strengths, but sometimes it means that we must pay a terrible price. Joe Szyszkowski was a first-rate policeman. We will miss him, but we will remember him with a smile. As the Scottish poet Thomas Campbell wrote, “to live in hearts we leave behind is not to die”.’

  As Simpson made her way back to her seat, the choir began to sing ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer’. Dropping his head to his chest, Carlyle had to fight back tears of his own. At that moment, he knew that redemption was a very long way off indeed.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘You’ve checked her out?’ Looking past Carlyle, Ronan scanned the lobby of the Garden Hotel. Sylvia Swain was now twenty minutes late and it was clear that he was getting fed up lounging about, even on an expensive sofa.

  ‘Alison did a quick Google search,’ Carlyle shrugged.

  Sitting between the two of them, Roche handed a couple of sheets of A4 over to her boyfriend. ‘She was a news anchor and reporter for a local TV station in Montreal before joining the newspaper,’ she said, ‘and before that she studied journalism at somewhere called Concordia University.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Carlyle grumbled.

  Ronan shot him a look. ‘At least she went to university.’

  ‘Boys, boys.’ Roche held up her hands. ‘There’s no need to bicker. She likes running, tennis, travelling and spending time with her dogs, Jerry and Libby.’

  ‘No mention of a husband or any kids?’ Ronan asked, scanning the print-offs.

  ‘Not that I could see,’ Roche said. ‘But I only gave it two minutes. She has loads of recent articles online, stories from South Africa, Egypt, Turkey and so on. I even saw a couple of clips of her presenting the news. You can’t fake all that, so she’s got to be a genuine journalist.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ Ronan sniggered, ‘she did try to make a pass at the inspector here, so there’s got to be something strange going on.’

  Carlyle felt himself redden. In the cold light of day, he could see that he was appearing just a little bit paranoid. Maybe getting Roche and Ronan to chaperone him to this rearranged meeting was rather over the top. He was just about to send them packing when Swain herself swept in through the front door. As she caught sight of the inspector with his companions, she checked her stride and a look of irritation crossed her face. Quickly regaining her composure, she headed briskly over to where the trio were seated.

  ‘Inspector.’ Swain smiled wanly, ‘I didn’t realize that you would be coming with full back-up.’
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  Getting to his feet, Carlyle shook her hand and introduced his colleagues.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Swain tonelessly. Wearing no makeup, she looked tired and hassled. In a shapeless trouser suit and navy blouse primly buttoned at the neck, she looked far from the femme fatale that the inspector remembered.

  Carlyle noticed Ronan and Roche exchanging smirks, but knew that he had no alternative but to press on. He tried to smile back at the journalist. ‘I’m sorry that I had to hurry off the other night.’

  ‘These things happen.’ Swain’s accent seemed more pronounced than he remembered. ‘So, to what do I owe this triple pleasure? How exactly can I be of assistance to you?’

  ‘You said that you had some information for me to look at?’

  Swain glanced at Ronan and Roche, and back to Carlyle. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s still in my room.’ An amused grin spread across her face. ‘Do you want to come up and collect it?’

  ‘Sergeant Roche will accompany you,’ Carlyle replied, ‘if that’s okay.’

  Roche got to her feet and gestured towards the row of lifts. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Sure,’ was all Swain could manage, glaring at Carlyle as she followed Roche across the lobby.

  Watching them go, Ronan shook his head. ‘All this just because you’re worried about your wife.’

  ‘You haven’t met my wife,’ Carlyle told him, settling back into the sofa.

  * * *

  After about ten minutes, Ronan frowned at Carlyle. ‘Don’t you think this is taking rather longer than it should?’

  One of the lifts had just reached the ground floor, and Carlyle watched an elderly couple get out. ‘Maybe they’re having a girls’ chat,’ he yawned.

  Ronan, however, was already on his feet. ‘Let’s check it out.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Carlyle, as the other man headed for the lifts. ‘We don’t know the room number.’

  It took another ten minutes for the girl at reception, a dumpy redhead with a bad perm and a name tag that said Louise, to finish dealing with the pensioners complaining about their bill, and to ring through to Swain’s room. When she got no reply, it took a further five minutes for Carlyle to convince her that he was a genuine policeman, and for her to give him the room number. By the time she did so, he was sorely tempted to have her arrested on the grounds of threatening behaviour, i.e. behaviour that was threatening his mental health.

  Once they were finally standing outside room 118, Ronan hammered on the door. ‘Open up!’ he shouted. ‘This is the police!’

  When there was no response, Ronan tried to kick the door in. As far as Carlyle could see, it didn’t give an inch and he resigned himself to another argument downstairs with Louise, in order to gain a card key. However, just as he was heading back towards the lifts, a cleaner appeared round the corner hauling a cart filled with clean towels and replacement toiletries. Grabbing the startled woman by the arm, Carlyle waved his ID in her face and marched her to the door of 118. Snatching her pass key, Ronan thrust it in the slot, cursing when it failed to work. He tried it a second time, ramming the card in harder this time, but still without any joy.

  ‘Slowly,’ Carlyle advised. ‘You’ve got to be gentle with it.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Ronan muttered.

  Shaking her head, the cleaner took the card out of his hand, carefully placed it in the door and slowly removed it again. As the door clicked open, Ronan pushed past her and rushed inside.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the inspector to the woman. ‘Please wait here.’

  Stepping through the door, he heard Ronan shout, ‘Christ Almighty! Call an ambulance! Now!’

  Carlyle fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. As he waited for someone to pick up, he looked at Roche sitting up on the bed, clasping her head while Ronan looked on.

  At least she’s not dead, Carlyle thought, as he called in the details. The blood on the sergeant’s hands and on her jacket, however, testified to a nasty head wound. Finishing the call, he stepped into the bathroom and stuck a towel under the hot water tap of the bath. Returning to the bedroom, he handed the damp towel to Roche.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, giving Ronan a look that Carlyle could not decipher, before gingerly putting the towel to her head.

  Carlyle located the mini-bar and tossed a couple of small bottles of mineral water on the bed. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Roche picked up one of the bottles, unscrewed the cap and drank the contents in one go. ‘What does it look like?’ she snapped. ‘That fucking bitch smacked me round the back of the head.’

  Carlyle had never heard Roche swear before. He glanced at Ronan, who refused to make eye-contact.

  ‘I need a fucking cigarette,’ Roche declared.

  ‘I’d wait until you’ve been to the hospital,’ Ronan replied, turning away quickly when she shot him a dirty look.

  There was a knock at the door and a paramedic entered the tiny vestibule. Glancing out into the corridor, Carlyle could see that the cleaner was still there, standing by her cart. God bless you, Carlyle thought, as he watched Roche being led away. People who did as they were told were as rare as hen’s teeth. ‘The woman in 118,’ he asked, ‘you haven’t seen her this morning?’

  The cleaner shook her head.

  ‘Okay. Sorry for the hassle, but if you could wait a bit longer, we’ll need to take a statement.’

  The woman shrugged. It was no skin off her nose.

  ‘Back in a minute.’

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Ronan did not offer to go along with Roche to the hospital. Leaning against the table with his arms folded, he watched Carlyle re-enter the room.

  ‘Ali’s gonna have a hell of a headache,’ he reflected.

  You could sound a bit more concerned, Carlyle thought. ‘I’ll take a look round in here,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you see if you can track down Ms Swain?’

  ‘All right,’ said Ronan doubtfully, as if not sure he should be taking orders from Carlyle. ‘I guess we’re thinking she’s not a journalist, after all.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘Most of the journalists I know do their violence with a pen.’

  ‘Well, they do say that the pen is mightier than the sword,’ Ronan quipped.

  ‘Not in this case,’ Carlyle said grimly, as he pulled open the doors of the wardrobe. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it. I’ll let you know what I find.’

  ‘If she’s not a journalist,’ Ronan wondered, ‘what is she then?’

  ‘God knows,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Just another nutter who has arrived in our great city to cause us grief.’ He gestured towards the corridor. ‘On the way out, could you quickly check if the cleaning lady outside has anything useful to say, although I doubt it very much, then she can get back to work.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ronan grinned as he headed for the door. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It looks like good old Sylvia wasn’t trying to get into your pants, after all.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘Probably she just wanted to bash me over the head.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The inspector pulled a vinyl LP copy of Strange Days by The Doors out of a tattered cardboard box and peered around the cramped bedsit for a record-player.

  ‘Do you have something to play this on?’ he asked his father, who sat on the unmade bed, staring morosely out of the window at the cars speeding along the Westway.

  ‘Er, no. I left the record-player at home. I’ll fetch it later.’

  Carlyle scratched his head in exasperation and dropped the record back in the box. ‘So what did you bring the records for?’

  His father just shrugged.

  The room had only enough space for a single bed, a small wardrobe and a one-ring gas stove. On a chair in the corner sat a tiny TV. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the carpet didn’t look like it had been cleaned in the last twenty years. All this for £165 a week. It was t
he most depressing place Carlyle had ever seen in his life.

  ‘Come on,’ he sighed, ‘let’s go and get a drink.’

  They sat in the otherwise empty Queen and Artichoke pub, each nursing a pint of cold Grolsch lager. Carlyle wasn’t in the mood for a drink, but drinking was easier than talking, so his glass was quickly empty. Getting to his feet, he gestured towards the bar. ‘Fancy another one?’

  His father nodded assent although his glass was still more than half-full. Crossing the room, Carlyle wondered why he had come at all and, more to the point, how quickly he could reasonably leave. As the barman poured their pints, he checked both of his phones in the hope that someone had called him. They hadn’t. With a sigh, he paid for the drinks and returned to his father’s table.

  ‘So,’ Carlyle said, after taking a sip, ‘what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ said his father, keeping his eyes fixed on his drink. ‘I suppose I never imagined that your mother would throw me out. The whole thing happened so long ago.’

  You should have kept your mouth shut, Carlyle thought, you bloody idiot. ‘Maybe she just needs a bit of time to calm down. Then you can put all this behind you.’

  Alexander Carlyle laughed grimly. ‘I don’t think so. Not with your mother. Once she’s got the bit between her teeth, that’s it.’ He looked up at his son and smiled sadly. ‘Where do you think you got your own bloody-minded streak from?’

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle laughed in mock amazement. ‘Bloody-minded?’

  ‘Aye, you are, lad. And you know it fine well. Just like your mother.’ Alexander took another swallow of his pint. ‘I’ve seen that look in her eye before, many, many times. It means I won’t be going back.’

  Not wishing to think about the implications of that bald statement, Carlyle changed tack. ‘What about the woman?’

  His father looked at him sharply. ‘The woman I had the affair with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maureen Sullivan. You don’t remember her?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Not at all.’