by James Craig
‘Now go home and see your family. Give Alice a big kiss.’
Surprised that Simpson remembered his daughter’s name, Carlyle said nothing. After a moment’s pause, he began walking slowly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner, away from the crowds and the journalists.
‘And, John,’ Simpson shouted after him, ‘you’re right. I have decided to stay. I’m not retiring – not yet anyway.’
‘Never doubted it for a minute,’ he yelled back over his shoulder, quickly lengthening his stride.
FIFTY-ONE
‘Dad’s home!’
When Alice rushed into the hallway and jumped into his arms, almost knocking him over, he felt an overwhelming urge to burst into tears. After Helen appeared a moment later, he buried his head in her shoulder as he fought for control.
‘We saw you on the TV!’ Alice proclaimed.
‘You could have bloody called,’ Helen scolded, embracing him tightly.
‘Yes,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry.’ Composing himself, he stepped back to close the door.
‘What happened?’ Alice asked.
Carlyle smiled wanly. ‘Just a bad day at the office.’ Slipping off his shoes, he headed for the kitchen.
Helen appeared in the doorway as he filled the kettle. ‘Was it the same people that killed Joe?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle replied, closing the lid and switching the kettle on. ‘I think so.’
Alice squeezed past her mother, her brow creased with concern. ‘Is someone trying to get you, Dad?’
‘No, sweetheart.’ He bent over, kissing her hard on the top of her forehead. ‘I’m trying to get them.’ He ignored Helen, who was rolling her eyes to the ceiling, and changed the subject. ‘Your mum tells me that we’re having your friend Stuart round to tea.’
Alice’s cheeks went a shade of bright pink. ‘Dad!’ She folded her arms and gave him a fierce look. ‘I haven’t even asked him, or anything.’
‘Well,’ said Carlyle, grinning at Helen, ‘we’re looking forward to meeting him.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Still blushing furiously, Alice turned and fled to the safety of her bedroom.
‘That was well handled,’ said Helen sarkily, dropping a couple of teabags – white for her, green for Carlyle – into two mugs and adding boiling water from the kettle.
‘Thanks.’ Using the very tips of his fingers, Carlyle carefully dunked the bag a couple of times, before lifting it out and dropping it on a saucer waiting on the draining board.
Leaving her own teabag in the mug, Helen took a cautious sip of her tea. ‘There was no need for you to embarrass her like that.’
‘Come on,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not a big deal.’
‘It is to her.’
‘Would you prefer me to talk about how six people got shot in the park today?’ he asked angrily. ‘Including your friend Louisa – who was despatched to the great hotdog-stand in the sky.’ He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, but at least Helen was used to his potential for crassness.
She blanched. ‘They’re not saying a lot on the news. What exactly happened?’
Carlyle quickly ran through some heavily edited highlights.
‘Fucking hell, John,’ was her only response.
Putting down his tea, he gave her a hug. ‘The important thing to realize is that it’s over now. Everybody who the Israelis wanted dead is now dead. To them, Joe was only collateral damage. No one is coming after me either.’
‘What about you going after them, like you told Alice?’ she asked, pulling away from him.
He shook his head. ‘Never going to happen. The people responsible for this will be long gone by now. Even if they were still in London, which they’re not, the Met doesn’t have any jurisdiction. These guys are soldiers and I’m just a cop – a British cop at that. Not much use to anyone when the shooting starts.’
‘Jesus, John.’
For a moment, they stood silently sipping their tea, each keeping any doubts and fears unspoken.
FIFTY-TWO
The psychiatrist that Simpson had sent him was a short, wizened gent with long grey hair, a complete inability to maintain eye-contact, and an accent that Carlyle couldn’t place. Every time he spoke, the shrink would end up staring at his shoes as if lost in his own thoughts. Carlyle simply nodded and watched the minute hand of the clock on the wall tick round increasingly slowly.
After twenty minutes, there was a knock and Alison Roche stuck her head round the door. The shrink looked up, bemused.
‘I’m very sorry, Inspector,’ Roche said, trying her best to look disconcerted, ‘but I need to speak to you.’
Just about managing to keep a straight face, Carlyle nodded towards the psychiatrist. ‘Can it wait?’ he asked. ‘I’m in a meeting right now.’
Roche dropped her gaze to the floor. ‘I’m afraid that it’s really quite urgent, sir.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed, slowly getting to his feet. He turned to the shrink. ‘Apologies, but I need to confer with my sergeant.’
The man shrugged but said nothing.
Trying not to break into a run, Carlyle shuffled out of the door, pushing Roche in front of him.
‘You took your time,’ he said in mock annoyance once they had retreated further along the corridor.
‘You said twenty minutes,’ Roche smiled, ‘so I gave you precisely twenty minutes. Was he any use?’
‘Of course not,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘Now let’s go and get a coffee.’
* * *
They celebrated his escape from the forces of psychobabble with a trip to Carluccio’s on Rose Street. Sitting in one of the red leather booths, Carlyle sipped a double macchiato and nibbled on an almond croissant, while Roche had a glass of herbal tea. Waiting until he had finished his pastry, she reached into her bag and took out a copy of a grainy black-and-white photo. Placing it on the table, she pushed it over to Carlyle, who gave the image a careful once-over. It was clearly a still taken from a security camera positioned in the entrance to a tube station. Various people were entering and exiting through the barriers, but it wasn’t clear which one he should be interested in.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
Roche leaned across the table and tapped a finger next to the head of the man nearest the camera, who was passing through a barrier and into the station. Carlyle noticed that Alison was wearing green nail polish. Green, he thought, I’ve never seen that before. Somehow it seemed out of character, although, if pushed, he would have to admit that he didn’t have the first clue about Roche’s character.
‘Who is he?’
‘That is Sid Lieberman. He’s a military attaché at the Israeli Embassy.’ She moved her finger to the time and date stamp in the top right-hand corner of the image. ‘This shows him entering Marble Arch underground station just after the shooting started at Hyde Park Corner.’
Carlyle did the maths. The tube was a walk of only two or three minutes from the spot where Fadi, Louisa and the others had been murdered.
‘David sent this over this morning.’
‘Does he really think this guy is the killer?’
‘No.’ Roche shook her head. ‘Too senior. More likely a handler. But David thinks he was definitely involved.’
Carlyle tried to recall noticing anyone who might have been Lieberman hanging around the park before he had gone to take a piss, but his mind remained a blank. Still, this constituted progress. ‘How did SO15 manage to dig out this image?’ he asked.
‘Dunno,’ Roche said. ‘Luck, I guess.’
‘Well, it’s about bloody time we had some of that.’ Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘Let’s go and see your boyfriend and find out what he’s intending to do next.’
Ronan’s Heckler & Koch P30 didn’t set off the metal detector. Carlyle’s house keys did. Shaking his head, he allowed the guard to pat him down before he was buzzed through the turnstile that led to a further set of security doors. Having been buzzed through thos
e, they headed down a long hallway before eventually turning into the reception area.
Standing between Ronan and Roche, Carlyle patiently waited for the woman behind the desk to finish her phone call. A small badge above her left breast said that her name was Shahar. Looking her up and down, he guessed she was in her early twenties. Her jet-black hair was cut short; her face was pinched and unsympathetic. She was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt, revealing stick-like arms which reinforced the sense that what the woman needed above all else was a good feed. Having already worked himself into a foul mood, Carlyle took an instant dislike to young Shahar.
Finishing her call, the receptionist looked up at Roche and flashed a fake smile. ‘Good morning,’ she trilled. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We are here to see Mr Lieberman,’ Roche replied primly.
Shahar looked down a list of internal numbers and picked up the phone. ‘Where are you from?’
‘The Metropolitan Police,’ Roche told her.
A scowl crossed the woman’s face but she dialled the number and listened to it ring for several seconds. ‘I’m afraid there’s no reply,’ she said, holding the receiver away from her ear.
Fuck this, thought Carlyle, declaring, ‘Then we’ll see the Ambassador.’ In a previous case a few years earlier, he’d been helped hugely by the Chilean Ambassador after coming across a similar problem with a rogue employee. The experience had reinforced the maxim: If in doubt, go straight to the top. It suddenly struck him how the perpetrator in that particular case, a scumbag called Matias Gori, had been a military attaché as well. Why do we let all these fuckers into the country? he wondered.
‘You need to have an appointment,’ Shahar said curtly, ‘if you wish to see the Ambassador.’
Carlyle pulled a pair of Hiatt Speedcuffs out of his back pocket and waved them in front of the receptionist’s face. ‘Do you know what obstruction of justice means?’
‘Inspector.’ Roche put a restraining hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
‘You have to have an appointment,’ the woman repeated defiantly.
‘Right!’ Carlyle marched round the desk, hauled the woman to her feet, pulled her hands behind her back and roughly snapped on the cuffs, making them tight so that they wouldn’t slip off her skinny wrists. Ignoring the amused look in Ronan’s eyes, he pushed Shahar back into the chair. ‘You are now under arrest,’ he hissed as the receptionist burst into tears. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything that you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘What is going on here?’
The three of them turned away from the unfortunate Shahar to find themselves facing a middle-aged woman carrying a stack of papers, with a young male flunky in tow.
‘Police,’ said Ronan firmly as he flashed his ID.
‘What have you done to Shahar?’ the woman snapped. ‘You understand that you have no authority here.’
‘First things first,’ Carlyle snapped back. ‘Who are you?’
Shocked at the way his boss was being spoken to, the lackey looked as if his eyes were going to pop out. Her own eyes blazing, the woman took a step forward. If her hands weren’t already full, Carlyle reckoned that he would have been odds on to receive a good hard slap.
‘I’m Hilary Waxman, the Israeli Ambassador to London.’
‘Shall I call Security?’ the lackey squeaked.
Joining in the fun, Ronan pulled back his jacket to give everyone a glimpse of his P30.
Waxman eyed the gun carefully. ‘It’s okay, Daniel,’ she said. ‘Let’s all just calm down, shall we? I’m sure that these officers can explain what is going on here.’
‘We have an arrest warrant for one Sidney David Lieberman,’ said Ronan, tapping his jacket pocket.
‘As I said before,’ Waxman stated patiently, ‘you do not have any authority here in my Embassy.’
Roche smiled maliciously. ‘We are perfectly aware of the situation,’ she said. ‘However, given your extremely good relationship with our country and your obvious desire to see the rule of law upheld, we feel sure that you will wish to offer us every possible assistance in this matter.’
Tapping her foot on the carpet, Waxman gave Roche a look that screamed Go fuck yourself. After a moment, she thrust the papers at her aide. ‘Daniel, deal with these as we discussed.’ As the lackey scurried off, she turned back to the police officers. ‘Let’s talk about this in my office.’ She nodded towards Shahar, who was sitting, head bowed, mumbling to herself in a slightly hysterical manner. ‘After you’ve uncuffed our receptionist.’
Sitting in Waxman’s office, Carlyle wasn’t going to pass up on the chance to further wind up their host. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he grinned.
Settling herself behind her desk, the Ambassador simply ignored this impudent request. ‘You are in deep trouble, all of you, as a result of this outrageous and criminal behaviour. Apart from anything else, if I hadn’t turned up when I did, Security could have shot you.’ The tiniest of grins tickled the corners of her mouth. ‘And I think that the London Police Service has lost enough officers recently, don’t you?’
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle said nothing.
‘So,’ Waxman continued, ‘let’s see what we can do to try and avoid a diplomatic incident, and perhaps even save your jobs along the way.’ She paused, directing her gaze at DI Ronan before asking, ‘What precisely do you want with Mr Lieberman?’
‘The nature of the investigation is confidential,’ Ronan answered stiffly, ‘and also the investigation is ongoing, so I am afraid that we cannot go into details.’
Waxman shook her head sadly, as if every last ounce of her patience had already been wasted by these state-sanctioned idiots in front of her. ‘So how can I help you,’ she enquired, ‘if I don’t know what you need?’
‘What we need,’ Roche chipped in, ‘is to speak to Mr Lieberman.’
Waxman inspected each of them in turn. ‘I’m afraid that he is not here.’
‘Where is he?’ Carlyle demanded.
‘I have no idea,’ she shot back. ‘Sid Lieberman is a very senior colleague. I am not his keeper.’
‘Has he left the country?’ Roche probed.
Waxman shrugged. ‘It is possible. Travel, after all, is an integral part of a diplomat’s job.’
‘He’s hardly a diplomat,’ Carlyle snorted, ‘is he?’
Waxman drummed her fingers angrily on the table-top. ‘If you cannot be polite, Inspector,’ she said sharply, ‘I do not see the point of continuing with this meeting.’
‘Fine.’ Carlyle quickly got to his feet, followed by Roche and Ronan. ‘We will need Mr Lieberman’s home address in London, along with any contact details you have for him in Israel and elsewhere.’
‘Of course,’ Waxman said, lowering her gaze. ‘If you make a formal request, through the proper channels – that is to say the Foreign Office – I am sure that we will be able to do what we can to help you.’
Fuck you, thought Carlyle.
Screw you, too, thought Waxman. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She reached for the phone on her desk. ‘I will get my assistant to see you out.’
FIFTY-THREE
‘In his assessment, Dr Wolf thought that you were both engaged and responsive,’ Simpson said, sounding suitably surprised. ‘He used the phrase ‘‘mentally robust.’’ ’
Carlyle sat back in his chair and casually lifted his feet onto his desk. ‘Good,’ he said, happy that Simpson, on the other end of the line, could not witness the dismissive gesture he made with his hand.
‘He thinks that there will be no need to make any note in your file . . .’
‘Excellent.’
‘. . . once you’ve completed an agreed number of sessions.’
Typical, Carlyle thought. Everyone is on the make, even the shrinks. Especially the shrinks. Now, however, wasn’t the time to antagonize his boss by complaini
ng. ‘Fine,’ he said, trying to keep the total lack of enthusiasm out of his voice.
‘I will get the doctor’s office to arrange some times,’ said Simpson briskly, knowing that she had to press home her advantage immediately, before the inspector tried to wriggle off his hook.
‘Okay. So, where are we on the other things?’
‘I’ve heard no more about the Hooper investigation,’ Simpson sighed, ‘but you should get the chance to speak to Ambrose Watson about that soon enough.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. He will be part of the ICC investigation into Hyde Park.’ She let out a small chuckle. ‘They clearly seem to think that old Ambrose is becoming a bit of an expert on you. You could become the first officer in the Met to have his own dedicated Internal Investigations Command handler.’
Ha, bloody ha. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first,’ Carlyle said tartly.
‘I expect to be speaking to both the IIC and the IPCC during the next couple of days,’ Simpson continued, ‘so we’ll see where things stand after that. I should imagine that both investigations should be relatively straightforward.’
Compared to the Hooper case, Carlyle thought, anything would be straightforward.
‘You are building up quite a track record, though, John.’
The inspector merely grunted.
‘Every time your name appears in regard to another investigation, it becomes more likely that someone is going to discern a pattern emerging.’
‘What pattern?’ Carlyle frowned.
‘I didn’t say that there actually was a pattern,’ Simpson told him, ‘but that isn’t going to stop someone at IIC from looking for one. That’s what they do. It’s what we do, for that matter.’
‘Mm.’
‘You may think he’s a bit of a loser, but good old Ambrose is very fair. Some of his colleagues might turn out to be less so if they come to believe that you are in some way dodgy, and then decide to go after you.’
‘Everyone gets investigated,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘even you.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Simpson agreed, ‘but not with regard to two separate cases involving multiple homicide, at the same time – including the multiple homicide of fellow officers.’
