Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  The photographer turned to her, holding the camera in his outstretched hand. Unlike his mates, he was wearing the shirt of a team that she did not recognize. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t a London team, at any rate. ‘Will you shoot the three of us?’ he asked, switching on a friendly smile.

  Gladly, Elma thought, and marched away. Taking the brusque rejection in his stride, the Dutchman went off in search of someone who might be more accommodating of his modest request.

  A spaceship? ‘God, give us grace,’ Elma mumbled, ‘to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed.’ Not that she had much option; it was far too late to do anything about it now.

  Beneath the banner was a board bearing the greeting which was the only real clue as to the event’s true purpose: The Christian Salvation Centre™ welcomes you to the First Annual Miracle & Healing Conference™ (Motto: ‘Believe and it will happen.’ ™).

  I should’ve just told them to put my picture up there, the CSC’s CEO and Life President thought sourly. If you don’t keep it simple, these boys are simply guaranteed to get it wrong.

  A diffident-looking young man allowed himself to be intercepted by the photographer and set about taking a series of pictures of the Dutch trio. After handing back the camera, he walked over to Elma.

  ‘Which spaceship is that?’ she scowled, pointing at the wall.

  Melville Farasin, Elma’s special assistant, was caught taking his iPhone from the pocket of his trousers. ‘Huh?’

  ‘The banner,’ Elma said irritably, ‘the spaceship on the banner. Where did you get it from?’

  Melville reluctantly returned the phone to his pocket. ‘No idea.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve no idea?’ The woman felt her hackles rising. ‘If you’ve no idea, why did you let them put it on there?’ The boy had always tried her patience and, if anything, the problem was getting worse. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the son of her best friend, Wendy, there was no doubt that young Melville would have been sacked long ago. As it was, keeping him in gainful employ was stretching her definition of Christian patience to breaking point. Wendy had never confessed the identity of the boy’s father – Elma was sure that was because the man in question must have been an out-and-out imbecile.

  Melville took a deep breath. His boss was a small woman with a big mean streak; how she had been chosen to spread the word of God was something of a mystery to him. If it wasn’t for fear of upsetting his mum, Melville would have packed this job in long ago. Burger King would have provided more spirituality, not to mention money. ‘You told me to get something that indicated a long journey,’ he reminded her, trying to keep any kind of whining tone from his voice. ‘Terence will have sourced it from the internet or something.’

  Grimacing, Elma picked a piece of lint from her designer kaftan. Terence McGuiver was another troublesome youth, steadfastly refusing to allow Jesus into his heart. But he was cheap and somehow managed to keep the Salvation Centre’s digital operations on the road, so he would probably last longer than Melville. ‘This is the Church of God,’ she said wearily, ‘not Star Trek. Probably a breach of copyright too.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Melville replied, ‘it’s not the Starship Enterprise.’ He pointed at the poster. ‘The USS Enterprise – the ship from Star Trek – has kind of wings at the back.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Elma waved away his explanation with an angry hand. ‘Star Trek, Star Wars . . .’

  ‘Star Wars? That’s not really Terry’s kind of thing either. It’s more likely from Prometheus, somethin’ like that.’

  Pushing back her shoulders, Elma tried to give the boy a hard stare. Even in her heels, however, she barely came up to his chin. ‘Regardless of its name,’ she hissed, ‘it has got ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with the sweet Lord Jesus, has it?’

  ‘Well,’ Melville stroked his chin in mock contemplation, ‘I think I read somewhere that there are those who think that Jesus was some kind of spaceman.’

  Resisting the temptation to give the boy a sharp clip round the ear, Elma moved on. ‘How many have we got?’ she asked, looking around the largely empty foyer.

  Melville tapped a couple of keys on his phone and gazed enquiringly at the screen. ‘One hundred and twenty-six, so far.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Elma shook her head in disbelief. If she didn’t get at least double that into the Novotel’s theatre and conference centre, the CSC would struggle to cover its costs. Miracle & Healing™ was supposed to be a flagship event. Elma had shipped speakers over from India and the United States; if the conference was a flop, her chances of breaking out of the London market and going international would take a serious hit. ‘Don’t people in this God-forsaken city want to be healed?’

  ‘We have three hundred registered attendees,’ the boy said quickly, ‘and after leafleting the local neighbourhood last night, we are anticipating walk-in of up to a hundred.’

  ‘Let’s hope they bring their credit cards,’ Elma snapped, ‘and are ready to spend big.’ Checking her Rolex Oyster Perpetual – a gift from a grateful member of her flock – she felt exhausted, completely devoid of the energy she would need for her sermon, which was due to start in less than two hours’ time. Closing her eyes, Elma pushed her mantra to the front of her brain:

  God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

  God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

  God will not give me anything I can’t handle.

  With a sigh, she pointed towards the Business Centre, past the reception desk towards the back of the hotel. ‘Go and check that my speech is ready. We’ll do a final rehearsal later.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘We will,’ Elma insisted. ‘Right now, I need to go and get some rest. If I’m not at my best, you know I won’t be able to perform.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You know so, boy.’ She brusquely waved him away. ‘Now go and get busy.’

  Melville looked at her blankly. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Whatever it is you do,’ Elma said tiredly. ‘Whatever it is you do.’

  FOUR

  ‘You’re already in the paper.’ Inspector John Carlyle casually tossed his copy of the Evening Standard across the desk before pulling up a chair and plonking himself down.

  Putting down his mug of tea, Seymour Erikssen picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and brought it up till it was about three inches from his nose. Squinting at his photograph, he smiled. ‘That’s from quite a few years ago now,’ he mused. ‘I was looking good back then. Had more hair, for a start. Not so many lines around the eyes.’

  ‘We’re all getting older.’ The inspector took a bulging file of notes from under his arm and placed them carefully in front of him.

  ‘Yes, we are.’ Seymour dropped the paper back on the desk. ‘I remember you when you first arrived here at Charing Cross nick. That must have been about . . . what, fifteen, sixteen years ago?’

  ‘Something like that.’ The old guy was a few years out but the inspector wasn’t minded to correct him.

  Seymour looked him up and down. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight since then. Lost some hair yourself.’ He gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘And when did you start wearing specs?’

  ‘A while ago now.’ Carlyle reflexively touched his Lindberg frames. He was long due another eye-test, but with glasses at £450 a pair it could wait.

  Seymour patted his jacket pocket. ‘I’m not sure where I put mine. I think I might have lost them earlier this evening.’

  ‘When you were running down Monmouth Street with three iPads under your arm, trying to evade WPC Mason?’

  ‘Could be,’ Seymour acknowledged breezily. ‘She’s quite nippy, that girl.’

  ‘They all are,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘once you get to your age.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Seymour replied wistfully, ‘But back in the day . . .’

  ‘Back in
the day,’ Carlyle reminded him gently, ‘you were still getting caught.’

  ‘Hmm. I must have been one of your first arrests when you got here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Remind me, where did you come from?’

  ‘Bethnal Green.’

  ‘Bethnal Green, that’s right. A bit grim out there.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Poor pickings compared to the West End.’

  ‘Doesn’t make any odds, does it, if you keep on getting caught?’

  Seymour gave him an amused look that made the inspector wonder just how often the old burglar hadn’t been caught, and asked, ‘How many times is it now?’

  ‘That I’ve nicked you?’ Carlyle looked heavenward. ‘I dunno, seven maybe? Eight? Too bloody many, anyway.’

  ‘Come on, Inspector,’ Seymour chuckled, ‘lighten up, it’s just a game.’

  ‘A game you keep losing.’

  ‘It’s not the winning, as my old ma used to say, it’s the taking part.’

  ‘Seymour . . .’

  Lifting the newspaper from the desk, Erikssen scanned the story of his latest arrest for a second time. ‘Still, at least I made page four.’

  ‘It’s nothing to be proud about.’ Leaning across the table, the inspector tapped the headline under Seymour’s nose: BACK BEHIND BARS: LONDON’S MOST HOPELESS CRIMINAL.

  Seymour finished reading the article and noted, ‘The press got on to it quick.’

  Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Who’s the journalist?’

  ‘No idea.’ The inspector didn’t need to check the byline. Bernard Gilmore was one of Carlyle’s long-term journalist contacts. The fact that he had tipped Bernie off the night before was not something he was going to share with Seymour. ‘Anyway, it’s not exactly something to tell the grandkids about.’

  ‘They know already.’

  God give me strength, Carlyle thought.

  Taking a sip of his tea, the burglar sniggered. ‘At least I’m famous.’

  Under the hard strip-lighting of the interview room, Carlyle noticed that Erikssen’s hands were shaking quite badly. His silver hair was thin on top, almost to the point of extinction, and his cheeks were hollow. Not exactly a great advert for a career in breaking and entering. The guy must be pushing seventy by now, he thought. Maybe he’s ill. ‘Are you okay?’

  All he got in reply was a non-committal grunt.

  Opening the file, Carlyle looked down at his papers. Seymour’s criminal record ran to twelve pages of A4.

  Seymour pointed at the file. ‘I would have thought you’d have all that on computer by now.’

  The inspector flicked through the pages. ‘Not when your first conviction is from Dorking Juvenile Court in 1957.’

  ‘Convicted of larceny.’ Seymour smiled at the memory. ‘A year’s probation and ten shillings in costs.’

  Carlyle looked up from the papers. ‘Nothing wrong with your memory, then.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Seymour tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘Sharp as a tack.’

  ‘Still, I don’t think that two hundred and fifty-two convictions over a period of fifty-three years is the kind of claim to fame that most people would want.’

  ‘It’s a living.’

  ‘Seymour, you are the worst bloody burglar I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s time to retire.’

  ‘What would I do?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Feeling quite old himself, Carlyle made a face. ‘Something.’

  ‘Inspector?’

  Swivelling in his chair, Carlyle turned to see the aforementioned WPC Mason with her head stuck round the interview-room door and a serious look on her face. She glanced at Erikssen before telling her superior officer: ‘We’ve got a situation.’

  FIVE

  The corridor was so full of people he could hardly get through. Nodding at the uniform stationed at the front door of the flat, the inspector brushed past a couple of forensics guys and headed inside. In the living room, he clocked the girl watching cartoons on the sofa, studiously ignoring all the excitement going on around her, and headed towards the grinding sound of metal on metal coming from further back inside.

  Stepping into what looked like a study, he nodded a greeting at Umar Sligo. Hands on hips, the sergeant was watching a man on his knees, trying to drill a hole in a door in the far corner of the room. Carlyle shot Umar an enquiring look. All he got back was a weary shrug.

  The workman was clearly getting nowhere. Waiting for him to stop, the inspector looked around the room. On the far wall was a large framed poster from the recent Art as Life Bauhaus exhibition at the Barbican. Carlyle recalled his wife dragging him along to it a few months earlier. It had been vaguely interesting but tiring; for some reason, museums always seemed to exhaust him, almost from the moment he walked through their doors.

  Scrutinizing the image of a woman in a gimp mask, it took the inspector a moment to notice that the drilling had stopped. He waited for the ringing in his ears to die down before turning back to his colleague.

  ‘What’s been going on here then?’

  ‘Man locked himself in the bathroom,’ Umar chuckled, ‘and can’t get out.’

  ‘And we can’t get in?’

  The workman struggled to his feet. ‘It’s a panic room; reinforced steel. Looks like the lock has jammed, or something.’ He dropped the drill into an outsized bag of tools. ‘You’re going to have to get the company that installed it to come round and get him out.’

  ‘They’re on their way,’ Umar explained, ‘but it could take a while.’

  The inspector felt a spasm of irritation. He hadn’t eaten all day and knew that if he didn’t get some sustenance soon, someone would suffer. ‘How long?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ Umar replied. ‘It’s gonna take an hour or so for the engineer to get here. When he does, it might take five minutes to fix, it might take five hours. We just don’t know.’

  Carlyle stared at the door. To his highly trained eyes, it looked like a normal bathroom door. ‘The guy in there, is he okay?’

  ‘He’s a bit embarrassed, but fine.’

  ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘He’s got a landline installed in there. I spoke to him on the phone about ten minutes ago. He’s got enough food and water in there to last for twenty-four hours, apparently.’

  At least he’s getting fed, Carlyle thought grumpily.

  ‘And Triple RXD says the panic room has its own dedicated clean air supply.’

  ‘Triple RXD?’

  ‘The specialist security company that installed the panic room.’

  ‘And who’s the kid sitting in the living room watching TV?’

  ‘That’s the guy’s granddaughter.’

  So the guy ran into his panic room and left the kid? Carlyle was less than impressed.

  ‘We’re trying to track down the mother at the moment,’ Umar continued. ‘Meantime, I’ve got a female PCSO to sit with the girl. She seems fine.’

  The inspector hadn’t seen any support officer on his way in but he let that slide. ‘So, what exactly happened here?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Before his sergeant could explain, Carlyle raised a hand. ‘First things first,’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’

  Laura Stevenson flipped the Closed sign and locked the door. Carlyle and Umar were the only patrons left in the 93 Coffee Bar but Laura had known the inspector a long time and she was not going to hurry them out.

  ‘Take your time,’ she said, heading behind the counter. ‘I’ll be a little while yet.’

  ‘Thanks, Laura. That was great.’ Pushing away his empty plate, the revived inspector leaned back in his chair and smiled in satisfaction.

  ‘More coffee?’

  The inspector held up a hand. ‘Not for me, thanks. I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I drink far too much already as it is. I get loads of grief about it
at home.’

  ‘Addicted,’ Laura tutted, coming back over to take away his plate.

  Carlyle waited until she had gone before turning to his sergeant. ‘How long had you been at the flat before I got there?’

  Umar made a face. ‘Half an hour or so, maybe forty-five minutes. It was pretty clear from the off that it was going to take a while to get him out.’

  Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘You got there quick.’

  ‘I was on my way home when I got the call. Christina wasn’t best pleased.’

  Carlyle gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘She’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘She’ll have to.’

  Umar said nothing.

  ‘Still not getting any sleep?’

  Umar shook his head. The dark rings under his eyes told their own story. Parenthood had begun chipping away at his youthful good looks. All in all, it made the inspector feel decidedly chipper.

  ‘Don’t worry; you just have to muddle through as best you can. It’s the same for everyone. And it gets easier as they get older.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Umar said wearily. ‘Ella’s still waking every couple of hours. Christina’s walking round like a zombie and I just feel knackered all the time. It’s almost been a year . . .’

  Birthday alert, Carlyle thought and made a mental note to mention it to his wife. Helen would know what kind of present to get for a one year old. Some kind of fluffy toy, probably. He gave his colleague a gentle pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. One down, only another twenty or so years to go.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Umar laughed. ‘You’re always such a great help.’

  ‘My pleasure. Tell me about the guy in the bathroom.’

  ‘Ok-ay.’ Umar pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through the pages until he found his notes. ‘His name is Joseph Belsky and he is a cartoonist.’

  Carlyle seeing a sketch taped to a drawing board in the flat. ‘So?’

  ‘He works for various newspapers,’ Umar continued. ‘Apparently, a few years ago he drew a cartoon of the prophet Muhammad . . .’

  ‘Uh oh.’ Carlyle was not liking where this was going.