by James Craig
The director let out a long breath. ‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘Better late than never,’ Umar quipped.
‘At least we didn’t have to try and go in through the wall,’ said the director, wiping his brow with a paper napkin from a nearby café. ‘That could have taken days.’
‘Always good to look on the bright side,’ said Umar, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Stepping past the engineer, he carefully pulled open the door a couple of inches.
‘Mr Belsky,’ he said gently, ‘it’s the police. Apologies for the delay in getting you out of here. Apparently it was caused by some kind of computer glitch that kept the lock . . . er, locked.’
‘A computer error that was not something we could have anticipated,’ the director piped up from behind him. ‘It was just a very unfortunate set of circumstances.’
That’ll be a matter for your lawyers to sort out, thought Umar, irritated by the guy’s intervention. Shuffling forward, he put his head closer to the crack in the door. From inside the bathroom he could hear the sound of a tap running. ‘Mr Belsky?’ Turning away, he signalled for the WPC to clear the room. Once he was alone, he took a deep breath to prepare himself. Then, pulling the door properly open, he stepped up to the threshold and looked inside.
‘Oh shit . . .’
FOURTEEN
She wanted to move.
She couldn’t.
The ceiling, however, was moving – gently lurching from side to side, as if she was on a ship, rocking up and down on a gentle swell. With a shudder, Carole Simpson realized that she was going to throw up. Tossing back the duvet, she jumped out of bed and sprinted into the bathroom. Making it just in time, she deposited the remains of last night’s partially digested risotto capesante into the empty bath in a series of satisfying retches. Turning to the basin, she rinsed her mouth with water from the tap before slumping on to the cool tiled floor.
Resting her forehead against the rim of the tub, she listened to the blood throbbing in her temples. It had been the kind of heavy night that took her back to her university days – well, almost. Had it been fun? Or just an embarrassment? She was too wasted to tell. Trying to tune out the headache that was relentlessly building from the base of her skull, she took a couple of slow, deep breaths and waited.
After throwing up for a second time, the Commander was reasonably confident that there was nothing more to come from her stomach. Reaching for the shower attachment, she carefully washed away her vomit, before stepping into the bath and taking a quick, lukewarm shower. Feeling marginally better, she padded back into the bedroom encased in a hotel bathrobe. Her new friend was still face down in the bed, snoring loudly. Catching sight of his hairy back, she feared that she might throw up again. When the moment passed, she allowed herself a wry smile. ‘In the end, you couldn’t get it up,’ she mumbled to herself, ‘could you?’
By way of reply, the Deputy Chief Constable issued a loud fart and pulled a pillow over his head. With an amused sigh, Simpson began recovering her clothing from the floor. She had just put on her bra and was looking for her knickers when the strains of ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ began issuing from her DKNY leather clutch.
‘Damn.’ Glancing at the bed, she grabbed her bag and quickly retreated back into the bathroom. Pushing the door closed, she perched on the lid of the toilet seat and answered her BlackBerry, cutting off Katherine Jenkins in full flow.
I must change my ringtone, she thought. ‘Hello?’
‘Carole,’ came the brusque voice down the line, ‘it’s Dudley Whitehead.’
Whitehead was her line manager, one of the Met’s Deputy Assistant Commissioners. What the hell did he want? The Commander suddenly felt a desperate urge to pee. Sliding off the seat, she opened the lid and tried to go as quietly as possible.
‘Carole?’
‘Yes?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m . . .’ for a moment, her mind went completely blank. ‘I’m at the Home Office conference. The one at . . .’ she struggled to remember the name of the hotel ‘. . . the one on Park Lane.’
Whitehead thought about that for a second. ‘Good. Be in my office in thirty minutes.’
So much for the bloody case being closed. Umar had been sent home to get a couple of hours’ sleep and the inspector was back in charge of the scene. Ignoring the ambulance crew hovering behind him, Carlyle stood in the middle of Joseph Belsky’s study, staring into space as he waited for Susan Phillips to emerge from the bathroom. In his mind he was going through a checklist of all the people he needed to speak to in the light of this most unfortunate development. Each addition to the list added a notch to his level of frustration.
How had something so simple managed to become so complicated?
After a few minutes, the pathologist appeared in the doorway and gave him a rueful smile. Dressed in faded jeans and a crisp white shirt, with her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, she was looking good.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ he quipped.
‘Hm.’ Phillips’ smile quickly ebbed away. ‘Nico isn’t best pleased. He had plans for today.’
Nico? That must be the current boyfriend. Carlyle didn’t ask – there would be another one along in a minute. Phillips was high maintenance. Unlike Helen. He thought of his wife and gave silent thanks for her many qualities.
‘We were supposed to be going to the races.’
‘Shame.’ The inspector glanced towards the door. From here, all you could see of the body were the bright red Converse All Stars on Belsky’s feet. ‘What happened?’
‘Hard to say.’ Phillips pulled off her latex gloves. ‘Maybe he had some kind of stroke.’
Carlyle wondered about Taimur Rage. Should the boy now be charged with murder? He would have to talk to Simpson about that. ‘Presumably it was stress-related?’
‘Possibly. It might have been triggered by the attack or it might have been brought on by being stuck inside the panic room.’
Triple RXD are not going to like that, Carlyle thought.
‘Or it might just be a coincidence. The guy was in his late sixties and not in great shape. Maybe it would have happened anyway.’
‘That would be handy,’ Carlyle said hopefully. ‘Less paperwork.’
‘It will be what it will be,’ Phillips said flatly, not appreciating the quip. ‘I’m not going to commit myself now.’
‘No, no, of course not.’
She signalled to the paramedics that they could take Belsky away. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had a look.’
‘Thanks.’ Following Phillips into the living room, he stepped over to the window and peered out at the city.
‘Nice view,’ said Phillips, gesturing at the river as she appeared at his shoulder.
‘Yeah.’
‘Expensive.’
‘No doubt.’ Placing his forehead against the window pane, he tried to make out the press pack waiting on the street below. Unsurprisingly, it had grown after Belsky’s death had become known and there were at least three satellite trucks broadcasting live from the scene.
‘Are you going to say anything?’ Phillips asked.
‘Not if I can avoid it,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Seeing as I’ve got nothing to say. That kind of thing is best left to the Commander.’ It suddenly struck him as odd that Carole Simpson hadn’t yet given him a call. With the news all over the TV and the internet, she would normally be hassling him for updates at every opportunity.
‘And what about the other one?’
‘What other one?’ Carlyle frowned.
‘The man who keeled over on Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Oh, him.’ The inspector made a face. ‘Haven’t seen any paperwork yet. And I haven’t had time to check the contents of his briefcase.’
Phillips shot him a disapproving stare.
‘Have you taken a look yet?’ Carlyle countered. ‘Was it a heart attack?’
‘That’s still tbc. With no suspicious
circumstances, he’s not a top priority. We’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment.’
Just for a change, the inspector thought.
‘And Belsky, of course, will jump in front of him in the queue.’
‘I don’t suppose he’ll complain.’
‘But his family will.’
That reminds me, Carlyle thought, I’d better see if someone’s checked the Missing Persons list. ‘If he has one.’
‘It’s a really shit part of the job. Having to explain to people why they can’t have the body of their loved one back. They think we’re just lazy and slow, but it’s the bloody cuts. They’re killing us.’
‘Yes.’
Realizing that he wasn’t interested in listening to yet another complaint about government incompetence and their draconian cuts in police spending, she quickly returned to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, my best guess is that our Waterloo Bridge Guy won’t be done up for a couple more days yet at the absolute earliest.’ She gave him a winning smile. ‘Don’t worry though, I’ll get him cut open before the end of next week.’
Lovely, Carlyle thought, fighting to keep a mental image of Phillips with a scalpel out of his head. Squeamish at the best of times, he didn’t like to dwell too much on what happened to her clients once they reached the slab.
Aware of his weak stomach, the smile on Phillips’ face grew wider. ‘You can come and watch me do the autopsy, if you like.’
‘That’s very kind,’ holding up a hand, Carlyle was already heading out of the flat, ‘but not really necessary . . .’
FIFTEEN
‘Oh, my.’ Slowly, the Reverend Jerome Mears lifted up his left foot and carefully removed the used Trojan that had stuck to it. Lifting the condom a couple of inches in front of his nose, he carefully inspected the contents. Who said London girls didn’t know how to party? The fact that one had been Danish and the other had been what – Irish? – was neither here nor there.
Looking slowly around the hotel room, Jerome couldn’t spy a trash can. After a moment’s contemplation he dropped the offending article into a dirty tea cup sitting on the desk by the far wall. Scratching his balls vigorously, he breathed in the familiar smells of sweat, spilled juices and sex. The girls had long gone, leaving the hotel room looking as if it had just hosted a Guns ’N’ Roses after-party. ‘We are all slaves to sin,’ Jerome said aloud. ‘Some more than others.’
However, rather than feeling wasted after his night of debauchery, he felt energized. Despite the three of them putting away seven bottles of champagne, he didn’t have any trace of a hangover. And the alcohol certainly hadn’t negatively impacted his performance. Thinking about the events of last night was giving him a boner – but a few quick tugs were enough for him to realize that the tank was empty. He needed food. Letting his dick fall from his hand, he reached for the room service menu and ordered a Full English breakfast.
After he had showered and dressed, the Reverend began packing for the flight home. He had a sermon to preach in Houston in less than twenty-four hours. It would be a blessed relief to be back in the fold among true believers. The King’s Cross crowd had been so lame he had been seriously worried that Elma Reyes was indeed going to try and stiff him on the balance of his fee. Recalling the moment when she dropped her towel and stood in front of him buck naked, he shuddered.
In the end, after a lot of grumbling and a half-hearted effort at renegotiating, Elma had come up with his cash. But, from a professional point of view, the whole experience had been deeply unsatisfactory. By his calculation, there had been less than a hundred people in the audience and Jerome strongly suspected that many of those were ringers, stand-ins who had been rounded up by some of Elma’s little helpers. Before the first Halleluiah had issued from his mouth, the Reverend had already decided that he would not be coming back. The First Annual Miracle & Healing Conference™ would also be the last Annual Miracle & Healing Conference™ as far as he was concerned. This had been a onetime gig. London? What a total dump. Even the good-time girls couldn’t save it.
Stuffing the last of his toiletries into his Louis Vuitton weekend bag, Jerome pulled open the closet door – and froze. ‘Oh, my good Lord.’ He stood there, willing the evidence of his eyes to be false. At the back of the closet, the mini-safe was wide open and his cash – the fee from Elma – was gone. ‘I’ve been robbed,’ he breathed, not willing to believe it. ‘God give me strength. I’ve been robbed.’
It must have been quite a party. Unable to open any of the windows, Sonia Mason wrinkled her nose at the stale smell. Looking towards the door, the WPC wondered how long it would be before she could escape. Her partner, an amiable galoot called Joe Lucas, had disappeared, leaving Sonia alone with the weirdo in the funny suit.
Standing by the closet containing the empty safe, the guy was making no effort to hide his thoughts. He was looking Mason up and down like . . . well, suffice to say, his tongue was hanging out and he was dribbling on the carpet. It was almost as if the guy had forgotten why he’d called 999 in the first place. Sonia realized that it was less about her and more about the uniform. She didn’t feel threatened but the whole thing was depressingly gross. Why did the sight of a WPC’s outfit give 90 per cent of guys a hard-on? Okay, maybe not 90 per cent, but certainly a majority. Off duty, she only received a fraction of the attention that came her way when she was on the job. Maybe it was a power thing.
Taking a half-step away from the guy, she glanced down at the scribble in her notebook. ‘So, sir, you estimate that there was approximately nine thousand pounds in cash in the safe?’
‘Nine thousand, six hundred,’ Jerome corrected her. The remains of the twelve grand he’d got from Elma minus the money for the girls. The latter were the most likely suspects. All he knew about them, beyond a certain lack of inhibition, was that they had answered to the names Hannah and Jocelyn. Unless the hotel management managed to identify them from the CCTV, there was next to zero chance of tracking them down.
Looking up, Mason frowned. ‘Wasn’t that rather a lot of cash to be keeping in your hotel room?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jerome said cheerily. ‘Is it?’ His initial dismay at losing the cash had been replaced by a certain philosophical detachment. After all, he told himself, the Lord works in mysterious ways. More importantly, he was fairly sure that his insurance would pick up the tab. ‘Money isn’t really my thing.’
What a load of old bollocks, Mason thought. Money is everybody’s thing.
‘In my line of work . . .’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘I’m a consultant.’
‘Okay.’ Who cared what the guy did for a living? They were all going through the motions here. This wasn’t an investigation, just a bureaucratic procedure. Mason tore a blank page from her notebook and scribbled an address on it. ‘You’ll need to come down to the station,’ she said, handing him the piece of paper, ‘and speak to the desk sergeant. He’ll give you a crime number. You’ll need that if you are intending to make a claim on your insurance policy.’
A pained expression slipped across Jerome’s face. ‘But I have a plane to catch,’ he whined.
Mason gave him an unconcerned smile. ‘It’s not far from here, it shouldn’t take you long.’ The door opened and she turned to see PC Lucas finally reappear, a paper cup in each hand. Stepping forward, she reached out to relieve him of one of them. ‘Thanks, Joe.’
‘No problem,’ Lucas mumbled, avoiding eye-contact.
He fancies me, Mason thought, taking a sip of her latte. Shame he’s not my type. It was always good, however, to have a few tame admirers around. ‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe you could take Mr . . .’ she suddenly realized she had forgotten the guy’s name.
‘Mears,’ Jerome reminded her.
‘Maybe you could take Mr Mears down to the station and sort him out with a reference number for his insurance claim while I go and talk to the management.’ Without waiting for a reply, she s
idled past her colleague and out into the corridor. Heading for the lifts, she took a succession of deep breaths, clearing the stale air from her nostrils as quickly as possible.
SIXTEEN
It was an outrage. Looking up at the TV screen hanging from his ceiling, the inspector shook his head. The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ was playing over an airline advert. What would Joe Strummer have made of it? One of Carlyle’s pet hates was advertisers using songs that he liked. It just seemed so . . . invidious, something that it was impossible to escape. He regularly started singing snippets of ‘London Calling’ to himself as he walked down the road, but he didn’t want to be reminded of a bloody travel company while he did so. He remembered reading not so long ago how one of the Beastie Boys had written into his will that advertisers could not use his music. Good for him.
As the advert finished, he watched his sergeant slowly make his way across the third floor towards his desk and said, ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘I went home to get a few hours’ kip.’ Unshaven and rather dishevelled, Umar looked like he’d slept on the streets. ‘In the end, it was more like a couple of hours’ babysitting.’
Carlyle grunted unsympathetically. ‘Christina not very supportive then, was she?’
Umar’s look said it all.
‘I remember that. Helen was just the same.’
‘It’s like she thinks I just sit around the station all day, having a rest,’ he yawned, ‘so that when I get home—’
‘Tell me about it.’ Contemplating their fate, the inspector felt a familiar pang of self-pity. As far as he was aware, his father, Alexander, had never changed a single nappy when he was a nipper. In terms of looking after the baby and running the house, his mother had done it all. Nowadays, ‘new men’ – or whatever the hell they were called – couldn’t get away with simply putting bread on the table. Social expectations had changed. Carlyle and Umar were definitely on the wrong end of history when it came to doling out the chores. Now that Alice was older, he could be more philosophical about it, but there were times when it still rankled.
