by James Craig
‘Sorry?’
‘I got hauled down to the Yard today because of this.’
Ah, thought Carlyle, that explains the mood.
‘Didn’t have a bloody clue what Whitehead was banging on about.’
The inspector frowned. Who’s Whitehead?
‘And I had to swear that you would do a proper job.’
‘I am doing a proper job.’
The Commander gave no indication that she supported that assertion. ‘The Commissioner wants action.’
‘Good for him,’ Carlyle snorted.
‘Don’t come the petulant schoolboy with me, Inspector.’ Swaying slightly, Simpson almost slipped off the edge of the desk. She definitely looks like she’s going to throw up, Carlyle thought. ‘You know how difficult the current financial and political context is in which we have to operate. We need more than just a confession.’
The financial and political context? ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means that you have to get your arse back out there and find out exactly who put this boy . . .’
‘Taimur Rage.’
‘Who put him up to it. Go and speak to his family, friends, associates. We need a more rounded picture of this young man, his thought processes, his networks. His connections.’
Christ, thought Carlyle sullenly, talk about creating work. ‘But—’
‘We need more action,’ said Simpson, cutting him off. ‘We need more arrests. The public want to know that we can protect them.’
We can’t always protect them, that’s the point.
‘It has to be zero tolerance.’
For the truth.
‘Otherwise the security boys take over. You lose your conviction and the MPS is seen as being sidelined when it comes to keeping London safe.’
So that’s what it’s about. Carlyle had no time for turf wars. ‘Let them have it.’
‘No, I will not let them have it,’ Simpson insisted. ‘The Commissioner will not let them have it. This is our responsibility. To hand a case like this over to someone else would be seen as an admission that the Metropolitan Police can’t do its job; that we can’t protect our own city. I will not allow it.’ She pointed towards the window. ‘So get out there right now and damn well find me something.’
Carlyle was taken aback. It had been a long time since he had heard the Commander sound so strident. Looking round the room, he realized that a group of colleagues had stopped to listen in on their conversation. Irritated, Simpson waved them all back to work. As he watched them slope off, the inspector considered arguing back. He had done his job – and done it in double-quick time too. The idea that he was somehow failing to protect his fellow Londoners was ludicrous. He was about to open his mouth but, catching Simpson’s glare, he thought better of it. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘okay. You’re the boss. I’m on it.’
‘Inspector.’
Bollocks. He was just about to make a dash for the exit when he was cut off by a slack-looking woman pushing a baby buggy. Narrowly avoiding falling on top of the child, the inspector admitted defeat. Trying to escape was futile. He turned to face his pursuer.
Dressed in a garish Prince of Wales check suit, Chris Brennan had gone to seed since their last meeting. His cheeks were puffy and his hairline not so much receding as running away. The deep lines around his eyes suggested that decades of partying were finally catching up with him.
‘I wondered if I could have a word.’
You’ve got a bloody nerve, turning up here. Sticking his hands firmly in his pockets, Carlyle glared at the lawyer, ‘Mr Brennan. What can I do for you?’
Brennan waved for him to come closer. Reluctantly, the inspector complied. ‘It’s about my colleague,’ he said quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Brian Winters.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘His briefcase.’
Get to the point. Hopping from foot to foot, the inspector was keen to get going. He didn’t want Simpson to find him still here when she made her own exit. ‘What about it?’
‘You have it.’ Brennan smiled, like a fox might smile at a chicken. ‘I need it.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘I do?’
‘Poor Brian had a fatal cardiac arrest while crossing Waterloo Bridge,’ Brennan explained. ‘I understand that you were the officer on the scene. He had certain important client documents in his briefcase. I need to get hold of them.’
The briefcase in the evidence room. He’d forgotten all about it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Simpson heading down the corridor in his direction.
‘Well?’
‘Sorry, you’ve got that wrong.’ Carlyle began edging towards the door. ‘I was dealing with something else.’ Ignoring the dark look on Brennan’s face, he ploughed on. ‘Your colleague was handled by a couple of officers from the Waterloo station. You’d better go and talk to the desk sergeant over there.’
Brennan knew that he was being fobbed off and he didn’t like it one little bit. ‘But—’
The Commander was getting closer. Catching Carlyle’s eye, she scowled.
‘Sorry, but I’ve really got to run.’ Turning on his heel, Carlyle broke into a trot, heading for the relative sanctuary of the street.
NINETEEN
The Persian Palace was a nondescript kebab shop in the middle of a row of single-storey properties on the north side of Shepherd’s Bush Green. Catering for punters eschewing the more refined delights of the nearby Westfield shopping centre, it served fare of largely indeterminate content from 11 a.m. until 2 a.m., seven days a week. Like all coppers, Carlyle knew that peak hours for this kind of takeaway establishment were 11 p.m.–1 a.m.; the two-hour window after most of the pubs closed accounted for something like 80 per cent of kebab sales and probably in excess of 90 per cent of sales of whatever illegal shit was being peddled under the counter at any given time. In the middle of a weekday afternoon, however, the place was devoid of customers, save for a girl sitting in a back booth, underneath a tattered poster of Kylie Minogue that had to be at least fifteen years old. Bursting out of a pair of tiny gold lamé shorts, the young singer was in the kind of nubile nymphet pose that the inspector had frequently admired across the decades. That would have been back in the days before Michael Hutchence got his paws on her, he thought jealously.
Putting such generic disappointment behind him, Carlyle looked around the shop. The floor was filthy and the windows had clearly not been cleaned in an age. The inspector didn’t want to think what the kitchen was like; presumably the health inspectors hadn’t been round in quite a while. There was no one behind the counter but he could make out movement in the back. Barge straight in, or wait? There was no need to be pushy – this was supposed to be a pastoral visit, after all – so he decided to hang on.
Shuffling from foot to foot, Carlyle waited for a member of staff to put in an appearance. Gazing out of the window, the girl in the back did not acknowledge his presence. In a leather jacket, wearing too much eye-liner, she looked barely fourteen. On the table in front of her was a plate containing the remains of a burger and a few chips, next to a can of Coke with a straw poking out of the top. From a small speaker stuck to the wall next to the counter, the radio started playing ‘Call Me Maybe’. The inspector recognized the song; it was one of Alice’s current favourites and he liked it too. Even in his advancing years, Carlyle wanted to think that he recognized good pop music when he heard it – timeless, meaningless, cheery. When the song was playing at home, he would join in on the jaunty chorus, happily oblivious to any of the other words. There was no chance of that happening here, however. The Persian Palace was not the type of place for a cheery sing-along. Instead, he pulled out his BlackBerry and began checking his emails.
Of the sixteen unread messages in his inbox, fifteen were junk. The other was a reminder from Helen to pick up some groceries on the way home. The joys of modern technology. Always on call.
As he slipped the handset back into his pocket, the song finished
and was quickly replaced by an annoying advert for car insurance. There was still no sign of anyone coming to see what he wanted. With a sigh, Carlyle watched the girl pick up a chip. Tipping back her head, she opened her mouth and tried to drop the chip inside, somehow managing to miss from less than two inches; she was left with tomato sauce on her chin and the chip on the floor. Laughing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand while mashing the chip into the floor.
Carlyle shook his head sadly. On a waste bin standing on the pavement outside the shop, he could make out an advert for the council’s truancy hotline. For a moment, he thought about making a call and shopping the girl. However, the idea faded from his brain almost as soon as it had emerged. Even by the subterranean standards of local government, social services were uniquely useless. If he dialled the number, chances were no one would answer the call. If he did manage to talk to someone, would the girl get picked up? At best, there would be lots of hanging around and lots of form filling for little if any end result. Upon reflection, the inspector quickly decided that he didn’t have the time to chase up a lone schoolgirl playing hooky.
A banging door alerted him to the fact that someone had finally arrived behind the counter.
‘You wan’ somethin’?’ The boy was wearing some sad approximation of a fast food operative’s uniform, a blue and yellow striped polo shirt, complete with a fine selection of stains, complemented by a matching baseball cap. From under the brim, a pair of brown eyes viewed Carlyle suspiciously. If anything, the boy looked even younger than the girl in the back. The down on his upper lip suggested that his efforts to grow a moustache were destined to be a struggle.
‘No, thanks.’
The kid frowned. ‘Drink?’
‘No. I’m looking for Calvin Safi.’
The frown dissolved into the kind of blank look that the inspector had seen a million times before.
‘Calvin Safi,’ Carlyle repeated, ‘the owner of this place. Where is he?’
The shop door opened and there was the sound of laughter – hostile, male laughter. Carlyle stiffened slightly, but kept his gaze on the lad behind the counter. At his shoulder, two hoodies appeared. One was white, the other Asian. Both of them were taller than the policeman and, he estimated, the best part of forty years younger.
‘Hey, man,’ the Asian guy shouted at the boy behind the counter in a West London accent that covered all the neighbourhoods this side of Heathrow. Unzipping his jacket, he flicked off the hood to reveal an impressive mane of jet-black hair which reached down to his shoulders. ‘Get us two doners and two large Cokes.’ Producing a rubber band from his pocket, he pulled his hair back into a ponytail, checking his reflection in a glass cabinet, before heading into the back of the shop with his mate in tow. ‘And make it quick,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘we’re hungry.’ Dancing round the remains of the chip on the floor, he slid into the booth next to the girl.
Nodding, the boy pulled out a tray and set about filling their order. Grimacing, Carlyle stepped closer to the counter. The food smells were beginning to give him a headache. ‘Calvin Safi.’ The boy didn’t look up. His lips were moving but no sounds were coming out. You’re really beginning to piss me off, the inspector thought. He waved a hand in front of the kid’s face to remind him that he was still here. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself, man.’ The Asian guy slipped back out of the booth and wandered back over until he was about five feet from where Carlyle was standing. ‘What do you want with Calvin?’
Standing his ground, the inspector took a moment to read the legend – ‘WHAT U SAYIN’? – on the left breast of the guy’s black hoodie. ‘Who are you?’
‘Never you mind,’ the guy scowled, edging forward, ‘Who the fuck are you? Comin’ here and askin’ questions.’
‘Aqib, siddown.’ A burly guy appeared from round the end of the counter, wiping his hands on a souvenir London 2012 tea towel that was draped over his right shoulder. Waiting for the youth to slink back to the booth, he eyed the policeman suspiciously.
‘Calvin Safi?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Yeah.’ The kebab shop owner couldn’t have looked any less pleased if Carlyle had dropped his trousers and shat on the floor of his kebab shop. He was in his mid-to-late thirties, roughly the same height as the policeman but about twice as wide. Giving up on the tea towel, he wiped his hands on his grubby blue and white T-shirt bearing the hopelessly out of date legend: Chelsea – Champions of Europe.
‘I’m—’
Safi cut the inspector short with a wave of the hand. ‘Not here.’ Turning on his heel, he headed back towards the food preparation area. ‘Come with me.’
TWENTY
The kitchen led to a small paved courtyard at the back of the building about ten feet by twelve, with a gate in the far wall for deliveries. Each side of the gate were stacked piles of cardboard boxes full of takeaway containers. Scattered across the concrete was an impressive collection of cigarette butts, along with the odd chocolate-bar wrapper. Standing in the middle of the yard, Calvin Safi eyed the inspector, hands on hips, waiting for him to explain himself.
Carlyle pulled out his ID and held it up for Safi to inspect. ‘I’m from Charing Cross police station.’
Safi waved the warrant card away as if he couldn’t care less if it was real or fake. ‘Another policeman,’ he grunted. ‘What a surprise.’ Under the manufactured annoyance, however, Carlyle could detect more than a little tension in the man’s demeanour. ‘Are you here for a freebie, or to ask some more questions?’
‘Huh?’
Safi’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m in charge of the Joseph Belsky investigation.’
Pouting, Safi stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Who?’
Are you for real? Carlyle wondered. ‘Joseph Belsky is the guy who Taimur attacked.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Letting his hands fall to his sides, Safi seemed to relax a little.
A thought popped into the inspector’s head. ‘By the way, Taimur’s surname . . .’
Safi glanced up at the heavens. ‘He changed it by deed poll. I was amazed he managed to get the forms filled in properly, but there you go. He said he didn’t want to have the same name as me or his mum. Rage – hah. He thought he was making some kind of statement.’
‘About his view of society?’
‘What are you, some kind of social worker?’ Safi shook his head in disgust. ‘Taimur couldn’t even spell “society”, never mind tell you what it means. He was pissed off at me and his mum for being such crap parents.’
‘But he lived with you?’
‘More or less,’ Safi sighed. ‘More than he did with his mother, anyway. Taimur’s not quite right in the head, or haven’t you worked that out yet?’
‘That’s not my call,’ Carlyle said primly.
‘Suit yourself.’
‘While he’s in Belmarsh, he’ll have a number of evaluations.’
‘Ah,’ Safi grinned, ‘he’s gone there, has he? Maybe that’ll finally knock some sense into the silly bugger.’
‘You didn’t know?’
Safi shrugged.
‘No one told you?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Have you not spoken to his lawyer?’
‘Mich-el-ang-elo?’ Safi hopped from foot to foot as he sang the name. ‘Do you think I can afford a guy like that? He works for Taimur’s mother, not me.’
‘Can I go and see Taimur’s room?’
‘Sure,’ Safi said wearily. ‘There’s not a lot to see, though. You’re a bit late. Everything that wasn’t nailed down, including his computer, was carted off yesterday.’
‘By whom?’
Safi gave him a quizzical look. ‘Shouldn’t you know that?’
Yes, thought Carlyle, I suppose I should. He turned to head back inside just as the Asian guy who had tried to face him down appeared in the open doorway.
‘Calvin. Steve’s here.’
A look of boundless exasperation crossed the kebab sh
op owner’s face. ‘Tell him to come back later.’
‘But he’s brought a mate.’
‘Tell them to come back later.’
The youngster scowled at Carlyle. ‘Okay, okay, you’re the boss.’ Disappearing inside, he bounced the door closed.
‘Bloody kids.’ Safi shepherded the policeman towards the door. ‘Anyway, if you want to go and have a look at Taimur’s room, help yourself. The stairs are inside, to the left. It’s right at the top.’
Taimur Rage had lived in what might charitably be called a garret at the top of the building. In reality it was a half-completed loft conversion with a lovely view of the discount shopping centre on the south side of the Green. The place looked like it had never been decorated, with a dirty rug covering bare floorboards. Aside from a child’s single bed, there was a small wardrobe, a desk and a chair. Good preparation for living in a cell, Carlyle thought.
Looking around listlessly, he wondered whether it had been worth making the trip across London at all. Safi was right – the place had been stripped of anything of interest. Apart from a well-thumbed copy of Men Only under the bed and two unopened cans of Red Stripe on the desk, all that had been left by the previous visitors – presumably the boys at MI5 – was a poster of a sports car taped to the wall. Never having owned a car in his life, Carlyle had no idea what kind it was. At the same time, he knew an expensive motor when he saw one; it was not the kind of vehicle that a lad like Taimur could ever hope to own, or even take for a test drive.
‘All in all,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘not very al-Qaeda, is it?’ To be fair, the inspector was only too aware that he had no idea what an actual terrorist hideout might look like. At the same time however, he didn’t imagine that it would be like this.
After a desultory glance through the empty wardrobe, he sat on the bed and again checked his BlackBerry. He had a grand total of three new emails, all of which were junk. Deleting each of them in turn, he watched a spider scurry across the floor before flopping back on to the bed and staring at the ceiling, pondering his next move. Should he pick up some groceries in Shepherd’s Bush before he jumped on the tube, or wait till he got back to Covent Garden?
