Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘Hey!’ Safi shrieked, adopting the foetal position. ‘This is assault. It’s GBH, man. Wait till my lawyer hears about this.’

  ‘Federici? He’s your wife’s lawyer. Somehow I don’t think she’s going to lend him out for you on this.’ The inspector hovered over the prostrate man, making it clear that a good shoeing was still very much at the top of his agenda.

  ‘I’ll get my own bloody lawyer,’ Safi mumbled from behind his hands.

  ‘Like fuck.’ Carlyle gave the man a prod with the toe of his boot to keep him focused on the matter in hand. ‘And anyway, it’ll be too late by then.’

  Safi let out a satisfying whimper.

  It’s fun being a bastard, Carlyle thought as he felt the frustration of a morning spent running around in circles draining away.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘What girl?’

  Once again, the inspector grabbed the guy’s jumper, this time dragging him up. ‘Jade Jones, the girl you picked up from Paddington last night.’

  ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Carlyle hissed. Releasing his hold, he let the man fall back to the concrete and administered two swift kicks to his ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to hurt. Tears appeared in Safi’s eyes. ‘I’ve seen the CCTV pictures. I know you were there.’ It was a decent enough lie; most Londoners assumed that security cameras covered their every waking move. And, most of the time, they were right.

  Safi hesitated before trying one last time. ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me.’ Almost revelling in his loss of control, Carlyle stepped forward until he was almost standing on the prostrate man. ‘Tell me the truth, or I am going to do you some serious damage. Good luck being able to speak after I’ve done with you – even if you can find a bloody lawyer.’ He gave another quick kick for emphasis, a little harder this time. ‘Now, where is the girl?’

  ‘He took her back to Paddington,’ Safi cried, ‘The little slag’s gone home.’

  ‘Who took her back to Paddington? When?’

  ‘Steve . . . Steve Metcalf.’

  ‘The white guy with the tattoo?’

  ‘He was the one who fucked her, not me. I didn’t touch her.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. When did they go?’

  ‘An hour ago.’

  About the time I was snooping around out the back, Carlyle thought. I must have just missed them. Or maybe I passed them on the pavement without realizing. Annoyed with himself, he gave Safi another kick, although with less venom this time. ‘Do you have a mobile?’

  Reaching into the pocket of his pants, Safi pulled out a battered Nokia and offered it to the inspector. Grabbing the handset, Carlyle pulled off the battery and took out the SIM card. Dropping the SIM in his pocket, he tossed the rest of the phone over the wall into the alley. Safi started to protest but quickly thought better of it.

  ‘Stay here,’ Carlyle commanded. ‘If you move one inch before I get back, I will give you a proper kicking.’ Not waiting for a reply, he went back inside.

  Standing in the kitchen, he wondered exactly what he might be looking for. Above the hum of traffic came the sound of someone thumping on the locked door at the front of the café. Peeking towards the street, he caught a glimpse of the kid who worked behind the counter. ‘Looks like you might be getting the day off,’ Carlyle murmured, as he headed for the stairs.

  He started at the top of the building, working his way down through a series of dirty, messy rooms that had been converted into bedsits. When he found a door that was locked, he unceremoniously booted it open. It was the first time he’d done this kind of donkey work for a long while.

  Bloody Umar, Carlyle thought grimly. Where is he when you need him? He checked the last room; like the others, it was empty, apart from an unmade bed and a nasty smell.

  Downstairs, the kid had given up banging on the door and had gone away to enjoy his unexpected day off. A steady stream of pedestrians passed by the window, none of them apparently put out that the kebab shop wasn’t open for business. Hardly surprising, Carlyle reflected. There must be at least half a dozen fast-food places within a minute’s walk from here. Feeling peckish, he walked into the kitchen. A loaf of white sliced bread sat next to a filthy grill. Out of the corner of his eye, the inspector caught some movement. A cockroach – or something bigger? It crossed his mind that maybe he should put a call in to the local health inspectors. First, however, he needed to put something in a sandwich. Filling the far corner of the room was an upright, stainless-steel double door refrigerator.

  Gotta be something in there.

  Stepping across the room, Carlyle yanked at the right-hand door.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ Jumping sideways, he just managed to avoid being hit by the body that tumbled out, hitting the floor with a gentle thwack.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Surveying the scene, the inspector let out a nervous chortle. ‘As far as I can recall, that’s the first time a dead man has ever tried to headbutt me.’ At least his reflexes were still good enough that he was able to escape the corpse’s attention. Hands on hips, he took a couple of deep breaths, watching a small cockroach scuttle under the sink as he waited for his heart-rate to return to something approaching normal. He should definitely contact the health inspectors.

  As he regained his composure, Carlyle realized that he was still hungry. Stepping over the body, he recovered an almost-full packet of processed cheese slices and carefully closed the fridge door. Could he be about to eat some important evidence? Highly unlikely, he decided. Flipping over the packet, he contemplated the best-before date. ‘Only a couple of days overdue,’ he said aloud. ‘They’ll do.’

  Looking down at the deceased’s frosty face, he recognized the guy immediately. Even though he had clearly been given a battering, the victim still wore the same dopey expression that Carlyle remembered from their first meeting. The Choose Your Weapons T-shirt had been replaced by one displaying a Star Wars DJ Yoda design but the overall look was still that of an outsized twelve year old.

  Shit. Carlyle belatedly remembered what he had been up to before being so rudely interrupted. As a matter of routine, he stuck his head out of the back door and checked the yard. Safi was gone. No surprises there, the inspector thought grumpily. Even the damn kebab shop owner wasn’t dumb enough to hang around with a corpse stuck in his fridge.

  Closing the kitchen door, he turned and looked down at the lifeless body. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?’

  Gazing helplessly up at him, Adrian Napper did not reply.

  Shaking his head sadly, Carlyle tossed the packet of cheese on to the counter next to the bread and reluctantly pulled out his mobile phone.

  By the time someone at Hammersmith police station managed to track down Ron Flux, the inspector was munching on his second sandwich. The combination of white bread and plastic cheese was totally tasteless but it filled a hole. Washing it down with a can of Diet Coke he’d nicked from the cabinet out front, he gave a satisfied burp just as someone came on the other end of the line.

  ‘What?’

  The inspector placed the can onto the counter by the sink. ‘Flux? It’s Carlyle.’

  The DI sounded tired and harassed. ‘What is it?’

  Carlyle popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and swallowed quickly. Now was not the time to be talking with your mouth full. ‘Bad news,’ he said, adopting a suitably sombre tone. ‘I’ve found your sergeant.’

  DI Flux was pacing up and down on the cobbles, his head bobbing around as if he was being attacked by an angry wasp. ‘Bloody Napper,’ he fumed. ‘What the fuck was he doing?’ It was the same lament that he had repeated maybe a dozen times in the last five minutes.

  Not for the first time, Carlyle shrugged helplessly. How would I know?

  The two policemen had retreated into the alley as a small army of uniforms and forensic technicians descended on the kebab shop in order to process the crime
scene. Watching them going about their business, Carlyle felt a familiar sense of weariness descend on his shoulders. They were the cavalry who always arrived too late.

  Staring blindly into the middle distance, Flux looked like he wanted to cry. ‘The stupid sod should never have tried something like this.’

  ‘No.’ The inspector stared down at his shoes. There was still the distinct whiff of ammonia in the air and he wished he was standing somewhere else. Above all, however, he regretted not giving Calvin Safi more of a kicking when he’d had the chance. No matter, he told himself, he would catch the guy soon enough.

  The Alsatian down the alley started barking. Carlyle thought about going to speak to its owner but decided against it. One of the uniforms could go and tick that box. He had other priorities.

  ‘Stupid bugger,’ Flux groaned.

  ‘Did he have any kids?’

  ‘No,’ Flux shook his head. ‘Not married.’

  Carlyle thought back to the Yoda T-shirt. Not a garment for a grown man. Probably didn’t have a girlfriend. ‘That’s something, at least.’

  Flux took a reluctant step down the alley. ‘I need to go and speak to his girlfriend. She’s going to be devastated.’

  Rather you than me, Carlyle thought. Breaking that kind of bad news never got any easier. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his mum, as well.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle hopped from foot to foot. He really had to get out of here. ‘I’ll set about tracking down Safi and this guy Steve . . .’

  ‘Metcalf?’ Flux pawed the ground with his shoe. ‘That piece of shit will be up to his neck in this, for sure.’

  Carlyle gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get them.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Flux said, as if it didn’t count.

  ‘And the girl made it home.’

  Flux looked at him blankly.

  ‘Jade Jones,’ Carlyle explained. ‘She made it back to Basingstoke. I checked. Her phone had died. That’s why we couldn’t get hold of her before.’

  ‘Silly cow.’

  ‘It’s something, at least.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Shoving his hands in his pockets, Flux turned away. ‘But really, who gives a fuck?’

  Carlyle watched the Detective Inspector as he slouched down the alley, heading towards the hustle and bustle of Shepherd’s Bush Green. A succession of car horns blared in the distance, a reminder that, whatever cruelties were dispensed in its dimly lit back alleys, London never stopped moving forward. He thought about Adrian Napper slowly defrosting on the kitchen floor of a dirty kebab shop and felt a pang of jealousy. Would anyone on the job care that much if it was me that had been stuffed in a fridge? he wondered. Somehow, I doubt it.

  FORTY-SIX

  ‘I don’t suppose that you know anything about this, do you, Mr policeman?’ Elma Reyes hurled the newspaper across her desk. Keeping his expression neutral, the inspector watched the tabloid land at his feet, making no effort to pick it up. He glanced towards Michelangelo Federici, who was sitting in a chair to his right, grinning like a naughty schoolboy. Behind him, one of Elma’s minions was standing, head bowed, with his back to the wall. The boy had an envelope in his hand, like he was waiting to deliver a letter to his boss.

  ‘Terror suspect’s mum runs church scam,’ the lawyer chuckled.

  ‘Huh?’

  Federici pointed towards the paper with the toe of his badly scuffed shoe. ‘That’s the headline. It’s a complete hatchet-job on the Christian Salvation Centre and its work in the miracle and healing market. The usual garbage – riddled with factual inaccuracies and contentious opinions – wrapped up in a pseudo public-interest defence because of Elma’s relationship with the poor unfortunate Taimur.’

  You mean the fact that she was his mother. Carlyle adopted an exasperated look. ‘Journalists . . .’

  ‘It was written by a man called—’

  ‘Bernard Gilmore.’ Elma spat out the name as if it was the Devil’s own smouldering sperm.

  ‘Thank you,’ Federici smiled at his client. ‘It was just on the tip of my tongue. Bernard Gilmore.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Do you know him, Inspector?’

  Bloody Bernie. Carlyle mimed pondering the question for a moment, carefully scanning his memory banks before slowly shaking his head. ‘No. Not as far as I can recall. I don’t think so.’

  ‘That damn journalist has been harassing me for years,’ Elma complained. ‘He pays people to spread lies and tittle-tattle. If I ever find his source within my organization, I’ll kill ’em.’ She shot the boy hovering by the wall a suspicious glance. ‘I swear to God I will.’

  ‘You could sue,’ Carlyle ventured. ‘There are limits. Even for the press.’ And Bernie knows better than anyone how to stay just the right side of them.

  ‘Of course we’re gonna bloody sue,’ Elma thundered. ‘We’re going to sue his bloody arse off.’

  Trying to keep a straight face, her lawyer said nothing.

  ‘Anyway,’ the inspector continued, moving swiftly along, ‘that’s not really why I’m here.’

  Elma gave a grunt that suggested she couldn’t care less about his agenda.

  ‘The thing is,’ getting down to business, Carlyle fixed the preacher woman with his most serious stare, ‘I need to find Calvin as a matter of some considerable urgency.’

  Some considerable urgency. When needs be, he could invoke his inner plod and talk the talk like the best of them.

  Blank faces all round.

  ‘I need to find the guy,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘So where should I look?’

  Elma frowned. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘I just need to speak to him. Quickly.’

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  Even more than you, love. But Carlyle was able to evade those kind of questions with ease. ‘He’s not at the kebab shop, so where else might he be?’

  ‘He is in trouble, then. Why am I not surprised?’ The woman’s eyes glistened malevolently as for a nano-second she contemplated problems other than her own.

  ‘Where might I find him?’ Carlyle persisted.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ Elma threw up her hands. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to him over the past few years. The last thing I want to know about is what the grubby little so-and-so gets up to when he’s not selling outsized portions of food poisoning in a Styrofoam box.’

  Looking for some assistance Carlyle glanced at the lawyer.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector,’ Federici said smoothly. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t help you on that one either.’

  ‘Very well, if you think of anything, let me know.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘In the meantime, good luck with your legal action. I’m sure that Bernie will be delighted to be on the receiving end of another lawsuit.’

  Raising an eyebrow, Federici gave him a bemused look. ‘Bernie? I thought you didn’t know him?’

  Me and my big mouth. ‘Only by reputation,’ Carlyle stammered. ‘I think he tried to sue one of my colleagues once. A rather messy business, if I remember correctly.’

  Federici’s eyebrow stayed raised, making him look like a poor man’s Roger Moore.

  Avoiding eye-contact, Carlyle headed for the door. ‘It came to me while we were talking.’

  Elma looked at him with contempt. ‘Melville,’ she said threateningly, ‘will you please show the po-lice-man out?’

  Escaping the tangle of his own lies, the inspector hurried from the building. Stepping out on to the pavement, he looked around in vain for his car.

  ‘Fuck.’

  With a groan, he realized that his driver had scarpered. Hadn’t he told the guy to wait? He couldn’t remember.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Stranded in the middle of a seemingly endless suburban street somewhere in deepest, darkest South London, the inspector had no idea how to get back to civilization. Central London, WC2, seemed a long way away. Thanks to the vagaries of the public transport system, it probably was.

  Overwhelmed b
y weariness, he felt rooted to the spot. According to Lao-Tzu, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Then again, the Chinese philosopher had never found himself stranded in a dump like this

  Slowly, Carlyle scanned to his left, and then to his right. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but row upon row of tiny terraced houses. At this time of day, the streets were deserted; there was not a soul to be seen. Even the ubiquitous background hum of the city seemed to have melted away. For a moment, he felt like the only human survivor in a post-apocalypse zombie movie.

  Almost.

  He turned to the boy who was hovering on the step behind him. ‘How do I get back into Town?’

  With a helpful smile, Melville Farasin pointed down the road with the envelope that remained glued to his hand. ‘Go to the end then take a right. Cross the road and there’s a bus stop on the far side. Four or five diff’rent buses stop there. Most of ’em go to Crystal Palace. You can get trains to Victoria from there.’

  Great, Carlyle thought. Even after he made it to Victoria, it would be a half-hour schlep back to the police station. Life in the fast lane. What a totally wasted day. He looked up and down the street again and then back at the boy. ‘You don’t know where Calvin Safi might be, do you?’

  Melville shook his head. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Moving down onto the pavement, the boy glanced over his shoulder. ‘I spoke to Bernie, though,’ he said quietly. ‘He says that you’re a good guy.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Carlyle laughed. ‘Well, I would keep that to yourself if I were you. I don’t think your boss would be too chuffed if she found out.’

  ‘She’d go mental.’ Melville waved the envelope at Carlyle. ‘Elma’s a bit of a nutter.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘That’s why I’m handing in my resignation.’

  ‘Don’t blame you, son.’ Digging a business card out of his jacket pocket, Carlyle offered it to the boy. ‘In the meantime, if you hear anything . . .’

  ‘Let you know, yeah, yeah.’ Melville took the card, staring at the numbers as if trying to memorize them by heart. ‘That’s just what Bernie told me.’