by James Craig
‘Yeah, well . . .’ He was used to being beaten to the punch by the journalist but it was still more than a little tedious.
Satisfied that he had properly processed the information, the boy slipped the card into his trouser pocket and looked up. ‘I’m gonna get a job at Tesco. Start in a store then see if I can get on some kind of management trainee programme.’
‘That seems like a much better bet than—’ Carlyle pointed towards the dilapidated prefabricated building that looked more like a warehouse than a church – ‘this place.’
‘Yeah,’ said Melville with feeling. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that the Christian Salvation Centre is a bit of a con, really.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘My mum likes it an’ all, but why so many people hand over their cash to Elma is beyond me.’
‘In my experience,’ the inspector sighed, ‘people do strange things.’ He started walking slowly down the road. ‘Anyway, good luck.’ Upping the pace, he scanned the horizon, keeping a careful watch for any loitering zombies.
Thanks to a defective train which had broken down near Clapham Junction, reducing train speeds to a crawl, it took the inspector more than two hours to make it back to the safety and security of Charing Cross. He was in a foul mood by the time he hurried up the steps and entered the police station, a mood that wasn’t improved by the uncommonly jovial atmosphere that he found waiting for him inside.
‘What the fuck?’
Standing on the front desk, swigging from a can of Sprite, was a man barely four feet high, dressed in white Nikes and washed-out jeans. His green T-shirt had a picture of a crown, under which was the legend KEEP CALM AND SMOKE SOME BLOW in white lettering. Hopping from foot to foot, the midget was dancing to a silent beat that only he could hear, clearly enjoying his newly found role as impromptu entertainment for the grubby and dispirited members of the public waiting in the reception area.
‘What’s going on, Jazz?’ Carlyle asked, stepping in front of the desk.
Maradona Wilson – aka Jazz, on account of his smooth moves – stopped dancing and took another mouthful of lemonade. ‘The usual, Inspector,’ he said, looking down on Carlyle from behind the can. ‘The usual.’
Sat at her computer terminal, the desk sergeant, a sour woman from Bow called Celina Roper, muttered: ‘Ebert nicked him outside Ladbrokes.’
Who was Ebert? Some uniform playing at being undercover, the inspector supposed. He looked at the pint-sized pusher and tutted. ‘How many bloody times is that now?’
‘The man wanted some white,’ Wilson observed. ‘What can I say?’
‘Bloody hell, Jazz,’ the inspector grumbled, ‘we don’t need this nonsense. You should fuck off back to Tottenham, there’s a much better market for crack up there. Down here, it’s only tourists. They don’t want that shit.’
‘But people pay more down here,’ the dwarf shrugged. ‘It’s your basic market forces at play, innit?’
Carlyle let out a long breath. What was the world coming to when even midget pushers thought they could lecture you about the economics of the bloody drugs trade? He got enough of that business school gobbledygook from his mate, Dominic Silver, a former copper turned dealer. But Dom was a one-off, a serious businessman, unlike Jazz here. ‘So what are you telling me?’ he asked. ‘You can’t buck the market?’
‘That’s very true.’
‘The customer is always right?’
‘The customer is always right,’ Jazz parroted.
‘Even when it’s illegal?’
Jazz held up a hand. ‘Don’t get me started on the failure of political leadership that gives us the so-called war on drugs.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle said quickly, ‘I won’t.’
‘I’m not trying to cause you any problems here.’
‘That’s good to know,’ the inspector said drily.
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ Jazz explained, ‘is that I’m not into volume. That’s where too many people go wrong. I’m focused on the bottom line, man, not the top line.’
Carlyle had no real idea what the annoying little sod was talking about. ‘Good for you.’
‘Profit’s what counts, not turnover. Got to get the margins right.’
‘Hm.’
Their effortlessly erudite banter about the profitability of the crack trade was unceremoniously interrupted by Celina Roper, who appeared from behind Jazz, waving a blue biro at Carlyle. ‘The Commander’s here. She wants to see you.’ The sergeant pointed her pen towards the heavens. ‘Third floor.’
Great, Carlyle thought, beginning to move towards the stairs before he could manage to think up a reason to head the other way. ‘I’d better go and see her then. Catch you later, Jazz.’
‘Sure thing, Inspector.’ Wilson gave him a small bow and resumed his slow-motion dance moves.
‘And remember to fuck off back to N17 as quick as you like.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jazz laughed, ‘I’m going. The coppers are much nicer up there for a start.’
‘Ha.’ Reaching the top of the stairs, the inspector hesitated, before sneaking back down, heading for the basement canteen.
‘I thought the desk told you I was upstairs?’
Carlyle grunted something that could not be definitively nailed as a lie.
Not waiting for an invitation, Carole Simpson pulled out the chair opposite and sat down at the canteen table. ‘Bloody hell, John. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Why is it you think you can waste my time willy-nilly?’
Willy-nilly? The inspector cleared his throat in order to stifle a laugh. ‘Sorry,’ he told her, ‘I was starving.’
The Commander did not look sympathetic.
‘It’s already been a hell of a day.’ He shovelled another forkful of chips and beans into his mouth. ‘I had to venture south of the river.’
‘Poor you,’ Simpson snapped, unsympathic. Staring into the middle distance, she waited for a woman to appear at her shoulder.
‘Here you go, Carole.’ The woman handed over a paper cup containing a peppermint tea bag and some hot water.
‘Thanks.’
Still smiling, the woman placed a second cup on the table and sat down.
‘Emma,’ said Simpson as she blew on her tea, ‘this is Inspector Carlyle. John, this is Emma Denton.’
Somewhat disconcerted by the new arrival, Carlyle set down his knife and fork. He didn’t like an audience while he was eating. Grabbing a paper napkin from the table, he wiped his mouth and gave her a friendly nod.
‘Emma is a Crown Prosecutor.’
I know who she is, Carlyle thought, which is hardly surprising, given Emma Denton’s fondness for sticking her face in front of TV cameras. He must have seen her on the news at least half a dozen times in the last year or so.
‘Chief Crown Prosecutor,’ Simpson corrected herself.
Dropping her gaze, Princess Di style, Denton gave a practised, ever so slightly embarrassed smile.
Do you ever stop smiling? Carlyle wondered. He made a show of looking her up and down in best police officer fashion. A good-looking woman, but getting a bit worn around the edges. Too many late nights, stuck in stale rooms eating takeaway pizza while ploughing through witness statements were clearly taking their toll.
‘What can I do for you?’
Looking up, the Chief Crown Prosecutor flicked a stray lock of expensively dyed blonde hair away from her face. ‘I want you to get me Calvin Safi.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Overcoming his modesty, Carlyle speared the last of the chips, waving the fork above his plate. ‘It’s a bit bloody late.’
The Chief Crown Prosecutor waited patiently for him to place the food in his mouth, chew – mouth carefully closed – and then swallow.
‘Why is that?’
‘When we catch up with him, which hopefully will be sooner rather than later, there will be a lot of people who want to talk to him.’ Picking up his mug, the inspector shot Simpson a look of grim a
musement. ‘Assuming he makes it back to the Hammersmith station in one piece.’
‘For Christ’s sake, John,’ the Commander complained, ‘now is not the time for your bloody—’
‘For my what?’ Carlyle snapped. Holding the mug in front of his face, he gripped the handle tightly. He was tired and he was pissed off, and in no mood to kiss some prosecutor’s arse just to appease his boss. ‘For my bad attitude?’
A couple of uniforms passing the table, their trays laden with food, exchanged a knowing look. The station’s resident chippy bastard was going off on one again; in front of the brass, to boot. It was no wonder that the stupid sod had never managed to make it beyond inspector.
‘I was going to say,’ Simpson said sharply, ‘that now is not the time for your vigilante tendencies.’
Keeping her eyes on the inspector, Denton said nothing.
Glowering, Carlyle waited until the two uniforms had moved on, plumping for a table beyond eavesdropping distance. Placing his mug back down, he leaned forward, lowering his voice, just to be on the safe side. ‘A cop died last night. I found him. Whatever happens to Calvi before he makes it into custody, he deserves it.’
Denton gave him a patronizing look. You are being grossly unprofessional was the message. ‘So, what you are saying is—’
‘I am not saying anything,’ Carlyle hissed, cutting her short with an angry wave of his hand. ‘This is a murder investigation. A lot of people want to get their hands on the guy. There are protocols and procedures to be followed. If it is down to me, I can assure you that this will be handled properly, but you’ll have to wait your turn.’
Glancing at Simpson, Denton fiddled with a button on her expensive-looking leather jacket. ‘I appreciate that, Inspector,’ she said calmly, ‘but I want you to be aware of the big picture here.’ Carlyle began to protest but now it was her turn to cut him off. ‘The Commander tells me that, despite some presentational issues . . .’
Presentational issues? Carlyle looked at his boss. Sipping her tea demurely, Simpson did not meet his eye.
‘. . . you are a very motivated and principled colleague.’
‘Depends on what your principles are,’ Carlyle muttered.
‘And,’ Denton continued, ‘that this is particularly the case in situations involving children and young adults.’
Don’t try and butter me up. ‘So?’
‘I need to speak to Mr Calvi about matters that go far beyond the murder of Sergeant Adrian Napper. It is extremely important for us that he is taken safely into custody and processed properly so that I can do this. However, I assure you that it will not – in any way – negatively impact the Napper investigation.’
‘What could be more of a priority than Napper?’ Carlyle asked, genuinely wanting to know.
‘Calvin Safi is part of a network of men around the country who we know are involved in the grooming and sexual exploitation of young girls,’ Denton explained, keeping her voice even. ‘These are primarily cases of white girls being exploited by Asian men.’
‘So you can see,’ Simpson interjected, ‘why the whole thing is so delicate.’
‘Last month,’ Denton went on, ‘three men were convicted of raping or assaulting four drunken young women in Blackburn. Another three are awaiting trial in Middlesbrough on similar offences. Last year, there was the case of seventeen-year-old Lisa Evans who was stabbed twenty-two times and thrown into a canal near Sheffield. For six years, social services had her on an “at risk” register. The man convicted of her murder admitted paying her for sex with cigarettes when she was just fourteen. And I’ve got testimony from girls as young as twelve, being sent fifty text messages a day from men pestering them for sex.’
Enough already. Feeling somewhat sick, Carlyle took a deep breath and said, ‘So men can be total bastards – tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Yes, but as Carole says, there is rather more to it than that; in all of these cases, the girls are white. And all the men are Asian.’
The inspector thought back to the kebab shop and the man with the tattoo. ‘There’s at least one white guy who hangs around the Persian Palace.’
‘All I’m saying,’ Denton persisted, ‘is that there are definitely cultural issues at play here.’
‘Cultural issues?’
‘That’s the polite way of putting it. We are tiptoeing through a minefield of race relations and political correctness here. Trying to be as anodyne about it as possible, it seems to me incontrovertible that the status of women in some social groups contributes to an environment where some men think that they can do what they like without any regards for either the law or any kind of moral standards.’
‘You know just as well as I do,’ Simpson chipped in, ‘that there is exploitation and abuse in all parts of society. However, if nothing else, there is a growing body of evidence that group grooming is a particular problem with regard to Asian men.’
‘Unlike other offenders,’ Denton said, ‘these guys don’t act on their own. And we have a growing amount of evidence that groups around the country are linked up. It’s a kind of social network for abusers. Sometimes they exchange videos; sometimes they exchange girls.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘I get the message. We have to multi-task on Calvin Safi. What do you want me to do?’
‘When you find him, bring him to me first. I will only have a small window of opportunity before it becomes widely known that we have him and everyone else goes to ground. I want to see if I can use that time to bring some of those other bastards down with him.’
‘If I find him,’ Carlyle corrected her. ‘It’s not like I’m the only one looking for the little shit.’
Denton’s smile grew wider. Taking a slip of paper from the pocket of her jacket, she passed it across to him. ‘Yes, but as of right now, you are the only one who knows where he is.’
Carlyle looked at the piece of paper.
‘There’s the address. It’s accurate information – somewhere in the Midlands.’
Carlyle grunted. Arguably, having to flee to Birmingham was a rather worse fate than being sent to jail.
‘Go and collect him. Then bring him to me.’
‘Okay.’ Without asking where it had come from, the inspector shoved the address into his pocket.
‘Don’t worry,’ Denton reassured him, ‘I won’t keep him for long. I’ll make sure that Hammersmith gets him in good time, and in good order – after I’ve had the chance to speak to him.’
As he reached the third floor, Carlyle felt his mobile start to vibrate in his hand. Looking at the screen he saw the number of DI Ron Flux. ‘Not now,’ he pleaded, letting the call go to voicemail. Looking up, he could see Umar sitting at his desk across the room, bashing away at his keyboard while munching on a sandwich. Good to know you’re still alive, the inspector thought unkindly.
Engrossed in whatever was on the screen, the sergeant didn’t look up when Carlyle approached the desk.
‘You could have bloody called.’
‘Sorry?’ Finishing his email, Umar hit send, closed Outlook and looked up.
Scowling, Carlyle folded his arms as he came to a stop next to the monitor. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded.
Umar arched an eyebrow. ‘Nice to see you too.’
‘I was beginning to wonder if someone had stabbed you with a knife and stuffed you in a fridge.’
‘Yuk.’ Umar placed the remains of his sandwich on a napkin lying on the desk beside the keyboard. ‘I heard about that. Poor bastard – Napper seemed like a nice bloke.’
‘A poor bastard who paid the price for going off on his own and not telling his boss what he was up to.’
‘You knew what I was up to,’ Umar protested. ‘Anyway, if it was a big deal, you could always have given me a call.’
‘I tried.’ In Carlyle’s pocket, the mobile started vibrating again. It would be his voicemail offering up Flux’s message. Ignoring it, he glanced at the sergeant’s monit
or. On the screen was a page from a gossip site, featuring a story about the divorce of some celebrity he’d never heard of. Ah well, the inspector thought, at least it’s not online dating.
Umar was now bringing up another story, concerning a blind grandfather who had been tasered by a pair of police officers who mistook his white stick for a Samurai sword. He pointed at the screen. ‘Did you see this?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said. ‘What a joke.’
‘I know those guys,’ Umar laughed. ‘We did our training together.’
‘It’s no wonder they’re still constables. Just as well they only had tasers. Imagine if they’d shot the bloke.’ Carlyle frowned, ‘Anyway, I thought only firearms specialists could use them.’
‘Nah,’ Umar shook his head. ‘That was before.’
‘Before what?’
‘Before they sent everyone on a training course.’
‘I didn’t get sent on a course,’ Carlyle complained.
‘Well, not everyone, but a lot of people. I went on one. It was good fun.’
‘Did you get tasered yourself?’ The inspector smiled maliciously at the thought of it. ‘To see what it was like?’
‘No chance,’ Umar scoffed. ‘No one’s going to fire fifty thousand volts at me.’
‘I always said that you were a smart boy.’
Umar ignored his boss’s sarcasm. ‘Have they caught the guy who killed Napper yet?’ he asked, finally getting back to the matter in hand.
‘Funny you should mention that,’ said Carlyle. ‘That’s what we’re off to do right now.’
Umar glanced at the remains of his sandwich. ‘We?’
‘That’s right, super-sleuth. Go get a car and meet me outside in ten minutes.’
A wicked grin crossed Umar’s face. ‘Shall we take a taser with us? We’ve got a bunch of them downstairs.’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Up to you,’ he decided. ‘Can’t do any harm, can it? Just make sure that you don’t go using it on the wrong bloke.’
FORTY-EIGHT
Stuck in a line of slowly moving traffic, Umar peered out through the grimy windscreen, trying to work out which lane they needed.
