Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked, pointing at a large sign that simply said THE NORTH.

  ‘I suppose so.’ A pained expression crossed the inspector’s face. The further they edged away from Central London, the more he felt his humour drain away.

  Umar squinted as they approached the sign. ‘Not very informative, is it?’

  Tells me all I need to know, Carlyle thought grimly.

  ‘I guess it must be the right lane.’ The sergeant pointed at another sign nearby. ‘It’s not as if we want to go to Oxford, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle had no idea, either way.

  ‘This traffic is lousy.’

  ‘Just as well we’re not in a hurry.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Carlyle looked at Umar, his face scrunched up like a little old man as he gazed into the middle distance, and said, ‘You need to get your eyes tested.’

  ‘You can drive if you want.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Carlyle tried to remember the last time he’d been behind the wheel of a motor car. Driving simply wasn’t his thing. Living and working in Central London, he didn’t have much need for a motor. Most of the time, a car was a liability. And he found driving incredibly stressful; most people seemed to use it as an opportunity to unleash their inner idiot. When it came to his police work, it was a chore that he was invariably happy to leave to others. After opening the window to expel the stale air inside the vehicle, he reached for the glove compartment. ‘Was this shit-heap all you could get?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Umar shrugged. ‘Not much of a choice.’

  ‘There never is,’ Carlyle groused.

  ‘Three of our cars were involved in accidents last week, so we were lucky to get anything.’

  ‘How is that possible? This is a city where the average traffic speed is less than ten miles an hour. Cars move at the speed of chickens.’ Pulling out a battered road map, he slammed the compartment door shut. ‘We’re supposed to be the police. How the hell do we manage to have so many bloody accidents?’

  A gap opened up in front of them and Umar clumsily manoeuvred into the correct lane. ‘Chickens?’ he sniggered.

  ‘I read somewhere that the average speed of a running chicken – apparently – is about ten miles an hour, the same as a car in London or maybe even a bit faster.’

  ‘And who the hell measures something like that?’ Umar asked as they edged forward at a speed considerably below 10mph.

  ‘Dunno.’ The inspector watched fumes spewing from the exhaust of a black cab in front of them, cursed and wound his window most of the way back up. ‘The Department of Transport, I suppose.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Umar chortled. ‘Not the traffic – the chickens. Why would anyone want to measure the speed a chicken runs at? What’s the point of that?’

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘That is a very good question,’ he grinned, ‘but one for which there is no immediately obvious answer.’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ Umar said. ‘I magine being some poor scientist who has to measure running chickens. How do you make them run in straight lines, for a start?’

  ‘Do they have to run in straight lines?’

  ‘I dunno. You’d have thought so. Anyway, chicken analyst – that’s got to be an even worse job than ours.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘By the way, did you get the taser?’

  ‘It’s in the boot.’

  ‘You can give me a lesson later on. I feel I’ve been missing out when it comes to handling the latest in police technology.’

  ‘It’s not a toy,’ Umar warned him.

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘I had to sign it out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If anything goes wrong, I’m responsible.’

  Don’t be such a tart. ‘Yes.’ Gazing out of the window, the inspector was mesmerized by the sight of a woman wobbling along the inside lane on one of the mayor’s hire bikes. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can’t show me the basics. It’s good to learn new tricks.’

  ‘Mm.’ Still hunched over the wheel, Umar seemed less than convinced.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ his boss said soothingly, ‘I’ll be careful with it.’ All too predictably, a single-decker bus cut in front of the cyclist, almost sending her into the gutter, face first. It’s a miracle that more people don’t die on those things, Carlyle thought. Or maybe they do, and no one notices. He vaguely remembered reading a piece a few months earlier in the Standard that claimed on Oxford Street alone a dozen or so cyclists died in accidents each year. One person a month – on one street. And no one batted an eyelid. As far as Carlyle could see, more and more people were getting on bikes. Therefore, more people would die. It stood to reason. For sure, you would never see him cycling around London. It was way too dangerous. He did not have a death wish – unlike the woman in the inside lane. ‘How much does a taser cost, anyway?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Umar shrugged. ‘Seven, eight hundred quid.’

  ‘Bargain.’

  ‘Although knowing the police force,’ Umar added, ‘they probably managed to hook up with some supplier who let them have a job lot at a grand and a half each.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest,’ Carlyle reflected. ‘We’re very good at wasting taxpayers’ money.’ He watched as another bus went past. Once again, the woman cyclist was almost run over. After a few more seconds of precarious wobbling, she was finally forced to give up the fight. To his considerable relief, Carlyle watched her dismount, haul the bike onto the pavement and start pushing it along the street in search of a docking station.

  Wise move. Unfolding the map, the inspector tried to work out the route that they needed to take. After a few moments, he realized that he was wasting his time. A Chinese subway map would have made more sense to him than the mass of lines swimming in front of his face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Reaching forward, Umar tapped a small screen that was stuck to the car’s dashboard. ‘Type in where we’re going and that will show you the way.’

  Trying to refold the map, the inspector looked at the Sat Nav suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that the kind of thing that tells you to drive off a cliff?’

  ‘Don’t be such a bloody dinosaur,’ Umar laughed.

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle protested.

  ‘These things are very handy,’ Umar told him. ‘And somehow, I think that the computer will prove to be a much more reliable guide than you.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘the technology wins.’ Unable to get the map back into a reasonable shape, he tossed it over his shoulder towards the back seat, where it joined a selection of old newspapers, plastic bottles and other rubbish that had been kindly left by the car’s previous occupants. ‘I suppose we might as well give it a go. Just don’t blame me if we end up in a river or something.’

  * * *

  After fighting their way out of London, they headed north on the M40, stopping for a comfort break at the Cherwell Valley services. Car journeys made the inspector nauseous and he was extremely glad for the chance of some fresh air. Standing in the car park with a Coke and a Mars Bar, he let his mind go blank as he contemplated the names on the procession of lorries heading north.

  Eddie Stobart.

  Willi Betz.

  Tillers Turf.

  Good God, he thought, shaking himself from his daze, you’re turning into a bloody lorry spotter – assuming such people exist.

  After a while, Umar appeared at his shoulder, his hand deep in a bag of crisps. ‘Want one?’

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Cheese and onion.’

  Urgh. Deal-breaker. The inspector was a strictly salt and vinegar man. ‘Nah. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Umar shoved another handful of crisps into his mouth and began munching happily.

  Carlyle downed the last of his cola and looked around in vain for a bin. ‘What do you make of all this stuff?’


  ‘What?’ Umar asked. ‘You mean the group grooming business?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Carlyle frowned. Why were there no bins? What was wrong with this country? Doubtless it was some kind of security measure. What was he supposed to do with his rubbish? Eat it?

  ‘It’s a grim business,’ Umar replied, staring at his crisps.

  ‘Mm.’ Resisting the urge to toss his litter onto the tarmac, the inspector stuffed the Mars wrapper into the can, which he then crumpled in his hand. ‘But do you think it’s a cultural thing? Or is this another monster Met fuck-up in waiting? Will we be hailed as the protectors of young girls, or vilified as racist bastards?’ He thought about it further for a moment. ‘Or, indeed, both?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Umar said, tipping back his head and pouring the last of the crisps down his throat.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ Umar repeated. ‘You can’t have a view on everything, you know. Well, not unless you’re a politician, of course.’

  Carlyle made a face. ‘I would have thought you’d have a bit more of a view on this one – at least, more of a view than me.’

  ‘Why?’ Umar frowned. ‘Because I’m half-Asian?’

  Uh oh. Wishing now that he’d never raised the subject, the inspector said awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Umar told him. ‘I’m from Manchester. Whatever you might think down here, we came into the twenty-first century at exactly the same time that you London buggers did.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Just because my mother’s Asian,’ the sergeant continued, ‘it doesn’t mean that I have any particular insight into the thinking of some Asian men who happen to be criminals. I’m British. I don’t have any of the kind of so-called “cultural baggage” that we’re talking about here. Who knows what those guys are thinking? And really, who cares? As far as I can see, they’re not Asian dickheads. They’re just dickheads.’

  It was just a bloody question.

  Reading the irritation in his boss’s face, Umar softened his tone. ‘Look,’ he said evenly, ‘I understand the theory. But I wouldn’t get too hung up on why bad people do bad things. All we need to worry about is how we stop them from getting away with it.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Carlyle conceded.

  The sergeant did a little jig on the tarmac. ‘And we’re going to get those fuckers good.’

  ‘Well, if we’re to do it any time soon, we should get going.’

  ‘Yeah. Fair enough.’ Umar held out a hand. ‘Gimme your rubbish and I’ll go and find a bin.’

  Back on the road, Umar took a few minutes to talk his boss through the situation with Melissa Graham, the naked bike rider with the dead boyfriend.

  ‘Sounds like she did it,’ was the inspector’s only response as he stared out of the window at the bland countryside speeding by at something greater than seventy miles an hour. ‘What about the other guy – the one who was stabbed on the Strand?’

  Umar drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he tried to recall the name. ‘Bradley something . . .’

  ‘Yeah. Presumably your girl didn’t kill him.’

  ‘She’s not my girl,’ Umar objected.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘Your interest is purely professional and nothing to do with the fact that she looks good naked.’

  Umar steered the car into the outside lane and accelerated past a dawdling Skoda. ‘How do you know she looks good?’

  ‘Ha,’ Carlyle cackled. ‘So you’re saying that she doesn’t?’

  ‘She certainly didn’t kill Bradley Saffron,’ said Umar, finally remembering the victim’s surname.

  ‘Well, it’s like Meatloaf said,’ Carlyle mused, ‘two out of three ain’t bad.’

  ‘Eh?’ Umar glanced into the rearview mirror as the Skoda retreated into the distance behind them.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I never do,’ the sergeant observed, slipping back into the middle lane.

  ‘The great pushbike palaver,’ Carlyle said, stifling a yawn, ‘is most definitely not our problem.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Leave it to Shames and Postic,’ the inspector said firmly. Reaching forward, he tapped the Sat Nav screen. ‘Is that thing working? It looks to me as if it says we’re heading for France.’

  ‘Like I said, you’re a bloody dinosaur.’ Umar gave a resigned sigh. ‘Don’t worry, we’re right on track.’

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Okay, according to the computer, this is it.’ Pulling over to the kerb, Umar brought the car to a halt.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘I thought we were never going to make it.’

  Umar glanced at his watch. ‘We didn’t do that badly.’

  ‘Bloody machine. We almost ended up in Wolverhampton. That would have been a fate worse than death.’ Unlocking his seatbelt, the inspector looked through the windscreen with dismay. In front of them was an empty street straight out of a 1960s kitchen-sink drama, lined on each side by a row of two-storey redbrick terraced houses for which the word ‘modest’ might have been invented. Out of a nearby side street appeared a stray dog of some description. It looked inquisitively at the two policemen before cocking its leg against a rusting lamppost and going about its business.

  ‘Welcome to the real world,’ Umar muttered.

  The inspector felt an immense reluctance to get out of the car. ‘Where precisely are we?’

  Umar pointed at a street sign on the wall of a house on the far side of the road. ‘Powke Street. Cradley Heath.’

  ‘That doesn’t tell me much,’ Carlyle objected. ‘Anyway, come on, let’s go and find the address that Denton gave us.’ He pulled out the slip of paper the Prosecutor had given him and unfolded it. ‘Uncle Didier’s. 147–149 Puke Street.’ Stuffing the paper back in his pocket, he pushed open the car door. ‘It’s some kind of takeaway joint.’

  Struggling out of the car, Carlyle stretched, yawning as he looked up and down the street. To his right, maybe two hundred yards away, was what looked like a small cluster of shops that had been plonked between the houses in an apparently random fashion. He squinted but they were too far away for him to be able to work out what they were. Patting his jacket pockets, he tried to find his glasses. Coming up empty, he tried again, checking more carefully this time. The end result, however, was the same: no spectacles. Shit.

  ‘Left your specs at the station again?’ The sergeant opened up the boot.

  Just you wait till your eyesight starts going. The inspector pointed in the direction he had been looking. ‘It’ll be down there – let’s go take a look.’

  Slamming the boot shut, Umar slung a grubby-looking backpack over his shoulder and fell into step with his boss.

  ‘What’s that?’ Carlyle asked as they headed down the road.

  ‘Got the taser in there,’ Umar said.

  Carlyle grunted. He had forgotten all about the device.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Umar asked.

  ‘The plan,’ Carlyle said decisively, ‘is to get something to eat. I’m absolutely starving. We can nick the little scrote after lunch.’

  On first glance, Uncle Didier’s was a pretty good facsimile of the Persian Palace back in Shepherd’s Bush Green. As they got closer, Carlyle could make out a handwritten sign in the window offering Burgers – Kebabs – Chips. Apart from an acne-ridden girl behind the counter, the place was empty.

  The look on Umar’s face suggested he considered it no more appetizing than his boss. ‘What do you fancy?’

  Next door to Didier’s was a bookmaker’s and then a launderette, followed by a grocery store. Next to the grocer was another café. It didn’t look up to much but it looked better than Didier’s. ‘Let’s try that place,’ the inspector said.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Carlyle walked along the pavement, then stopped at the door of the café to let an old woman with a shopping trolley shuffle out. As he did so, he looked up. Thirty yards further down the road, a fam
iliar figure turned out of a side street and strolled towards them, head down, a carrier bag in each hand. ‘Fuck me,’ he breathed.

  ‘Language, language,’ the woman scolded him, in a broad Black Country accent.

  Ignoring the unhappy granny, Carlyle half-turned towards Umar. ‘That’s our man,’ he hissed, gesturing down the road.

  ‘Shit.’ Slipping the bag from his shoulder, Umar fumbled inside for a moment, before pulling out the taser.

  ‘Hey,’ the woman squawked. ‘Is that a gun? What you doin’?’ She took a half-step backwards, towards the sanctuary of the café. ‘Put that thing away. I’m going to call the police.’

  ‘We are the police, madam,’ Carlyle said wearily, his gaze still fixed on his approaching prey. ‘There’s nothing to worry about here. Please be on your way.’ At that moment, Calvin Safi looked up. Recognizing the inspector, he stopped in his tracks. For a heartbeat, he pondered his options, before dropping his bags, swivelling round and fleeing in the direction from which he had come.

  ‘He’s legging it!’ Carlyle shouted, stating the obvious as he rocked back on his heels. ‘Get after him.’

  Umar set off down the road, arms pumping. Nice technique, Carlyle thought, happy that he didn’t have to bust a gut himself in pursuit of their prey. Pulling out his warrant card, he flashed it at the woman. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, belatedly trying to inject some warmth into his voice. ‘That man is a wanted criminal. But don’t fret, we’ll have him apprehended in a minute.’

  The woman scanned his ID. ‘So you’re a policeman, then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle tried to smile.

  The woman pointed in the direction of the fleeing suspect. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting after him, then?’

  * * *

  Confident in his colleague’s abilities, Carlyle set off at a leisurely pace. By the time he caught up with the pair of them, Umar had Safi face down on the Tarmac with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Nice of you to join us.’ The sergeant snapped a pair of Safariland speedcuffs on to the suspect’s wrists.

  ‘I knew you had it well under control.’ Looking down at the prostrate man, Carlyle noticed a gash on his forehead. ‘What happened?’