Nobody's Hero (Inspector Carlyle)

by James Craig

  ‘He tripped and fell,’ Umar explained.

  ‘He shot me,’ Safi whined. ‘The bastard shot me.’

  Umar pointed at the taser lying on the road. ‘It worked a treat.’

  ‘It’s police brutality,’ Safi cried, his voice rising an octave, ‘pure and simple.’

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ the inspector muttered grimly. Standing over the fellow, he had to resist the temptation to give him a hard kick in the ribs. He could feel his mood darkening faster than a November night in Glasgow. ‘Shut the fuck up, you little shit, or I’ll show you what police brutality really is.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a couple of young boys on bikes twenty yards down the road who had stopped to see what was going on. Stepping forward, he waved them away angrily, shouting, ‘Fuck off.’ Reluctantly, they did as requested. Watching them disappear round a corner, he turned to Umar. ‘Let’s go. Get him up.’

  Swallowing a mouthful of pasta, Umar gestured out of the window with his fork. ‘Do you think we should leave him there?’

  Carlyle looked at Calvin Safi, who was standing on the pavement, handcuffed to a lamppost, looking suitably pissed off. ‘We won’t be long.’

  ‘But what if someone sees?’

  Carlyle considered the empty streets. The old lady was long gone. Even the stray dog had disappeared. Nothing moved. Calvi’s shopping bags remained where he had left them, untouched on the pavement. ‘Like who?’

  ‘What if some of his mates turn up?’ Umar persisted.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘You go and put him in the car and I’ll pay the bill.’ Discarding the last of his cheese toastie, he watched the sergeant release Calvin Safi from the lamppost and march him across the road towards the car. Taking his mobile from his pocket, he pulled up Flux’s number. After a moment’s hesitation, he hit call.

  The Detective Inspector answered on the third ring. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I’ve got Safi.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He was holed up in a place in the Midlands. We’re bringing him back to London now.’

  ‘When will you get here?’

  The inspector paused.

  ‘Carlyle?’

  ‘Look, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Don’t lose your rag but we’re not bringing him back to Hammersmith.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  The inspector could hear the desperation and frustration in his colleague’s voice. Watching Umar carefully deposit Safi into the back of the Focus, he slowly explained the deal that he had struck with Chief Crown Prosecutor Emma Denton.

  ‘But that bastard – he’s mine.’ Flux was almost pleading. ‘Who is this woman?’

  ‘She’s the one who found Safi,’ Carlyle said firmly. ‘She needs to talk to him. Then he will get handed over to us. I will make sure you get your hands on him as quickly as possible.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  Maybe this job is getting too much for you, Carlyle thought. ‘Denton found him,’ he repeated. ‘Otherwise, the little wanker would still be in the wind.’

  ‘How did she know where he was hiding?’

  ‘No idea. Does it matter? We’re all on the same side here.’

  ‘Fu-uck.’

  Carlyle pictured Flux pacing up and down some corridor in Hammersmith station, trying to pull out his non-existent hair.

  ‘I went to see Napper’s girlfriend and his mum. That was a real barrel of laughs.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ The inspector tried to sound sympathetic but he was already bored with his colleague’s whining.

  ‘I promised them that we’d get this guy.’

  ‘And we have got him.’

  ‘But I promised them that I’d get him.’

  ‘It’s a team game,’ Carlyle said flatly. ‘Anyway, when it comes to it, we can give them an alternative version of events if it’s going to make them feel better.’ Looking up, he saw Umar glaring at him through the window. Gesturing that he would be a minute longer, Carlyle got to his feet.

  ‘How long is it going to take you to get back?’ Flux asked.

  ‘Depends if we get lost again,’ Carlyle laughed.

  ‘Which route will you be taking?’

  The inspector thought about it for a moment. ‘We came up the M40, with a stop at Cherwell Valley.’

  ‘Hm. That makes sense.’

  ‘I reckon that we should be back at the services in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Okay. Good.’

  ‘Give or take.’ Fishing some money out of his pocket, the inspector went over to the counter. After picking out a couple of doughnuts for the journey, he paid the woman at the till, before dropping the change into the otherwise empty tips jar.

  ‘We found blood in various locations inside the Persian Palace,’ Flux continued.

  Smiling at the woman, the inspector turned and headed for the door. ‘Napper’s?’

  ‘No. We think it might belong to one of the missing girls. If we’re lucky, it’s from Sandra Middlemass and we can link the body to the shop. Even if it’s just from Jade Jones it still gives us proof that these wankers were locking the girls up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was also some blood in the yard.’

  ‘That’ll be Safi’s,’ he said. The same as on the toe of my boot.

  ‘How would you know that?’

  Ignoring the question, the inspector stopped at the door. ‘Any news on the sidekick?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Metcalf? Not yet. But he knows that the net’s closing. He didn’t turn up for work today.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘He’s a driver for London Underground. Normally works on the Central Line.’

  ‘One of Sam Reilly’s finest,’ Carlyle quipped, referring to London’s last great union boss – a man so talented that he could keep his members in lucrative jobs almost fifty years after technology had – in theory, at least – made them all redundant. Despite introducing ‘driverless’ trains in 1968, when the Victoria Line was opened, London Underground was still paying out around £150 million a year in drivers’ salaries, with the bonus of regular strikes thrown in for free.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Flux said tiredly. ‘Let’s hope we don’t find ourselves in the middle of an industrial dispute. We don’t want the union arguing that we’re trying to victimize one of their members.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carlyle grinned as he stepped out on to the street. ‘That would be just our luck. But let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. We have to find the bugger first.’

  ‘Calvin might know where he is.’

  ‘He hasn’t had much to say for himself, so far,’ Carlyle replied. Crossing the road, he glanced over at Uncle Didier’s. The place still looked dead. If it was another nest of perverts, none of them were intent on riding to Safi’s rescue. ‘If we get anything out of him on the road, I’ll call you straight away.’

  ‘Thanks. Appreciate it. See you soon.’

  I’m sure I will, Carlyle thought as he pulled open the car door.

  FIFTY

  Umar gave the inspector a quizzical look as he slipped into the passenger seat. ‘Another bloody cake?’

  Carlyle tossed the paper bag containing the two iced doughnuts on to the dashboard. ‘It’s a long way back.’

  Sticking the car into gear, the sergeant tutted as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘It’s no wonder you’re so unfit.’

  ‘Me?’ Carlyle protested. ‘Unfit?’ Stung by his underling’s observation, he tried to recall the last time he had visited the gym. It certainly wasn’t any time in the last month. A vague sense of shame washed over him.

  Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Umar jerked a thumb at their passenger. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, he’d be halfway to Dudley by now. You’d never have caught him.’

  ‘Of course I would,’ Carlyle lied.

  From the back seat, the prisoner piped up: ‘He beat me up, y
ou know.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘You told me.’

  ‘Gave me a shock.’

  Umar glanced in the rearview mirror. ‘Shouldn’t have run away then, should you?’

  ‘My lawyer will get you for this.’

  ‘Look,’ Carlyle snapped, ‘you have been arrested for abduction, rape and murder. You killed a policeman. I don’t really think your human rights are going to be too much of a priority here.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who killed that copper,’ Safi bleated, leaning forward so that his head appeared between the front seats. ‘It was Steve Metcalf.’

  Carlyle looked at Umar. ‘The guy with the tattoo?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  The inspector shook his head. ‘Not much use then, are you? If you’ve got nothing to say, why don’t you just shut up and enjoy the ride?’

  Safi slumped back in his seat. ‘I need a piss.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ Carlyle said heartlessly, as Umar pulled out of Powke Street, heading for the motorway.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look,’ the inspector said firmly, ‘if you piss on the seat, you really will be a victim of police brutality.’

  An accident near Bishop’s Tachbrook had closed one of the southbound lanes on the motorway, slowing their progress to a crawl for more than twenty miles. By the time they reached the service station at Cherwell Valley, Safi was crying from the discomfort caused by his aching bladder. When the inspector finally opened the back door, the prisoner shot out of the car in search of a toilet.

  ‘Just as well he didn’t run that fast when you were chasing him,’ Carlyle mused.

  Umar yawned. ‘I’d still have caught him, no problem.’

  Rushing towards the entrance, Safi swerved past a granny and almost ran head-first into a bloke carrying a tray of drinks. ‘I hope he makes it in time,’ Carlyle chuckled.

  ‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed. ‘It can be tricky when you’ve got handcuffs on.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want that stink in the back all the way home.’

  ‘If he pisses himself, he goes in the boot.’

  ‘That’s the great thing about you, Inspector,’ Umar chuckled, ‘you’re all heart.’

  ‘So they tell me,’ Carlyle smirked as he watched their prisoner disappear inside the service station. ‘Anyway, I’ll go with him, make sure he doesn’t try and do a runner. You go and get some drinks. I’ll have a green tea.’

  Inside, it was clear that the southbound facilities were laid out in the exact same way as those on the other side of the motorway: newsagent and mini-market to your left, café to your right, with the bogs straight ahead. The place was moderately busy, but not heaving. It was an unremarkable weekday afternoon with normal people going about their normal business. As he walked through the foyer, Carlyle did not break stride as he gave Flux the slightest of nods. The Detective Inspector was standing by a kiosk selling breakdown insurance. Next to him stood a tall, well-developed bloke with a vacant expression who may or may not have been a fellow police officer. Either way, Carlyle had never seen the guy before. Flux put down the leaflet he had been holding and said something to his acquaintance, who nodded and set off for the toilets.

  Here we go. The gents was empty, apart from a guy washing his hands and a cleaner who was mopping the floor with disinfectant. Carlyle stepped up to a long row of urinals and unzipped himself.

  ‘Aahh . . .’

  Aiming at the small yellow chemical cube, the inspector heard the cleaner being ordered out. There was the sound of one, two, three hand-dryers springing into action, over which he could just make out footsteps squeaking on the freshly washed floor, followed by the sound of a cubical door being kicked in. There was a scream . . . then a series of grunts and groans.

  Tuning out Safi’s protests, Carlyle gave himself a shake and zipped up his jeans. Stepping over to the wash basins, he passed Flux who was standing, arms folded, next to a yellow sign on the floor that read: Sorry. Closed for cleaning. A middle-aged man in a polo shirt and checked trousers walked in, read the sign and hesitated. Flux glared at him until he got the message and left.

  Washing his hands, Carlyle glanced into the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. He looked old. Much too old to be hanging around in motorway service-station toilets while a suspect was given a good beating. The dryer in front of him died as he stuck his hands in it; irritated, he hit the button and it roared back into life. Once his hands were a reasonable approximation of dry, he finished the job by wiping them on the backside of his jeans and stepped back outside. Scanning the café, he found Umar, stuck in a queue for the till. Two minutes later, Flux appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘We’re done. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ Carlyle mumbled, then counted to ten before looking up. Flux and his henchman had already disappeared.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Umar asked, coming over.

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ Carlyle glanced at the cardboard tray his sergeant was holding. It contained three cups. ‘You didn’t get that muppet a drink, did you?’

  ‘Well,’ Umar shrugged, ‘it seemed a bit unfair not to.’

  The inspector whistled out a breath. ‘Sometimes, you’re just too soft.’ He noticed the paper bag in Umar’s other hand. ‘I suppose you got him something to eat as well?’

  Ignoring the question, Umar looked over his shoulder, towards the toilets. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

  ‘Enjoying his last moments as a free man,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I’ll go and get him. See you back at the car.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  Emma Denton fiddled nervously with the top button on her Chanel jacket as her gaze moved from Umar, to Carlyle and back to Calvin Safi.

  Carlyle looked up at the clock on the interview-room wall. He knew that he would have to take some flak, but time was pressing. Safi looked a mess, but not that much of a mess. The full extent of his beating wouldn’t become apparent until he got to see a doctor – which, hopefully, wouldn’t be for a while yet.

  ‘Well?’ the Chief Crown Prosecutor demanded.

  ‘They hit me,’ Safi complained. ‘Shot me with a stun gun. Bloody e-lectro-cuted me. Chained me to a lamppost while they ate their lunch. And then . . . then they let the other guys hit me, too.’

  Denton’s frown deepened.

  Realizing that his boss was not going to immediately respond to the prisoner’s all too justifiable complaints, Umar let out a nervous cough.

  Denton looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Mr Safi fell and hit his face while trying to run away,’ the sergeant said finally, adopting his most official tone. ‘Despite making repeated, violent attempts to resist arrest, he was eventually apprehended and restrained in the appropriate manner, in line with official regulations and protocols. Then he was brought directly here, to Charing Cross, as per your instructions, ma’am.’

  Ma’am? I’m not the bloody Queen, you know. Trying to suppress a smile, Denton sucked in her cheeks and raised an eyebrow. The sergeant was a good-looking guy, for a copper. It was just a shame that he was such a poor liar. ‘In that case,’ she enquired, ‘will you be looking to press charges against Mr Safi?’

  Safi began to protest but she cut him off with a raised hand.

  Umar pretended to think about the question for a moment before responding. ‘Under the circumstances,’ he said equably, ‘given all the other charges that Mr Safi is currently facing, which are far more serious than those that I have just outlined, there isn’t really much point, is there?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  Safi stomped his foot in frustration. ‘They beat me up in the toilet,’ he rasped. ‘It’s not right.’

  Denton narrowed her eyes and looked over at the inspector, who was trying, and failing, to project the image of a 1950s choirboy. ‘What do you have to say about this?’<
br />
  ‘This guy,’ Carlyle said quietly, ‘is an inveterate liar, a child molester and a cop killer. As my sergeant explained, he did not come quietly once we’d tracked him down. As you know, DI Ron Flux in Hammersmith is waiting to speak to Mr Safi about the death of his sergeant, Adrian Napper. The Detective Inspector was not very impressed that you wanted to speak to Mr Safi first and, frankly, I can understand his feelings. However, here is Mr Safi, as promised.’ Monologue over, he got to his feet and pointed at the clock. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another appointment. I promised DI Flux that we would hand Mr Safi over to him at your earliest convenience. Umar will make sure that the prisoner is taken across to Hammersmith when you are finished with him.’

  ‘I want a lawyer,’ Safi shouted.

  ‘That is your right,’ Denton said flatly.

  Carlyle adopted a pained expression. ‘We have tried to reach Mr Federici – he isn’t answering his phone at the moment.’

  ‘Not him,’ Safi squealed. ‘He works for my wife. I need someone else.’

  ‘Do you have your own lawyer?’ Denton asked.

  ‘Nah,’ Safi shook his head. ‘But you need to get me one, don’t you?’ The thought cheered him and he let out a brittle cackle. ‘It’s the law, innit?’

  Denton gave him a look that Carlyle interpreted as her itching to give the little shit a good slap herself. Allowing himself a smirk, he realized that he was warming to the woman.

  ‘You’ve gotta get me a lawyer,’ Safi persisted, ‘and he’s gonna sue your arse off.’

  ‘That will take a bit of time,’ Denton said, trying to sound as calm as possible, ‘but let me set the wheels in motion.’

  ‘Good.’ Safi flashed a set of chipped, yellow fangs that Carlyle had not noticed before.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Denton added primly, ‘anything that you tell us of your own volition will be to your benefit.’

  Looking at her suspiciously, Safi immediately shut his mouth.

  Good luck with that, Carlyle thought. Reaching for the door handle, he slipped into the corridor.

  Leaving the prisoner with Umar, Denton swiftly followed him outside. ‘Inspector – can I have a quick word?’