by James Craig
Carlyle half-turned, giving her an apologetic smile. ‘I really do have to go.’
‘I just wanted to thank you for bringing Safi in as we agreed.’
‘Ah.’ Wrong-footed, he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
‘I’m sure that you must have been under a lot of pressure from Flux.’
‘We had a deal.’ Looking past Denton’s shoulder, he saw Sonia Mason come sashaying down the hallway, carrying a stack of green files. As she passed, the WPC gave him an inquisitive look. He ignored her as best he could, waiting until she had disappeared round the corner before adding, ‘I did what I said I would do.’
‘True,’ the prosecutor continued, ‘but still, I know what it’s like when you’re being pulled in two directions at once.’
‘Mm.’
‘Even so, you have to be careful. Whatever actually happened, the guy looks like he’s been beaten up – quite badly, too. Lucky for you he asked for a lawyer and not a doctor.’
Rocking back on his heels, Carlyle stared at his shoes. As usual, they could do with a polish. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’
‘I’m not worried. I will conduct my interview with Safi right now and get him out of here as quickly as possible, before he can hook up with the duty solicitor. Flux can sort out any loose ends.’
‘He’ll be happy to do that.’
‘Good.’ The prosecutor pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Still, it’s not clever, bringing him in like that.’
‘No.’
‘Commander Simpson said you had anger management issues.’
Did she now? Allowing himself a rueful smile, Carlyle gestured towards the interview room with his chin. ‘I didn’t lay a finger on him.’
‘Carole also said something about poor impulse control.’
‘Maybe she was being ironic.’
‘Ha.’ Denton shook her head. She was trying to look stern but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I don’t think so. That’s not really her style.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘Anyway, as it happens, I’m off to see a psychiatrist right now.’
‘Really?’ Denton failed to hold her curiosity in check. ‘In a personal capacity?’
As if. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be confidential?’ he teased her.
‘Of course, of course,’ she agreed. ‘But either way, I hope it’s useful.’
‘Either way,’ he quipped, ‘I’ll mention my boss’s concerns about my various personality flaws; see if the shrink has got any tips.’
FIFTY-TWO
Sitting in the under-lit reception of the Doppio Clinic, Carlyle browsed a discarded copy of that morning’s Metro. On page four of the freesheet – opposite a full-page MI6 recruitment advert inviting applicants for Security Officers – was a story about a group of Muslim extremists who had been jailed by a court in Epping Forest for encouraging attacks on British soldiers. Halfway down the story, he noted a paragraph that claimed that the four men had taken part in a protest against a rival newspaper that had published Joseph Belsky’s controversial cartoon featuring the Prophet Muhammad. Amongst other things, they called for a repeat of the 7/7 bombing attacks in London and vowed to see British troops in Afghanistan coming home in body bags.
Why do they call them ‘extremists’? Carlyle wondered. ‘Nutters’ would be more appropriate. He thought back to his experience of growing up in London during the 1970s and 1980s. Back then, it was all about Irish terrorism. ‘Northern’ and ‘Ireland’ were, by common consent, the two most boring words in the English language. At that time, the man in the street had never even heard of Islam, and Holy Wars were confined to the history books.
Now the world seemed a much different place. IRA boss Martin McGuinness was shaking hands with the Queen, and Public Enemy No. 1 was now some bloke called Abu something-or-other. At least the security services still had a new bunch of morons to fight. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Always have a new enemy up your sleeve, ready for when the old one packs it in.
Over the top of his newspaper he saw the door to Dr Janice Anderson’s office open slightly. A small, pinched woman slipped through the gap and scuttled towards the exit. From inside the office, the door was pushed shut. The inspector returned to his paper. A few moments later, the door opened again and a woman’s head popped out.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’ She fixed him with a professionally blank expression that suggested neither irritation nor pleasure at his presence. ‘Please come in.’
Jumping to his feet, Carlyle tossed the paper onto the chair and headed inside.
With its white walls, varnished wooden floors and empty bookcases, the room was functional and rather depressing. There were three uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs facing a large wooden desk and, rather disappointingly, no couch. The desk itself was empty apart from a stack of papers, a telephone and a half-full glass of water. Behind the desk, with its back to the window, was an outsized executive leather chair.
‘Take a seat.’ Janice Anderson sat down on the chair behind the desk. Her dark hair, showing streaks of grey, was cut into a short bob, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on the top of her head. Wearing a black polo-neck sweater, she had a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist, and an expensive watch on her right one. All in all, it was a fairly standard casual-professional look. Reaching over, she grasped the glass of water, taking a sip to buy a little time while she eyed up her new visitor.
Listening to the comforting traffic noise outside, the inspector waited patiently for his host to ready herself. It’s a bit like the Sopranos, he thought. Except I’m not Tony Soprano and you’re not Dr Melfi.
‘So,’ she said finally, having taken his measure, ‘what can I do for you? Is this business or personal?’
‘Business.’ Crossing his legs, Carlyle sat back in his chair. ‘I have an interest in one of your patients, Taimur Rage.’
‘Ah, yes, of course.’
‘I spoke to a journalist called Bernie Gilmore. I believe that he has already contacted you.’
The smile wavered. ‘We had a brief conversation. Mr Gilmore is a most engaging character.’
‘Bernie certainly talks a good game.’
‘How do you know him?’ the woman asked.
‘Our paths cross from time to time.’
‘And what did he say about Taimur?’
He described him as a social inadequate living in a fantasy world. ‘He said that Taimur was a very troubled young man and that you tried very hard to help him.’
‘Hm.’ Anderson glanced at her watch. ‘How precisely can I be of assistance, Inspector? There is a limit to what I can say about a patient, even a dead patient.’
‘I understand. The issue for me is that I need to put the investigation into the death of Joseph Belsky – the guy that Taimur attacked – to bed. Basically, it comes down to a difference of opinion between myself and certain colleagues as to whether Taimur could have been acting alone or whether he was part of an organized group.’
A wry smile crossed the doctor’s face. ‘You mean whether he was just a crazy guy or a bona fide terrorist?’
Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘Kind of.’
‘Does it matter?’
Good question. ‘It might.’
The therapist plucked a red and black striped pencil from her desk and started twirling it between the fingers of her right hand. ‘I am happy to talk to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But only on the basis that this is all strictly off the record.’
‘Of course.’
Sitting back in her chair, the shrink let out a deep breath. ‘Well . . . I think it was fairly clear that Taimur lived in his own little world. His social interactions were very limited. I would be extremely surprised if he was able to function as part of any organized or even semi-organized grouping.’
‘So, as far as you know, the boy was acting alone when he attacked the cartoonist?’
Nodding, Anderson let the p
encil fall on to the desk. ‘I would bet my practice on it. The defining event in his young life was the divorce of his parents. He was still, even after several years, hugely resentful about that, while still remaining under their sway to a surprising degree for a young adult of his age.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Under the sway of the father, you mean? Do you think Calvin Safi could have put him up to it?’
‘No, no.’ Anderson shook her head. ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there. I hosted a couple of sessions for the family as a group. The father was fairly useless – he didn’t even turn up to one of them. The mother, though . . .’
‘Elma Reyes? I’ve met her a couple of times.’
‘Then you’ll know what I mean. To describe the lady as “forceful” would be something of an understatement.’
‘Yes, Elma gets in your face all right.’
‘Considering that she had kept the boy at arms’ length for so long, it was interesting to see the amount of control she still exerted over him.’
That’s interesting, Carlyle wondered if he had given enough thought to the importance of the mother-son relationship in his investigation. Maybe I should go and have another chat with Elma Reyes. ‘Do you think that she could have put Taimur up to the attack on Belsky?’ he asked.
An annoyed expression crossed the shrink’s face, crumpling her forehead so that she appeared to age about thirty years. ‘No. Elma runs her own Christian church. For her, it’s all business. I don’t really see why she would bother.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘People do strange things.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Anderson laughed. ‘But even so. Elma was not my patient, you understand – so ultimately, I do not have a view.’
‘Of course not.’
‘My comments are just observations and thoughts suited to this casual, off-the-record conversation. But my impression would be of an ego-driven individual with a great deal of self-control. She believes in careful planning and precise execution, in order to achieve the desired outcome in any given situation.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘That would make it unlikely for Elma to risk using her rather unworldly son to launch a violent attack on the unfortunate Mr Belsky.’ A fly landed on the desk. The psychiatrist flicked it away with her hand. ‘Anyway, what would be her motive? What could she possibly have against the unfortunate cartoonist?’
‘Maybe she wanted Muslims to take the blame for another apparent hate crime,’ Carlyle offered, realizing just how weak his words sounded as they came out of his mouth.
‘I don’t think so,’ Anderson disagreed gently. ‘As part of my preparation for the family sessions, I took a look at the Christian Salvation Centre’s website.’
I should have done that, Carlyle realized.
‘It doesn’t say anything about Islam. To be honest, it doesn’t say much about anything apart from Elma, her wonderful personality and her God-given healing powers. I would say that the woman is too self-obsessed to have any interest in hate crimes.’
‘What about her husband?’ Carlyle said. ‘He’s a Muslim. Maybe she was trying to get back at him?’
‘Pfff. I would have thought that you would be at least as much of an expert on domestic disharmony as I, Inspector. If the wife wanted to manipulate the son to get revenge on the husband, why not just get Taimur to stick an axe in Calvin’s head?’
‘So,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘that brings us back to the basic question: why did Taimur do what he did?’
‘Does there have to be a reason that we consider valid?’
‘No, but there has to be a reason.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Anderson crossed her arms. ‘Maybe – and let me slip into common parlance here – it’s as simple as the wires in his brain got crossed that day and he went a bit off-piste.’
Crossed wires? The inspector suspected that he was being patronized but he didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe he would go back and talk to the miracle-working mother anyway. The idea that he was running around chasing his tail because some lame-brained kid happened to get his wires crossed was just too depressing to accept.
‘Anyway,’ Anderson continued, jumping to her feet, ‘common parlance or not, that’s all off the record. And I have to be going.’ She lifted her gaze to the door. ‘So, I’m afraid that your time is up.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Carlyle immediately got up, happy at least that he wasn’t having to pay for the session. ‘Thank you very much for your time. What you had to say was very interesting.’ If totally useless. Crossed wires, indeed.
FIFTY-THREE
Turning off Drury Lane and into Macklin Street, the inspector instantly noted the large guy with the crew cut, wearing jeans and a green Adidas tracksuit top. Standing by the front door of Winter Garden House, the block of flats where the Carlyle family lived, he was playing on his smartphone, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The man waited until Carlyle was almost about to pass him.
‘You the policeman?’ he asked, his voice a low grumble of estuary English.
Carlyle keyed in the entry code and pulled open the door. Looking up, he gave the slightest of nods. The guy must have been at least six two, maybe taller. He didn’t look particularly fit, but then again, he didn’t have to. All in all, he was not the kind of bloke you wanted standing outside your front door.
The inspector paused in the doorway. ‘Who are you?’
The guy dropped the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, took a deep drag on his smoke and gazed down the street. ‘Mr Ashton would like to have a word with you.’
At the mention of the old gangster’s name, Carlyle stiffened slightly. ‘So why can’t he just phone me, like anyone else?’ He stepped aside, holding open the door to let an elderly woman whom he didn’t recognize slip between them and enter the building. ‘This is the twenty-first century, after all.’
‘Dunno.’ Taking a final puff on his cigarette, the man flicked the stub towards the gutter. ‘Maybe he hasn’t got your number. Anyway, he’s not a big fan of mobile phones.’
‘Great.’ There are more mobile phones than people in this world but Ken bloody Ashton isn’t a fan.
‘He’s just down the road. It won’t take long.’
Carlyle looked across the road, towards Il Buffone. The old café was shuttered and closed up, like it had been for months, a board above the door still proclaiming the promise of a low rent for a new tenant. In the current economic climate, there was next to no chance of anyone taking it on. If someone was foolish enough to do so, he reckoned they would last six months, at the outside. It was a shame, but then lots of things were a shame.
Pining for a raisin Danish and a double espresso, the inspector wondered what Marcello, the old owner, was up to. Hopefully, he was sat at home in North London, enjoying a well-deserved and prosperous retirement with his wife.
‘I was going to have my tea,’ he mumbled, talking more to himself than anyone else. ‘I need something to eat.’
‘Won’t take long,’ the man repeated, ambling off in the direction of Drury Lane. ‘C’mon. Mr Ashton doesn’t like being kept waiting.’
‘And I don’t like missing my tea,’ Carlyle muttered under his breath as he reluctantly let go of the door and followed after him.
They found Ken Ashton sitting in the upstairs snug of the Royal Circus pub on Endell Street, his cane resting on the table in front of him, next to a half-empty pint of London Pride. Ashton looked very dapper in a grey suit with a thick pinstripe that, up close, smelled slightly of mildew, with a white shirt and a ruby red tie. Flicking through a copy of the Evening Standard, he didn’t look up as they approached.
The messenger boy in the green tracksuit top took a seat near the stairs as Carlyle stood in front of the old man’s table.
‘Bloody hell,’ Ashton snorted, ‘listen to this – French police left a four-year-old girl stuck in a bullet-riddled car with her dead family for eight hours because they didn’t realize she had
survived a suspected carjacking gone wrong.’ He looked over the top of his newspaper. ‘Those Frogs,’ he cackled, ‘they’re almost as useless as you.’
Carlyle gave a pained smile and took a seat.
Closing his newspaper, Ashton folded it carefully and placed it on the table. ‘How are you, Inspector? Long time no see.’
‘I’m fine, Ken, how are you?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
‘Good.’
The old fellow smiled malevolently. ‘I see that Seymour Erikssen has been running rings round you again.’
Why is it that everyone likes talking about Seymour? Carlyle wondered.
‘Must be very embarrassing for you.’
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Hardly.’
‘Anyway,’ Ashton continued, ‘this is not primarily a social chat. I hear that you’ve been wanting to see me.’
‘I was wanting to have my tea,’ said Carlyle, glancing at the thug who’d brought him to the pub.
‘But you came anyway.’
‘I’m interested in Brian Winters.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was on Waterloo Bridge when he keeled over.’
Ashton made a face. ‘Good for you.’
‘He was your lawyer.’
‘I have lots of lawyers,’ said the gangster, not sounding that happy about it. ‘You collect quite a few of them when you are in my line of work.’
I’m sure you do, Carlyle thought.
‘And, for his part, Mr Winters had lots of clients,’ Ashton went on.
‘Did you do a lot of work with him?’
‘A bit. Brian worked for me for, oh, I suppose more than fifteen years. When he died, he was handling the sale of my property in Harley Street, as I believe you know. All very straightforward stuff – at least, it should have been.’ He shot the inspector a quizzical look. ‘Anyway, he had a heart attack.’
‘That he did.’
‘So why are you so interested, copper? Given that you should be out dealing with anti-social little scumbags like Seymour.’
