by James Craig
Umar sat back in his chair and placed his pint glass down on the table. ‘What was it?’
Carlyle frowned. ‘What was what?’
‘The pie. What kind was it?’
‘Dunno.’ The inspector finished his drink and got to his feet. It was his round. ‘It just said meat pie.’
‘You know what they say about hospital food.’
‘Yeah, but this was some kind of outside chain, a franchised thing.’ He mentioned the name of one of the outlets that had popped up everywhere over the last decade. ‘I thought it would be okay. Obviously I was wrong.’ He wiggled his empty glass across the table. ‘Another one?’
Umar considered for a moment. ‘Just a half.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle contemplated the crush of bodies between the table and the bar. ‘Make sure no one nicks my seat. I may be some time.’
Pulling out his mobile, Umar started tapping at the screen. ‘Will do.’
When he finally made it to the bar, Carlyle found himself next to a youngish American couple in matching green North Face ski jackets who seemed incapable of deciding what they wanted to drink. The man wanted to know the barman’s opinion of each of the half-a-dozen single malts on the shelf above the cash register, while the woman was caught in an existential crisis – should she choose the Australian Chardonnay or go with the Chilean Sauvignon Blanc?
They’ll both be shit, love, Carlyle thought, so it doesn’t really make any difference.
‘What do you recommend?’ the woman asked.
‘The Chardonnay’s nice,’ said the barman with all the enthusiasm of a man picking fag ends out of a pint pot.
The woman sucked air through her teeth. Clearly it was not the answer she had been looking for. She glanced at her partner. ‘I don’t know, Henry. I don’t normally go for South American wines.’
How hard can it be to choose a bloody drink? Carlyle tried to catch the eye of the girl next to the barman. As she handed another customer his change, he held up his hand. ‘Can I—’
Avoiding eye-contact, the barmaid turned on her heel and went in search of a customer on the other side of the bar.
Henry pointed towards the bottles of Scotch. ‘What about the Glenlivet?’ he asked in a whiny, East Coast accent.
‘They’re all good, mate,’ said the barman, staring vacantly into the middle distance.
‘Gee.’
Gee? At that moment, Carlyle experienced that rarest of feelings, a desire to be somewhere other than in the middle of London. ‘Bloody tourists.’
The woman gave a nervous twitch but tried to ignore him. For some reason, this annoyed the inspector even more.
Carlyle was just about to throw in some gratuitously offensive observations on the shortcomings of the United States and its citizens when the barmaid reappeared and signalled that it was finally his turn. ‘A Jameson’s, please.’
Just as he was finally giving his order, someone elbowed him hard in the back, pushing him into the American woman.
‘Hey!’ she squeaked, jumping backwards.
‘Sorry.’ Carlyle turned to face the idiot who had shoved him, ready to give him some grief. As he saw who it was, however, the inspector’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Well, well.’
A look of profound dismay passed across Seymour Erikssen’s face. ‘Oh shit.’
‘How very nice to see you. We need to have a little chat.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Already backing away, Seymour turned and pushed his way roughly past a Goth girl, heading for the door.
‘Seymour!’
‘Hey,’ Goth Girl squealed, ‘your mate spilled my gin and tonic.’
‘He’s not my mate,’ Carlyle said, sharpening his elbows as he dropped his head and set a course for the door.
By the time the inspector had made it on to the pavement, Erikssen was halfway down Bow Lane. Carlyle shook his head. ‘What’s got into you?’ he wondered.
Glancing over his shoulder, Seymour upped his pace, darting in front of a well-heeled couple and diving through a set of revolving doors that led into the Royal Opera House.
Stepping off the kerb, the inspector ignored the blast of the horn from an approaching taxi driver and ran to the other side of the road. Jogging to the side-entrance, he hopped from foot to foot as he waited behind a small queue of operagoers to get inside. Once through, he was standing in a long corridor, with the box office counter to his right. As a few stragglers collected their tickets, there was the sharp ring of a bell, warning patrons that they had three minutes to take their seats. At the entrance to the auditorium, the ushers began directing patrons inside with increasing vigour. Hanging from the ceiling in front of him was a giant screen advertising upcoming performances of Benjamin Britten’s Gloriana. He had no idea what it was about but remembered Helen commenting on its good reviews. She had mentioned a desire to take Alice to see it. Good luck with that, the inspector thought. Their punk-rock-loving daughter was about as likely to be up for it as he would be himself. A bit too highbrow for my tastes.
Parking his plebeian shortcomings for a moment, the inspector looked towards the man wrestling his way through the far exit, which led on to James Street and Covent Garden’s Piazza. ‘Got you.’ Upping the pace, the policeman happily left the world of culture behind.
‘Just my luck,’ Seymour muttered to himself as he swerved round a woman gawping at a poster of some beefcake dancer. ‘Of all the sodding people to bump into.’ The last thing he needed right at the moment was a nice little chat with Inspector bloody Carlyle. Not when he’d just lifted the fat wallet of that American geezer in the Monkey’s Uncle. It was rotten timing, making his best score of the night and then coming right up against the most annoying copper in the whole of London. What were the odds? Seymour frowned at the injustice of it all. At least he’d managed to get out of the pub sharpish. The plod was giving chase but the thief knew that he should be able to lose him quite easily amidst the early-evening crowds in the Piazza.
Exiting the Opera House, he trundled along the colonnade and found a path through the knot of tourists watching a tuneless busker go through his set of ropey U2 cover versions. Head down, the pickpocket ignored the potential booty on offer as he concentrated on not running in to anyone and so delaying his escape. Only when he had passed the Apple Store and stepped on to King Street, did he allow himself a glance over his shoulder. Following behind at a steady pace, Sherlock Holmes still had him in his sights. Cursing, Seymour contemplated the possibility that he might not be able to make a clean getaway. Just in case the policeman did manage to catch him, he needed to dump the wallet. And sharpish.
Instinctively, Seymour veered to his left, slipping behind a performance artist juggling a couple of roaring chainsaws in front of the Tuscan portico of St Paul’s Church, and disappearing into the churchyard. With five different entrances – and exits – the Actors’ Church had long been one of Seymour’s favourite properties for facilitating his departure from the scene of a crime. Trotting down the steps, he jogged across the greasy flagstones, taking care not to slip on his arse, and reaching the side door of the church, he headed inside.
Carefully closing the door behind him, the thief took a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior. The quiet was disconcerting; the roar of the flying chainsaws in the Piazza reduced to a low growl as the city outside was kept at bay by the seventeenth-century walls. Inside, it appeared that the place was empty, apart from an elderly woman to his left. Reading from a guidebook as she stood by the font, she gave no indication of noticing his arrival. Head down, Seymour quietly made his way towards the West entrance. From past experience, he knew that there was a large wooden box for visitor donations, set to the side of the main door. At best, the box was emptied once a week, allowing Seymour to use it as an occasional overnight safety deposit box. Keeping to the shadows, he removed the American’s wallet from the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the pleasingly thick wad of Euro and sterling note
s that it contained. Checking that the woman by the font was still engrossed in her book, he stepped over to the box and quickly stuffed them inside. As he did so, he checked the padlock which secured the box and grunted his approval. Rudimentary was not the word. It would only take him a few seconds to have that off on his return visit.
Stepping out into the chill of the church garden, he considered his next move. The bloke’s credit cards, an Amex and a MasterCard, were worth a few bob, but only if he could hand them on immediately. Tomorrow would be too late. The guy would have discovered the theft and alerted his card provider. The window of opportunity would be a few hours at most.
A familiar mixture of fear and greed coursed through Seymour’s veins. It was a case of selling the cards now or just tossing them away. Looking round, there was still no sign of the damn copper. Fuck it, he would take a punt. Stuffing the cards into the back pocket of his jeans, he tossed the wallet into a nearby bin, before scooting out of the Henrietta Street exit.
Less than a minute later, he glided into Agar Street, saluting as he wandered past the CCTV cameras mounted outside the Charing Cross police station. ‘See you later, Inspector,’ Seymour chortled, as he upped the pace, heading in the direction of Soho.
FIFTY-SEVEN
There was a gasp of delight from the crowd as the blade of the chainsaw sparked against the cobbles and bounced away from the juggler. Is that part of the act? Carlyle wondered. Or was it a mistake? Either way, it seems a bit risky to me. Presumably the act had been licensed by the council, but all it would take was one maimed tourist and all hell would break loose.
Breaking off from gawping at the juggler, the inspector looked around, resigning himself to the fact that he had lost Seymour Erikksen in the throng. As he scanned the tramps loitering in the portico over a few cans of Carling Zest, his eye was caught by a poster advertising St Paul’s Jubilee Garden Appeal. Next to it, the churchyard gate was being locked up for the night by one of the staff as he shooed away a couple of visitors who had missed their chance for the day.
The inspector felt his phone start ringing. Moving away from the chainsaws, he pulled it from his pocket and answered without checking the screen to see who was calling him.
‘Yeah?’
‘What happened to you?’ It sounded like Umar had left the pub and was walking down the street. Carlyle explained about Seymour. ‘The lengths some people will go to, to avoid getting their round in,’ the sergeant observed wryly.
‘Sorry,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I can be back there in a couple of minutes.’
‘Another time. Christina’s on my case – I’d better get home.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘See you in the morning.’
‘Okay.’ Ending the call, Carlyle watched the juggler’s mate go round the crowd with a hat, touting for donations. A few children stepped up to toss in some coins, but the inspector could see from the expression on the bloke’s face that pickings were slim. ‘Times are tough,’ he mumbled to himself, walking smartly away before the hat could get thrust under his nose.
From the church, it was a three-minute walk home, heading past the tube station, cutting across Long Acre and up Endell Street. By now, the girls would have eaten, so he decided to pop into the Ecco Café on Drury Lane for a takeaway pizza. He was halfway along Shelton Street when his phone went again. Assuming that it was Helen, he lifted the handset to his ear.
‘Hi.’
‘John?’
Shit. Reluctantly, he came to a halt outside the Good Vibes Fitness Studio. ‘Boss . . .’
‘Where are you?’ the Commander demanded.
‘In Covent Garden. I was just on my way home.’ As Carlyle stared into the gutter, a groan came from the Sun pub across the road, followed by a collection of choice expletives. There must be a game on. Most of the locals were Gooners; presumably Arsenal were making a mess of things again.
‘Fine.’ Simpson thought about it for a moment, before mentioning the name of a nearby bar. ‘I need to give you an update on developments. Why don’t you meet me there in half an hour?’
‘Sure.’ Ending the call, the inspector looked up at his flat in Winter Garden House, just across the road. The lights were on, but he wasn’t going home. Presumably Helen and Alice were snuggled up on the sofa watching some rubbish on TV. Feeling sorry for himself, he suddenly realized that he did at least have time to grab his pizza. Turning into Drury Lane, he walked slowly up the road while texting his wife to let her know that he would be out for a while yet.
* * *
On the thirty-first floor of Centre Point, a notorious 1960s tower block located at the bottom end of Tottenham Court Road, the inspector waited patiently for the girl behind the desk to finish her phone call.
It took a minute or so for her to complete the booking. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said brightly once it was done, ‘and thank you for waiting. Welcome to the Seifert Club.’ Looking him up and down, her smile stiffened somewhat. ‘Are you a member?’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Er, no.’
‘Might you be interested in our membership options?’
‘Not really.’ Looking over the girl’s shoulder, he scanned the room, looking for his boss. But most of the tables were empty and the Commander was nowhere to be seen. ‘Actually, I’m here to meet Carole Simpson.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The girl looked down at the reservations book and made a mark by Simpson’s name. ‘A table for two.’
Somehow, that just didn’t sound quite right. ‘Ye-es,’ Carlyle acknowledged, ‘I suppose so.’
‘In the corner, by the window. Let me take you there now.’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘That’s fine. I think I can just about manage to find my way over there on my own. Thank you.’
By the time the Commander finally appeared, the inspector was on his second glass of Jameson’s and was beginning to feel quite mellow.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Simpson gave him a brittle smile as she took the seat opposite him.
‘No problem.’ Carlyle gestured with his tumbler in the direction of the spectacular glass and steel roof of the British Museum’s Great Court. ‘I was just enjoying the view.’
‘Not bad, is it? Then again, we’re so high up here.’
‘Yes.’ Never having been a great one for heights, Carlyle didn’t really want to dwell on that point too much. ‘Presumably you’re a member here?’ he asked, moving the conversation briskly along.
Simpson’s face clouded as she gazed into the night sky. ‘Joshua was a founder member.’
‘Ah.’ Carlyle looked at his drink. His boss rarely mentioned her late husband, which was not surprising. Before being diagnosed with cancer, Joshua Hunt had been convicted of a large-scale fraud. Traumatic and embarrassing, the episode had threatened the Commander’s very future in the Metropolitan Police Service. In the end, she had survived. However, any hope of progressing beyond her current rank was gone. Like Carlyle, Simpson had to accept that her career had peaked. Like Carlyle, she knew that she could live with that and still come in to work every morning, keen to get on with the job.
‘He bought a fifteen-year membership for some ludicrous amount of money,’ Simpson explained. ‘Presumably it was deemed a justifiable business expense, tax deductible and so on. Anyway, I only found out about it after his death. One day, I came for a look round and found that I quite liked the place.’ She let out a feeble laugh. ‘After all, it’s paid for. And it’s one of the few things he left me with. So why let it go to waste? Being stuck out in Paddington most of the time, I find it quite useful for meetings in this part of Town.’ A waiter appeared at their table and she asked him for a large glass of Chardonnay and a copy of the food menu before turning her attention back to her colleague. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Carlyle found himself regretting his trip to Ecco.
‘Good. Let’s get our business over with and then you can go and see the family.’
Carlyle sat up in his ch
air. ‘Thanks.’
‘They’re all well, I take it?’
‘Fine.’
‘Good.’ Pleasantries out of the way, she went straight on to the business end of things. ‘There’s good news and there’s bad news.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle allowed himself to be distracted by the lights of a jet following the river as it headed towards Heathrow.
‘Which do you want first?’
‘You can decide.’
The Commander watched the waiter approach with her wine. She let him place it carefully on the table and hand her a menu before heading off to serve a couple of girls who had just arrived at a nearby table. ‘We’ll start with the good news,’ she said, lowering her voice.
‘Okay.’
‘You are in the clear over the assault on Calvin Safi.’
Carlyle made a show of frowning but kept his voice even. ‘What assault?’
Simpson took a sip of her wine. ‘Don’t piss about, John. We are talking on our usual, completely private basis. You know I’m not going to grass you up.’
‘Fair enough.’ He felt flushed. Maybe it was the alcohol. ‘Sorry.’
‘You are the most suspicious-minded little sod that I have ever come across.’
‘But in a good way.’
‘And also one of the luckiest. The video footage of Calvi Safi being tasered prior to his arrest is no longer online. Apparently it was shot using a stolen iPhone. The young man responsible for recording it agreed to take it down as part of a deal that will see him return the mobile on a “no questions” basis and thereby avoid prosecution.’
The inspector took another mouthful of whiskey. ‘Excellent.’
‘The local plod did a very good job for me there.’ Simpson mentioned a couple of names. ‘You need to get in touch to say thanks.’
‘I will.’
‘However,’ she continued, ‘that is not the end of it.’
