by James Craig
Umar thought about it for a few moments. ‘I’m not that worried, anyway.’
There was some problem with Carlyle’s computer which meant that it was taking forever for his log-in to appear. He stared vacantly at the screen before asking: ‘Miranda’s not so cute then, huh?’
‘Miranda is in her fifties,’ Umar said flatly, annoyed by his boss’s persistent cheekiness. ‘Lives in Leyton. Has a pet pug. Likes Spandau Ballet. Is looking forward to retiring in eighteen months and moving to Hastings.’
‘Great.’
‘All in all,’ the sergeant said tightly, ‘she’s not really up my street.’
‘Oh?’ Carlyle just couldn’t resist winding his sergeant up. ‘I thought you were fairly eclectic in your tastes.’
‘Not any more,’ As WPC Mason walked past, giving him a cheery smile, Umar leaned forward and lowered his voice: ‘I think I’m going to knock all that on the head for a while.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ Carlyle scoffed.
‘No, seriously. Things have got a little bit out of hand recently.’
‘I’ll say.’ Folding his arms, the inspector sat back in his chair and lifted his feet onto his desk. ‘Speaking of which, what happened to . . .’ he tried to remember the name but it escaped him ‘. . . the naked bike-ride girl?’
A pained look spread across Umar’s face as he scratched the bandage on his arm. ‘Melissa? I spoke to Shames about it earlier on. They took her back in, a couple of hours ago. She’s finally been charged with the murders of her boyfriend and his bit on the side.’
‘So she did it then?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Looks like it,’ Umar reluctantly admitted. ‘She was taking Clozaril – or rather, she was supposed to be taking it.’
‘Which is?’ Carlyle waved a hand in the air, inviting his sergeant to explain.
‘Which is a drug that is prescribed for patients with a psychotic disorder.’
‘Ah.’
‘Apparently Melissa has a form of schizophrenia – something that she omitted to mention to her lawyer. It was only when they found the pills in her flat and checked with her GP that it finally became clear what was going on.’
‘So who tipped Shames off about the drugs?’
The sergeant stared at his desk. ‘Dunno.’
‘Pff. You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you?’
Umar gave a rueful smile. ‘For some reason she stopped taking her medicine and her brain got a bit scrambled.’
‘So she went berserk and slaughtered the love birds?’
‘That’s the theory. Shames says they’ve been haggling with the lawyer about it. Both sides have piled in with their own medical experts.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘They’re looking to do some kind of deal that saves her from having to go to court. The expectation is that Melissa’s lawyer will get her to claim diminished responsibility, or temporary lack of mental capacity. Whatever, she’ll end up in a secure medical facility.’
‘Christ, what a mess.’
‘Postic isn’t very happy about it, by all accounts.’
‘I bet she isn’t.’
‘She wants Melissa locked up in Holloway.’
‘I dare say she does. Crazed nutter gets off by claiming insanity in what should be an open and shut case never looks good on your CV. Poor old Julie.’
‘No.’
‘There but for the grace of God and all that.’
‘Hm.’
‘Looks like you had a lucky escape there, sunshine. All you’ve got to do now is bin the widow and you’ll be back on the straight and narrow.’
‘Well,’ Umar said hesitantly, ‘funny you should mention that . . .’
Why hadn’t she checked the weather forecast before bringing her lunch outside? Sonia Mason squinted at the grey clouds hovering over St Paul’s Church in the Piazza. Deciding that it was unlikely to rain for at least the next twenty minutes, she reached into her M&S plastic bag and pulled out a Tupperware box, along with a small bottle of sparkling water. Ignoring the attempts of the guy sitting on the bench opposite to make eye-contact, she opened the box and pulled out one of her mum’s ham sandwiches. Taking a bite, the WPC chewed happily as she tapped on her Kindle screen to bring up her latest read.
‘Hell.’ No sooner had she made it to the bottom of the page than a big, fat raindrop splashed onto the screen, quickly followed by another. Getting to her feet, Sonia gathered up her belongings and put them back into the bag. Then she zipped up her parka and put up the hood.
Should she head back to the police station or nip inside, take a seat on one of the pews at the back and finally enjoy a few minutes with her book? As the rain began in earnest, she decided on the latter, lowering her head and jogging through the garden towards the West entrance of the church. Hurrying up the steps, she bumped into an old guy who’d clearly had the same idea.
‘Sorry.’ Mason held out a hand to stop the old bloke taking a tumble.
‘Watch where you’re going,’ he scowled, pushing her hand firmly away.
‘Sorry,’ Mason repeated, flustered by his hostile response. Looking up, she studied the irritated expression on the guy’s face. Realizing who it was she had run into, she let out a loud cackle. ‘Seymour.’
‘Eh?’ A startled look spread across the old burglar’s face. Taking a backward step, he slipped on the greasy stone steps. ‘Ow.’
‘Mr Erikssen, I presume,’ Mason quipped, stepping forward and pulling him up by the collar. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘Gerroff,’ Seymour hissed, looking round for someone to intervene and save him. But the rain had emptied the gardens and there was no one to come to his aid.
‘Let’s go,’ Mason insisted, tightening her grip. ‘I think you need to come and have a little chat with us down at the station.’
Carlyle paced the office, making eye-contact with Simpson, Mason and Sligo in turn before looking at the clock on the far wall. ‘So,’ he said at length, ‘if there are three funerals, where’s the bloody wedding?’ The Commander groaned. The WPC, still flushed with her success in nicking Britain’s crappest thief, smirked. The sergeant let the ‘joke’ pass right over his head. ‘Who the hell,’ the inspector continued, ‘managed to organize three funerals for exactly the same time at the opposite ends of London?’
Looking every inch the cheeky fifth-former, Mason lifted a hand in the air. ‘Please, sir, can you have three opposite ends of London?’
‘Whatever,’ Carlyle fulminated, ‘whose clever idea was it to lay Joseph Belsky, Taimur Rage and Adrian Napper to rest all at the same time?’
‘Their families, presumably,’ said Simpson, getting to her feet. ‘I’m sure that they will be distraught to know that they have caused you a diary problem, but we’ll just have to divide and conquer. I will represent us all at Napper’s—’
‘Fine, fine,’ Carlyle snapped, irritated by his boss’s unnatural reasonableness. ‘Give DI Flux my regards.’
‘If he’s there.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be there?’ Umar asked.
‘After he signed himself out of hospital,’ Simpson told them, ‘he handed in his resignation and headed off into the sunset. Apparently he’s got a place in Spain. His colleagues think he’s probably gone there.’
Lucky sod, Carlyle thought. ‘Makes sense.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Simpson looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going. Let’s speak later in the day.’
‘Okay.’ Once Simpson had left, Carlyle turned his attention to his sergeant. ‘You do Belsky, I’ll do Taimur.’
‘Fine,’ Umar agreed.
‘Good. It will give me the chance to have another word with his mother.’
‘Er,’ Mason chipped in, ‘it doesn’t look like Elma will be putting in an appearance today either.’
The inspector threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Wha-at?’
‘Sorry, Boss.’
‘Is anyone going to these bloody funerals,’ Carlyle
demanded, ‘apart from us?’
‘I checked with her office at the Christian Salvation Centre,’ Mason informed him. ‘Elma has gone to the United States to speak at something called the Hispanic Rebirth Festival, whatever that is. According to her assistant, it is quote-unquote “a key milestone in her move into expanding New World demographics”.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’
‘She’s trying to make it big in America,’ the WPC translated. ‘That’s where the money is for this kind of thing.’
‘God give me strength. She’s the boy’s mother. What about Calvin Safi? Are we letting him go to pay his last respects to his son?’
‘No.’ Mason shook her head. ‘His lawyer asked for him to be allowed to attend, but permission was denied.’
‘Poor kid,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘What does that tell you, if neither parent manages to make it to his bloody funeral?’ He gestured at Mason. ‘You go to that one then. Give me a call if Elma does actually turn up.’
‘Will do.’ Mason picked up her coat and hurried through the door.
‘Looks like you’re off funeral duty, then,’ Umar noted.
‘Perks of authority,’ Carlyle chuckled.
‘Fine.’ Umar pushed himself out of his seat. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Good,’ the inspector replied. ‘Are we still set for tonight?’
‘Yep. Eight thirty.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
SIXTY-TWO
‘Excuse me, mate, where’s the milk?’
‘In the aisle nearest the front door, past the line of chiller cabinets, towards the back,’ Melville Farasin pointed past a display of baked beans. Belatedly recognizing the inspector, he glanced around nervously. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, lowering his voice as an old woman pushed by them to pluck a packet of Ritz Crackers from the shelf. ‘It’s only my second week on the job and—’
Holding up a hand, Carlyle cut him off. ‘Relax,’ he said gently, waiting for the woman to shuffle off before adding: ‘I heard that you’d managed to make the break from Elma. Well done.’
‘In the end, she wasn’t that bothered about it,’ Melville said. ‘It was my mum who had a total fit.’ He gestured around the store. ‘She just can’t see that this has better prospects.’
‘Parents can be funny sometimes,’ Carlyle commiserated.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’m sure she’ll get over it.’
‘Yeah.’ But Melville seemed doubtful. ‘Hopefully the shock of Elma getting arrested will make her see sense.’
Carlyle did a double-take. ‘When was that?’
‘They stopped her at the airport in America,’ Melville told him. ‘She’s being sued by a guy called Jerome Mears . . .’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s an American preacher,’ Melville explained, ‘runs a thing called the Mears Ministry.’
Now there’s a surprise.
‘Elma brought him to London to preach at the Miracle & Healing Conference.’
‘Must’ve missed that one,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘Anyway,’ Melville continued, ‘Jerome claims Elma didn’t pay him all she owed and he is suing her in the United States. That’s why she got arrested, apparently. Her lawyer, Federici is running around like crazy, trying to get her out.’
‘I bet he is.’ Maybe there is a God after all, Carlyle thought cheerily.
‘Funny the way these things happen.’
‘Yes.’ The inspector suddenly decided that he would have some crackers himself. ‘I think you’re far better off in the supermarket business,’ he said, reaching for a packet.
‘I think so too,’ Melville agreed.
‘So, are you enjoying it here?’
‘It’s okay – early days.’
‘If ever I can help with anything, you know where to find me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Good to see you, Melville.’ Carlyle extended a hand and waited for the boy to get over his initial surprise before they shook. ‘Good luck.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ Carlyle gestured down the aisle. ‘I’ll go and find my milk. Let you get on.’
Resplendent in his AC/DC The Switch Is On Europe ’84 T-shirt, Bernie Gilmore raised an eyebrow as the inspector carefully placed a box of crackers and a pint of semi-skimmed milk on the table. ‘Bringing your own food, I see?’
Carlyle gave him a thin smile. ‘When you’re on the Highway to Hell, it’s always best to have a few supplies to hand.’
‘Ha, ha. Very good.’
Carlyle signalled to the Café Montevideo’s waitress that he would have a latte. ‘Want anything yourself?’
The journalist pawed at his can of Coke. ‘I’m fine. Long time, no see.’
‘Been a busy boy.’
‘So I believe.’ Bernie watched a couple of pretty girls pass by the window, each laden down with a selection of designer shopping bags. ‘I hear that Seymour Erikssen’s back behind bars.’
‘We always get our man.’
‘I thought it might be worth a little follow-up story.’
‘I’d wait until he actually gets sentenced,’ Carlyle advised. ‘We just nick the guy – if he gets out again, that’s not our fault. We just get the shit when you write about it.’ The waitress appeared with his coffee as Bernie mumbled some kind of non-committal reply.
‘You want anything else?’ the waitress asked. The inspector allowed himself a glance at the various cakes and pastries lined up on the counter. Seeing nothing that immediately caught his eye, he shook his head.
‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, once the waitress had left them to it, ‘there’s plenty of other things you can write about. Did you hear about Elma Reyes?’
Bernie shot him a pained look. ‘I wrote about that, the day before yesterday. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Carlyle took a sip of his drink and winced. It was far too weak; no bite. ‘I find as I get older that newspapers are becoming more and more tiresome.’ Pleased with his choice of word he sat back and watched Bernie pour the last of the Coke down his neck.
‘So, what else is happening?’ the journalist asked once he’d finished his drink.
‘Well . . .’ Carlyle flicked through the list in his head. ‘Melissa Graham looks nailed on for the naked bike-ride murders.’
‘Done that, too,’ Gilmore grunted.
Making a mental note to remove the Café Montevideo from his list of approved establishments, Carlyle finished his coffee. ‘That’s your problem, Bernie – you’re just too far ahead of the game.’
‘Didn’t really do it justice,’ the journalist mused. ‘We didn’t have a good enough picture.’
‘What about Calvin Safi?’ Carlyle explained about Emma Denton and the group-grooming investigation.
‘I hear that’s not going too well.’
‘I dunno about that. At least we’ve got Safi.’
‘Yeah,’ Bernie scowled, ‘after how many murders – and rapes.’
‘You really love giving me a hard time, don’t you?’
‘That’s because you make it so easy for me,’ Gilmore laughed harshly. ‘Have you got a number for her?’
‘Denton?’ Carlyle pulled up the Chief Crown Prosecutor’s number on his phone. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing it over. ‘You didn’t get it from me.’
‘No, no,’ the journalist replied, carefully copying the number into his own phone, ‘of course not.’ Saving the details, he handed the mobile back to Carlyle. ‘Thanks.’
‘One final thing,’ said the inspector. Already half out of his seat, Bernie fell back into his chair.
‘Go on.’
‘Hanway 58.’
The hack narrowed his eyes. ‘Not ringing any bells.’
‘It’s one of Ken Ashton’s companies.’
‘Oh yes?’ The eyes narrowed even further.
‘A little
bird tells me that they’re being investigated by the taxman.’
Bernie rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Is that so? And you would know this because?’
Because I spoke to a mate in the Special Investigations Unit at the HMRC, Carlyle thought smugly, and got him to put it under review. ‘I hear things.’
‘Very occasionally.’
‘Might make a good story,’ Carlyle said hopefully.
‘You reckon?’ Getting back on his feet, Bernie gave the inspector a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘I might be the world’s greatest living investigative reporter,’ he whispered, ‘but even I draw the line at trying to have a pop at Ken Ashton.’
‘Bernie.’
The hack shook his head. ‘Not going near it, sunshine. I value my kneecaps.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Do I look stupid?’
‘Well . . .’
Bernie waggled an admonishing finger. ‘Whatever game you are trying to play, my friend – and you are as transparent as a broken window – I would give it a rest. And that’s quality advice I’m offering you for free.’ Pulling open the door, he lumbered across the road, heading towards Soho Square.
Carlyle watched the reporter disappear round the corner. As usual, Bernie’s advice was very sensible. However, it was too late to change things now. He had spoken to the HMRC, and the Ashton investigation was now underway. With the recession showing no sign of ending, the Inland Revenue was under more pressure than ever to check under every rock for unpaid tax. Any tip-off was seized on with alacrity. Even if they found nothing untoward in the books of Hanway 58 – and Carlyle very much doubted that would be the case – Ashton would find the investigation long, expensive and profoundly annoying.
The waitress appeared with the bill, clearing the table before returning behind the counter. Reaching into his pocket, Carlyle dropped a handful of coins on the table, making sure that there was enough to cover the tab as well as a small tip. As he did so, he caught sight of a familiar face. On the wall, next to the till, Little Charley Bear was still smiling, touting for punters for his Christmas Adventure. That little bugger’s everywhere, the inspector mused sourly. His mobile started vibrating across the table. Picking it up, he lifted it to his ear.
