by James Craig
‘Carlyle.’
‘You bastard. You’ve shopped me to the Revenue, haven’t you?’ The hostility swept down the line in waves.
Stifling a laugh, the inspector played dumb. ‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘Don’t play silly buggers!’ Ken Ashton shouted. ‘I’ve just had them descend on my office like a plague of bloody locusts. That’s down to you, isn’t it?’
Carlyle took a deep breath and tried to sound confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘All my books are in order,’ Ashton growled
‘I’m sure they are, Ken,’ Carlyle said equably. ‘Do you want me to speak to HMRC for you, see what I can find out?’
‘I want you to leave bloody well alone,’ the old crook thundered.
‘Careful,’ Carlyle quipped, unable to contain his glee any longer, ‘you don’t want to have a stroke. Look at what happened to poor old Angus Muirhead.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Anyway, if you end up getting a large demand for back tax, I’m sure you can use the refund you get from Chris Brennan.’ Waving a fist in triumph, the inspector ended the call, giving Little Charley Bear the thumbs-up as he got to his feet and headed out into the street.
SIXTY-THREE
About time. Swallowing a mouthful of Peroni, Carlyle listened to the footsteps in the hallway coming steadily towards them. The lawyer was the best part of an hour late. Annoyed, the inspector added poor timekeeping to the list of Chris Brennan’s many character defects.
As the new arrival appeared in the kitchen, the inspector allowed himself a small smile. Brennan had ditched the Prince of Wales check suit for a pair of faded jeans, some red Puma trainers and a grey overcoat. The bags under his eyes seemed to have grown since their last meeting and he needed a shave. The overall effect was less legal eagle and more legal aid client.
Clocking the two policemen, Brennan hesitated in the doorway.
‘Come in,’ Carlyle commanded, as Giselle appeared from behind him and darted towards Umar, who had positioned himself on the far side of the kitchen. The lawyer glared at his hostess but said nothing as he entered and planted himself in front of the fridge. Legs apart, arms folded, the look on his face was more resigned than angry.
‘We won’t offer you a beer,’ Carlyle went on.
Brennan cleared his throat. ‘Just get on with it,’ he grumbled.
Giselle kept her eyes firmly on a spot on the tiled floor. Her face was heavily made-up but the signs of her recent beating at the hands of her late husband’s business partner were still clear to see.
‘The good news is that Mrs Winters will not be pressing charges against you.’ Carlyle paused, allowing the woman’s bowed head to give a small nod of agreement. ‘That would certainly not be my recommendation,’ he let a pained expression flit across his face, ‘but I will, after some consideration, respect her views.’
Brennan stared out into the garden, trying to affect an air of boredom. ‘And what else?’ he asked, not looking at his nemesis.
‘You don’t get the money.’ Giselle Winters finally found her voice.
Brennan turned to face the widow. ‘But—’
‘You have to walk away from here – now,’ Carlyle said. ‘And don’t come back. If you try to contact Mrs Winters, or threaten her in any way, you will be arrested immediately and charged with grievous bodily harm and attempted extortion.’
‘A spell at Her Majesty’s Pleasure might well be a better bet than having to face up to Ken Ashton’s people,’ Brennan reflected.
Carlyle smiled maliciously. ‘I should imagine you’ll have to do that whether you’re inside or outside.’
Brennan rocked back on his heels. ‘You could be right.’
‘Regardless of that, don’t come back,’ Umar repeated.
‘You know what? She thought you were a useless shag.’ Before Umar could reply, Brennan wheeled round to the inspector. ‘As for you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Always trying to claim the moral high fucking ground. This is all about Yvonne Meyer, isn’t it?’
‘Just go, Chris,’ Giselle hissed. With a snort of disgust, the lawyer headed for the door. Grim-faced, Carlyle kept his own counsel as he watched Brennan disappear back into the hallway. He listened to the retreating footsteps and the front door slamming shut and realized that he’d been holding his breath. Exhaling, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply.
Umar fidgeted with his beer bottle and looked up at his boss. ‘So who’s Yvonne Meyer, then?’
Sitting in Giselle Winters’ kitchen, the inspector stared at his empty bottle and registered the light buzz that a third beer had bestowed on his brain. That was enough Peroni for him for one night; it was time to move on. He looked around, wondering whether there was any Scotch in the house. Brian Winters, he imagined, would be the kind of guy to have a bottle of something rather nice close at hand. ‘Do you know where they keep their spirits?’ he asked his sergeant.
Still lingering over his first drink, Umar said. ‘Nah.’ He pointed towards the stairs. ‘I can go and ask Giselle, though – if you like.’
‘It’s okay. Don’t worry.’ The moment Chris Brennan had slunk off into the night, the widow had announced that she was decamping to Antibes that very evening, to stay with friends. She had then disappeared upstairs to pack. The inspector thought it a good idea, just in case the lawyer did try to come back. ‘Probably best that you stay away from her bedroom, seeing as you’ve turned over a new leaf and all that.’
Did Umar blush from behind his beer bottle? Maybe the inspector had imagined it. ‘What do you think he meant,’ the sergeant mumbled, ‘about Giselle saying that I was a rubbish shag?’
I would have thought it was fairly self-explanatory. ‘No idea,’ Carlyle lied. ‘People talk shit, just to wind you up.’
‘I suppose.’ But the young man sounded doubtful.
‘I’m sure Giselle wouldn’t say anything like that,’ the inspector said soothingly.
‘No.’ The sergeant’s face brightened somewhat. ‘Anyway, Yvonne Meyer . . .’
‘Christ,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘Maybe I will have another beer.’ Going over to the fridge, he liberated another Peroni.
Umar waited patiently for him to remove the cap and take a swig.
‘Yvonne Meyer . . . South African, twenty-three years old, working in a bar on Goodge Street and training to become a graphic designer. Pretty girl . . .’
Umar bit his lip, knowing more-or-less what was coming next.
‘Brennan raped Meyer at a party – beat her up too. Then he threatened to kill her if she reported it. I persuaded her to make a complaint and – ten months later – we went to trial.’ If only he could wish the memories away.
‘And?’
‘And the bastard got off. When the case was dismissed, Yvonne walked out of court, went down into the underground and jumped in front of a Victoria Line train heading for Seven Sisters.’
‘Ah.’ Umar didn’t know what to say.
The inspector chugged down half of the remaining beer and let out a small belch. ‘That was just over a decade ago now – but some cases you don’t forget.’
‘No.’
‘Her parents came all the way from Durban to collect the body. She was their only child. They had no idea what had happened, didn’t even know that the court case was taking place. Yvonne had tried to spare them that.’
‘Fu-uck . . .’
‘It can be a shit old world. But I have followed Brennan’s career carefully ever since, waiting for him to make a slip. And now he finally has, it’s time for some payback.’
‘Are you sure that he was guilty?’
‘He was as guilty as sin. Basically, he got off because the forensic evidence hadn’t been collected properly. And he had a history of violence that wasn’t disclosed to the jury. You saw what he did to Giselle.’
‘Yeah. So what will happen to him now?’
Carlyle finished his beer. ‘That’s for Ken Ashton to decide. Brian Winters ha
s really dropped him in it. Brennan is on the hook for a lot of cash.’ Placing the empty bottle on the worktop, he headed for the door. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’
Checking to ensure that he wasn’t imprisoning any stray Chinese tourists, the Reverend Lincoln McNelis locked the West entrance and carefully set the alarm. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to sitting down with a cup of tea and a couple of shortbread biscuits. His sense of weariness increased as he approached the donations box. It cost more than a hundred thousand pounds a year to run St Paul’s Church, and that sum was growing all the time. On top of that, there was the appeal to save and restore the courtyard, a job that would require another six-figure sum. As their need grew, however, the charity of visitors was coming under ever greater strain, their pockets emptied in double-quick time by the more expensive delights of the surrounding city. The weekly take was getting smaller and smaller, and each year it was becoming harder and harder to balance the books.
As he turned the key in the lock, the rector wondered what ‘gifts’ he might find in the box this time. It never ceased to amaze him what people managed to force through the slot: bits of food; plastic cutlery; condoms. In short, anything but cash.
With a sigh, he opened the lid and peered into the box.
‘Oh, my.’
Reaching inside, he pulled out a fistful of notes in various currencies.
A gift from God. Shuffling the collection of pounds, euros and dollars, Lincoln McNelis did a quick calculation in his head. Guessing that he was holding the equivalent of something like three months’ takings, he lifted his eyes to the heavens, apologizing for his cynicism and giving heartfelt thanks for the generosity of strangers.
SIXTY-FOUR
Tired but somewhat elated, Carlyle pushed through the slowly thinning crowd of late-middle-aged men in leather jackets and Suspect Device T-shirts. With the final, triumphant encore still ringing in his ears, he tried to remember the last time he’d been to a gig. Any gig. It had to be twenty years at least. The last time he’d seen Stiff Little Fingers themselves was in Brixton, way back in 1988. One thing he did remember: Helen had refused to come with him. She had never really been into Punk. Never really been into music, full stop. Certainly not in the trainspotterish way that he had been, back then.
1988.
By that time, the band had already been around for ten years or more. It was a miracle they were still going, really.
It was a miracle he was still going.
After a few moments, he caught up with his daughter, who was waving a rolled-up poster above her head.
‘I got it signed!’
‘Great,’ he smiled, energized by her clear delight.
‘That was so cool,’ Alice burbled, still riding the adrenaline rush of the show. ‘Can we do it again?’
‘If you’d like.’ Putting a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulders, Carlyle steered her towards the exit. ‘I don’t see why not.’
Umar gave WPC Mason a gentle nudge. ‘Do you think we should wake him?’ he stage-whispered.
‘I’m not asleep,’ Carlyle said, if a little groggily. Opening his eyes, he lifted his feet off his desk, allowing himself a stretch while stifling a yawn.
‘Of course not, Boss,’ Mason agreed.
‘Just doing a good impression of a man having a kip,’ Umar chuckled. ‘Late night, was it?’
‘Alice took me to a Stiff Little Fingers concert last night,’ Carlyle explained.
‘Who are they?’ Umar asked. ‘Some boy band?’
‘Not quite.’ The inspector reluctantly got to his feet. He needed an espresso – a double. ‘Anyway,’ he yawned properly, ‘haven’t you got more pressing things to worry about? Is there any news from the IPCC?’ It was more than a week now since the pair of them had appeared in front of the panel investigating the circumstances of Calvin Safi’s arrest and, so far, the silence had been deafening.
‘Nothing yet,’ Umar said cheerily. If he was feeling stressed out by the whole episode, he wasn’t letting it show.
‘They’re taking their bloody time about it,’ Carlyle groused.
‘My rep says I shouldn’t read anything into that,’ Umar countered. ‘They just have to make a show of going through the motions. She’s fairly relaxed about the whole thing.’
‘Let’s hope she’s right.’
‘It’ll be fine – no more than a reprimand.’ The sergeant sounded like he believed it.
‘Good. So, where are we in terms of Mr Safi himself?’
‘We’ve got him in relation to Napper’s murder and Sandra Middlemass, the missing girl, but that’s about it.’
‘That’s plenty,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘I’m not sure that the Chief Crown Prosecutor sees it like that. I don’t think Safi talked about the grooming network. Denton didn’t get much out of him.’
‘Ah, well, it was worth a try.’ The inspector turned to Mason. ‘And how is our good friend Seymour Erikssen?’
‘We got lucky. CCTV from the Monkey’s Uncle shows him robbing that American tourist. We never found the wallet, but we’ve got him in the frame for another half a dozen thefts in the last few weeks. Fingers crossed, he won’t be getting out so quickly this time.’
‘Good,’ Carlyle said, ‘Bernie Gilmore will be pleased, if nothing else.’
Sitting in the canteen, the inspector considered the merits of a cheese and tomato panini as he scanned the news pages of that morning’s Metro. Beneath a picture of a monkey in a sheepskin coat that had been found wandering around an Ikea store, his eye caught a story in the news in brief section:
A man found beaten to death near Waterloo Bridge last night has been named as Christopher Brennan, founder of the legal firm of WBK. Police are calling for witnesses after Mr Brennan collapsed after being attacked by two men in an underpass leading to Charlie Chaplin Walk.
That was quick, Carlyle thought, as he watched Umar approach the table. Closing the newspaper, he tossed it onto the next table as the sergeant placed a fresh espresso in front of him and pulled up a chair.
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Sitting down, Umar tore open the wrapper on his Mars Bar and took a large bite.
You could have got me one, Carlyle thought resentfully.
‘Did you hear?’ Umar laughed through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘Jazz got off.’
‘Huh?’ Carlyle’s frown grew deeper. The fate of Maradona Wilson was not something that had been keeping him awake at night. ‘How did he manage that? The little bugger was caught trying to sell crack to a copper.’
‘Apparently,’ Umar offered, taking another bite, ‘he would have lost his specially modified home if he had been jailed.’
Stop talking with your mouth full. Carlyle crushed the cup in his hand. ‘My heart bleeds.’
‘As well as suffering from achondroplasia.’
‘Suffering from what?’
‘Dwarfism,’ Umar explained.
‘As well as being a short arse, Jazz has been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and depression.’
‘I bet he has.’
‘The judge gave him an eighteen-month supervision order with six months of drug rehabilitation.’
Carlyle tutted. ‘What a joke.’
‘These things happen,’ said Umar philosophically. ‘At least it wasn’t our arrest.’ Popping the last of the Mars Bar into his mouth, he scrunched up the empty wrapper and dropped it on to the table.
‘Did you come down here for something in particular?’ Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or did you just want to remind me of the vagaries of the legal system?’
Umar leaned across the table. ‘Christina’s been offered a job,’ he said.
‘That’s nice.’
‘As a trainee radio reporter.’
‘But she’s a stripper,’ Carlyle blurted out. Seeing the look on Umar’s face, he tried a cheeky smile. ‘I mean, isn’t becoming a journalist a bit of a step down?’
‘Christ
ina’s done lots of things,’ Umar replied, somewhat defensively to Carlyle’s mind. ‘And she did a media course at City University before Ella was born.’
‘Good for her,’ Carlyle said charmlessly.
‘This could be a career for her.’
‘Hm.’
Umar let his gaze flicker away. ‘And she wants me to become a house husband.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She wants me to pack it in here and look after Ella, full-time.’
What? After I’ve just fought tooth and nail to keep you in a bloody job? ‘How would that work?’
‘I dunno,’ Umar shrugged. ‘The way these things normally work, I suppose. It would be cheaper than childcare and better for Ella.’
‘Take it from me, sunshine, you’re not exactly house-husband material.’
A hurt look crossed Umar’s face. ‘And you would know this how?’
‘Wouldn’t you go bonkers?’ the inspector asked, changing tack.
‘Dunno.’
‘Jesus,’ Carlyle sighed, getting to his feet, ‘you don’t know much, do you?’ He shook his head in a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. How the hell should he handle this? He would need to ask Helen. In the meantime, he should just focus on not saying anything stupid. ‘I need to get something to eat.’ He pointed at the crumpled paper wrapper lying on the table. ‘Fancy another Mars Bar?’
With her finger poised over the mouse, Emma Denton took one last look at her ‘final’ report into group grooming on the screen of her computer before sending it to her boss at the CPS. Grimacing, she had to admit that the time, effort and money spent on the investigation had not yielded anything like the results she had been hoping for. Calvin Safi had surprised her with his refusal to co-operate, despite the fact that he was facing an extremely lengthy jail sentence. The white guy, Metcalf, had been only too happy to talk; sadly, he knew nothing about any wider grooming network. Denton considered her options. Maybe she should interrogate Safi again? Or maybe she should just cut her losses and move on? After all, it wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty of other cases on her desk right now.
Gripped by an unfamiliar indecision, the prosecutor stared at the glass sitting next to the keyboard, in front of a half-empty bottle. Reaching out with her free hand, she lifted the glass to her lips, breathing in the fruity aroma of the eighteen-year-old single malt. The Japanese whisky cost £110 a bottle; expensive, but worth it. Taking a slow sip, a new thought popped into her head. Carole Simpson’s policeman – maybe she could use him to investigate further. Put the inspector on the case and see if they could break this thing open. Moving the mouse, she placed the cursor over the ‘delete’ button, right-clicked and watched the report disappear into cyberspace. Pulling up her contacts list, she found the entry for ‘Carlyle’ and reached for the phone.
