by James Craig
FORTY-THREE
‘I know you’ve been meaning to thank me, but don’t worry. It was my pleasure – Gideon’s too for that matter. Anyway, I wondered if you might be able to do a little something for me. Not a big deal, but . . .’
Cutting off Dominic Silver’s voicemail in mid-flow, Carlyle dropped the phone back into his pocket. Whatever Dom wanted could wait for a little while. Right now, Carlyle just wanted to enjoy his breakfast.
Sitting by the window in the Smithfield café, on the south side of the meat market, he watched Alice munching on her pain au chocolat, her head stuck in a young adult novel. Few things in life gave him as much pleasure as watching his daughter read a book, even if it was a story about lovelorn teenage vampires.
Finishing his coffee, he checked out a pretty girl sitting at the next table, who was reading an Italian edition of Roberto Saviano’s Gomorra. As she looked up, he let his gaze drift towards the flat-screen TV fixed high up on the back wall. Sky News was reporting that the Zenger Corporation had admitted responsibility for hacking Hannah Gillespie’s phone. This was far worse than listening to the phone messages of a few witless celebrities; so the scandal was growing.
In the TV studio, a couple of talking heads were discussing speculation about the media company having to pay the Gillespie family compensation of several million pounds.
Blood money, Carlyle thought. It’s like we’re reverting back to the Middle Ages.
Shifting in his seat, he turned his back on the screen and looked through the window at the azure blue sky. Once he had dropped Alice off at school, he would head to the gym; afterwards, he might meet Helen for lunch if she wasn’t too busy. Off the clock, he didn’t want to be thinking about Hannah Gillespie – or Duncan Brown or Horatio Mosman or Rosanna Snowdon either. It would take time, however, for all the details to seep away from his brain, and for the small triumphs and the larger failures to be forgotten.
Alice glanced up from her book and gave him a concerned look. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Um . . . nothing.’
‘You were scowling. Your face was all scrunched up. What were you thinking about?’
‘Nothing important. Doesn’t matter,’ Carlyle smiled, gesturing to the crumbs around her mouth.
Picking up a paper napkin, Alice roughly wiped away the remains of her pastry. ‘I’ve got a joke for you.’
His smile grew wider. ‘Okay.’
‘Where does Dracula keep his money?’
Carlyle made a show of thinking about the possible answer for a few moments, before saying, ‘Dunno.’
‘In a blood bank,’ she cackled. ‘Geddit? A blood bank.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Carlyle groaned.
She shot him a look that said Let’s see if you can come up with anything better. ‘Your turn.’
The inspector thought about it for a moment. Jokes were not his strong point. Whenever he heard one he liked, he would try and store it away in his brain for future use, but they never seemed to stick. Right now, there was only one he could recall. ‘What do you call an exploding monkey?’
‘I told you that one myself,’ Alice objected. ‘It’s rubbish.’
‘I thought you liked it,’ Carlyle protested.
Laughing, she shook her head. ‘Rubbish.’
‘C’mon,’ Carlyle teased, waving his hands in the air, ‘it’s the best joke ever. What do you call an exploding monkey?’
‘Dunno,’ she said, humouring her father.
‘A baboom!’
‘Da-ad!’
‘Ba-boom!’
