A Man of Sorrows

by James Craig

  ‘I think,’ he said diplomatically, ‘that the hundred million pounds or so – taking into account policing costs – that we are spending on this trip, at a time of great economic stress, sends a very clear message indeed as to our willingness to embrace the Pope’s visit, as well as our understanding of the complexity and sophistication of the trip.’

  ‘The Church has always made it clear that it would pay its fair share of the costs.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Holyrod smiled blandly, too polite to enquire of the Monsignor exactly how much cold, hard cash the Vatican had placed on the table so far.

  ‘Not a penny is expected from public funds for those aspects of the visit which are an expression simply of the Catholic faith.’

  ‘That is very fair.’

  ‘The last Papal visit to the United Kingdom, thirty years ago, left the Church some six million pounds in debt.’

  A tiny drop in the ocean for you, Holyrod observed. ‘Was there anything else?’ he asked, signalling to Katya that it was time to leave.

  ‘Well, the Archbishop asked me to raise a couple of things.’

  Get on with it then, Holyrod could feel his last reserves of patience and diplomacy evaporate. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing can be allowed to spoil this visit.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So we were wondering just what . . . arrangements were being made with regards to Roger Leyne?’

  Holyrod glanced across at Katya, who stared back at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry, Monsignor,’ he said. ‘Who?’

  Wagner gave him a disappointed look. ‘Leyne is the so-called ‘‘philosopher’’ who is leading a campaign to use international criminal rules to try to detain the Pontiff while he is in the UK.’

  Holyrod shrugged.

  Kayta suddenly perked up. ‘Ah yes,’ she smiled, relieved to finally have something vaguely relevant to contribute to the conversation. ‘They want to bring a private prosecution in relation to the Pope’s alleged cover-up of sexual abuse in the Catholic Church. The current rules are inadequate because the evidence required to get a warrant is far below the threshold that would be needed to bring a prosecution. The Justice Secretary was supposed to change the rules so that the Director of Public Prosecutions would need to give his consent to any arrest warrant issued under universal jurisdiction – the law that allows individuals to be prosecuted in the UK for crimes against humanity. Of course, the DPP would have nixed any attempt to arrest the Holy Father.’

  Thank you, Miss Know It All. Holyrod glanced at his watch. A sense of despair crept up on him as he realized that he was already half an hour late for his next appointment, a school visit in Victoria. He never realized just how much he hated children until he’d started this job.

  ‘But,’ Katya continued, ‘for some reason, it didn’t happen. Some administrative mix-up, I think.’

  ‘Sounds like the Justice Secretary to me,’ Holyrod grunted.

  A pained look swept across the Monsignor’s face. ‘So, therefore, the Archbishop was wondering what arrangements are in place for the Metropolitan Police to deal with Mr Leyne?’

  Arrangements? Holyrod scoffed silently. What the hell are you talking about? We’re not a police state. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said, slowly lifting himself out of his seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Monsignor.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Before he could make a bolt for the door, Katya piped up again. ‘What was the other thing that the Archbishop wanted to raise?’ she asked brightly.

  Sitting back down, Holyrod wanted to throttle her.

  ‘It’s a rather delicate situation,’ said Wagner.

  Holyrod folded his arms and waited.

  Wagner cleared his throat. ‘It appears that one of our lawyers is suing the Metropolitan Police. The Archbishop would like the matter to be resolved before the Pope’s visit.’

  Holyrod sighed wearily. Putting the police under greater political control had been one of the great innovations of his first term. Overall, it had worked well, limiting the Met’s ability to embarrass or annoy him. However, the downside was that everyone now felt that there was nothing he couldn’t sort out personally, from arrests to parking tickets. Wagner and Katya both looked at him expectantly. With great reluctance, he asked the question: ‘Why are you suing the police force?’

  ‘One of our priests, Father Francis McGowan of St Boniface’s in Farringdon, was assaulted in a police station,’ said Wagner quietly, ‘by a couple of your officers.’

  My officers? Holyrod looked at Katya and frowned.

  Wagner picked up a piece of paper from his desk and squinted at a name scribbled in the margin. ‘The main one is an inspector by the name of . . . Carlyle.’

  ‘Carlyle?’ said Holyrod incredulously. ‘John Carlyle?’

  Wagner nodded.

  ‘At Charing Cross?’

  Wagner nodded again.

  For a second, the Mayor sat there, stunned as a slew of unhappy memories flooded his brain. Then he jumped to his feet. ‘Give Katya the details,’ he said sharply as he bounded towards the door, ‘and I will look into it immediately.’ This time, he fled before the priest could ask for anything more.

  FIFTEEN

  Created by the Police Act 1919, a year after a controversial strike by the unrecognized National Union of Police and Prison Officers, the Police Federation was arguably one of the most effective trade unions in history, successfully looking after the interests of 140,000 police constables, sergeants, inspectors and chief inspectors for almost a century. One of the main reasons for its success was that it spent three-quarters of its annual budget on legal services for its members.

  As far as John Carlyle was concerned, membership was £250 a year very well spent indeed. Sitting patiently in a nondescript office, just north of Oxford Street, he watched his union rep slowly sift through a handful of papers on the desk in front of him. The guy, a spotty, twenty-something called Geoff, with a stupid, over-gelled haircut, was ‘his’ rep, only in the sense that he had picked up the phone when Carlyle had rung to make the appointment the day before. On first impression, Carlyle seriously doubted that the young man would be much use in his fight against the forces of darkness, aka the Catholic Legal Network and Commander Dugdale. With everything else that was going on at the moment, the last thing the inspector needed was the office junior taking his case. However, given the mess he had dropped himself in this time, he realized that it was imperative to have the union on board. Anyway, if things got really tough, he could always ditch the kid and demand some grown-up support.

  Finishing his reading, Geoff looked over at Carlyle nervously, as if he was worried that the Inspector might bite.

  ‘And you’re denying all these accusations?’ he asked, letting the papers fall on the desk.

  Carlyle smiled the smile of a gracious but wronged man. ‘Absolutely.’

  Geoff nodded uncertainly. ‘Your line manager, Commander . . . Dugdale seems to be rather concerned.’

  ‘Dugdale is filling in for my regular boss. He wants to play it by the book, which is fair enough.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘I think he is spooked by the threat of legal action.’

  ‘Unlike you,’ Geoff deadpanned.

  ‘I can only tell you what happened,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘I cannot speculate as to the possible motivation of Father McGowan or his lawyer for these baseless accusations.’

  The young man seemed disconcerted by Carlyle’s apparent reasonableness. ‘No, no,’ he agreed, ‘of course not.’

  Carlyle gestured at the papers on the desk. ‘So, how shall we proceed?’

  ‘Well,’ Geoff let out a deep breath, ‘I will speak to Commander Dugdale’s office and also to the Met’s Legal Department, in order to ascertain where they intend going with this. Then I will report to our legal team here and contact you to discuss next steps.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  A relieved look spread over Geoff’s face as he could see the meeting drawing to a close. Scooping up
the paperwork, he placed it carefully in a plastic folder. A sticker in the top left-hand corner had Carlyle written on it in a childish hand.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Carlyle said.

  ‘Oh?’ Geoff looked worried again.

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle pulled the redundancy letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and handed it across the table. ‘I got one of these in the post yesterday.’

  The union man gave it a quick once-over and handed it back. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘we’ve seen lots of these. If you’re interested, give HR a call and see what they’re offering, otherwise just ignore it.’

  ‘Understood.’ Carlyle stuffed the letter back in his pocket. ‘Is it a good deal?’

  Getting to his feet, Geoff grinned. ‘That depends on the individual. They are legally obliged to offer everyone the same; it’ll be a lump sum based on time served and a reduced pension. Whether it might work for you will depend on your circumstances. Given the squeeze on finances, the received wisdom is that any future offers won’t be so generous, but you just don’t know.’

  ‘No, I suppose you don’t.’ Carlyle got to his feet and shook the young man’s hand.

  ‘My view,’ said Geoff, as he showed him to the door, ‘and it’s not the Federation speaking, is that there’s no harm in asking. They are not allowed to take that as an indication that you want to leave, so they can’t hold it against you, but at least you get all the right information. If you’re going to think about it, you have to have all the information at your fingertips.’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Carlyle, already wondering just how lumpy his lump sum might be.

  Alison Roche sat in the corner of the One Eyed Serpent pub, just off the Bayswater Road in West London. Taking a sip from her pint of Hoegaarden, she placed her glass back down on the table and began flicking through the evening paper. Amid all the usual boring shit, a headline caught her eye: ENGLISH TEACHER QUITS CLASSROOM FOR PORN CAREER. Beneath a picture of a rather plain-looking woman, the text read: Jennie Mills, a supply teacher in Fulham, will star in erotic films produced by Lewisham-based Jellybaby Pictures two days a week. Ms Mills, twenty-eight, said: ‘I am only doing it part-time as there is not enough money in porn.’

  Roche started laughing. ‘You have got to be joking!’

  ‘Something amusing?’

  Closing the paper and dropping it back in her bag, Roche looked up. ‘Not really,’ she sighed. ‘More bizarre than funny.’ She smiled but didn’t get up. ‘How are you, Sam?’

  Samuel Smallbone placed his pint next to hers. Slipping off his leather biker jacket, he dropped it over the back of a chair. ‘I’m good,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Really good.’ His sandy hair and youthful visage were the same as Roche remembered from the last time she’d arrested him, but the bags under his eyes were darker and his pupils were widely dilated. He looked wired.

  The sergeant gave him a stern look. ‘Are you using?’

  Lifting the pint to his lips, Smallbone said. ‘Nah.’ He took a sip and coughed. ‘I only do a cheeky line now and again, it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘Sam!’

  A worried frown creased his forehead. ‘It’s nothing.’ He looked around and mumbled, ‘Anyway, I’m not carrying.’

  ‘You’d better not be. It would be good if you could stay out of trouble for a while.’

  Smallbone held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m doing my best!’

  Having arrested Samuel Smallbone five times in as many years – four times for robbery and once for possession – Roche doubted that very much. Taking another drink, she looked at her watch. Her boyfriend had offered to cook dinner and she didn’t want to be late. ‘Still living with your mum?’

  He blushed slightly, which, suspending disbelief for a second, she found almost endearing. ‘Yeah.’

  There was a lull in the conversation while each of them sipped their pints.

  ‘You’re looking nice,’ Smallbone said finally.

  ‘Sam,’ she said patiently, ‘I’m a police officer, you’re a criminal. That’s not a good combination, socially speaking. Don’t try and hit on me.’

  ‘I’m not! It’s just . . .’

  Roche took another mouthful of beer and placed the glass to one side. It was still almost half-full but she’d had enough. ‘Look,’ she said, reaching for her bag, annoyed at herself for agreeing to the meeting, ‘what did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘That diamond robbery in the West End,’ said Smallbone casually, chugging down the last of his beer.

  ‘Yes?’ Roche let her bag slip back to the floor and placed her hands in her lap.

  ‘I’m assuming that there’ll be a reward for information.’

  ‘That depends on the information,’ Roche said evenly, trying not to sound too keen. It was more than likely that the little weasel was going to give her a load of old tat, but it wasn’t like they were making great progress on their own.

  ‘If I tell you where they are,’ Smallbone played with his empty glass, ‘what do I get?’

  Roche gritted her teeth and tried to smile. She hated being jerked around by idiots, but it was part of the job. ‘Where who are?’

  ‘The guys who did it.’

  ‘What are their names?’ she asked a tad too eagerly.

  ‘Dunno,’ he laughed, happy that she had taken the bait. ‘What I do know is that a couple of berks are going round with a bag full of gear they don’t know how to sell. And I know where they’re holed up.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘So, what’s it worth?’

  Roche took a breath and exhaled deeply. ‘If you help us catch them, I’m sure it will be a decent amount.’

  Smallbone thought about it for a moment. It was almost as if she could see the cogs working in his brain. ‘How much?’

  Roche’s mobile started ringing. Pulling it out of her pocket she glanced at the screen. Martin. Sadly, she concluded that the boyfriend would have to wait. Killing the call, she dropped the phone back in her pocket and looked up at Smallbone. ‘The insurance company is on the hook for more than forty million,’ she said, ‘so it’s bound to be a lot.’

  ‘Give me a number.’

  For God’s sake, Roche fumed, just tell me the bloody address. Sighing, she got to her feet and pulled the phone back out of her pocket. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Let me step outside and make a call. Why don’t you go to the bar and get yourself another beer?’

  Roche watched Smallbone slope off to the bar, picked up her bag and stepped outside. On the pavement, she put breathing distance between herself and the small knot of drinkers who had come outside for a smoke, and rang Carlyle. He picked up on the fourth ring.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  You sound tired, Roche thought. Maybe you should take a break. ‘I’m fine. I just need to run something past you.’

  ‘Do you think this guy is genuine?’ Carlyle asked when she’d finished explaining the situation.

  ‘I think Sam’s a complete tosser,’ Roche reflected, ‘and not the sharpest tool in the box. But he could know something. After all, he does mix in the right circles – he’s done a couple of jewellery-store jobs in the past, albeit nothing remotely in this league, and one of his uncles is a known fence.’

  ‘Criminal royalty,’ Carlyle grunted.

  ‘Hardly,’ Roche replied, ‘but he is potentially plausible.’

  Carlyle laughed. ‘Potentially plausible – I love it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Roche continued, ‘it’s not like we’ve got a whole lot else to chase down at the moment.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Carlyle yawned. ‘How much does he want?’

  Roche watched a cab go slowly past. In the back, a young couple were arguing vigorously. ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘We don’t know how much the insurance company will pay.’

  ‘Tell him a million.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Fuck it, why not. If it comes to it, he can argue the toss with the insurance company. Just get the address and I’ll
round up the troops.’

  SIXTEEN

  Carlyle stood on the corner of Exeter Road as he watched the uniformed officers move slowly into place. Willesden Green wasn’t a neighbourhood he was familiar with and the inspector felt slightly disconcerted at having to run such a high-profile operation so far away from what he would consider familiar turf. Roche appeared at his shoulder and pointed towards a black taxi parked about a hundred yards down St Gabriel’s Road. ‘That’s 137, where that cab’s parked. They’ve got the ground-floor flat, apparently.’

  Carlyle sniggered. ‘I hope your source hasn’t started spending his reward yet.’

  ‘The little sod made me write the offer out on a beer mat,’ Roche laughed.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Roche grinned. ‘An IOU for a million quid.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t sign it.’

  ‘I did what I had to do,’ Roche said primly. ‘But if you look closely, you might be able to make out that it says M. Mouse, rather than A. Roche.’

  Carlyle chuckled. ‘Good for you. Let’s just hope it’s not a Mickey Mouse tip.’

  ‘Ha, very good, boss.’

  Carlyle looked down the street. A small band of curious onlookers had gathered behind the police tape, mobile phones at the ready to record any drama. Worse were the cameras he couldn’t see but knew were there all the same. To his left, a small tower block gave a great vantage-point for anyone wanting to film their operation. God knows how many cameras were trained on him right now. It was impossible to keep anything under wraps any more.

  ‘This is going to be bollocks,’ he hissed. ‘I just know it.’ But he was happy to be out and about, running around kicking in doors, rather than moping around worrying about everything under the sun.

  Roche’s phone went off in her hand. She opened up a text and sighed. ‘Martin’s pissed off because I blew out dinner.’

  Carlyle watched a uniformed sergeant in a crash helmet and Kevlar body armour jog slowly towards them. ‘Martin?’

  Did Roche blush slightly? It was hard to tell as she gazed into the middle distance. ‘The boyfriend.’