by James Craig
‘Shit!’ A look of horror swept across Helen’s face. ‘I forgot to tell you. I heard the other day – Marina died.’ Marina was the youngest child of Dom and his partner, Eva Hollander. A year before, she had been diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Cockayne Syndrome. It was so rare that barely twenty other kids in the country had it. Carlyle and Dom had talked it over many times. But with no cure and no treatment, there was nothing that they, or anyone else, could do. The disease had been a death sentence from day one.
‘Fuck,’ Carlyle grimaced. ‘How old was she?’
‘Six, I think.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I put a call in to Eva,’ Helen said, ‘but she hasn’t got back to me.’
‘I’ll try and get hold of Dom tomorrow,’ Carlyle sighed, knowing that it would be a tortured conversation. Dom might want to talk about it, but he certainly didn’t. In situations such as this, Carlyle felt overwhelmed by a sense of uselessness and the futility of words. How could you do or say anything that would give a bereaved parent any comfort whatsoever?
TWENTY-NINE
Ignoring his mug of green tea, the inspector sat at a window table in the Box Café flicking through the pages of the morning edition of The Times. On the Home News pages, he scanned a story by the Crime Editor about what had been dubbed the ‘spy in the bag’ case. The death of an MI6 man found padlocked inside a sports holdall remained unexplained. The police were appealing for any witnesses. Good luck with that, Carlyle thought as the waitress appeared at his shoulder and placed his bill on the table.
After some protracted fumbling in his various jacket pockets, he pulled out a couple of mobile phones and placed them on top of the newspaper. Sitting next to his official issue BlackBerry Pearl, the Alcatel OT-206 Candybar handset was his current private, pay-as-you-go phone. Carlyle liked to buy a new one every three to four months. He didn’t flash it around and gave the number out to very few people. The contacts list contained less than thirty numbers. None of this guaranteed complete secrecy, but it gave him some comfort that no one was checking his calls as a matter of routine. Pulling up Dominic Silver’s number, he let his thumb hover over the button for several seconds before hitting ‘call’. Willing it to go to voicemail, he rehearsed his message.
Dom picked up on the sixth ring. ‘John. How’s it going?’
Carlyle could hear the strain of recent events in his voice. ‘Mate,’ he said, with feeling, ‘Helen told me about Marina. We’re really sorry.’
‘Thank you. I’ll let Eva know. Appreciate the call.’ The awkward pause was punctuated by the sound of voices in the background. ‘Look, sorry, but some folk have just arrived. I’ve got to go.’
‘If there’s anything we can do,’ Carlyle stammered, forcing the words out despite the fact that they sounded lamer than anything he’d ever heard in his whole life.
‘Thank you,’ Dom repeated. ‘I’ll let you know. I think the funeral is going to be small, just family.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’ll be in touch later, all right?’
‘Sure. Speak soon.’ The call ended and Carlyle realized that he had been holding his breath. Exhaling, he watched the BlackBerry start vibrating with an incoming call. Happy for the distraction, he quickly picked it up with his free hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Carlyle?’ asked a voice he didn’t recognize.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Brian Sutherland, Crime Editor at The Times.’
The inspector felt himself tense. Dealing with journalists was part of the job but they made him uncomfortable. ‘I’ve just been reading your story in this morning’s paper.’
Sutherland seemed thrown for a moment. ‘What? Oh yes, of course. Very strange carry-on. Not one of yours?’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle. ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Lucky you,’ the journalist laughed.
‘Quite.’
‘Anyway,’ Sutherland said briskly, ‘that wasn’t why I was calling. I am writing a story for tomorrow about Father McGowan of St Boniface’s Roman Catholic Church and the suit that has been launched against you, in connection with your alleged assault against him.’ Sutherland paused, waiting to see what immediate reaction might be forthcoming. When Carlyle said nothing, he continued: ‘I just wanted to get your response to the allegations. This is your chance to put your side of the story.’
Looking down at the BlackBerry, Carlyle hit the end button. Almost immediately, the handset started vibrating in his hand. On the screen it simply said ‘call’ but he knew it would be Sutherland chasing him for an unguarded reaction. Letting it go to voicemail, he got to his feet and shuffled over to the counter to pay his bill. Then, with the phone still demanding his attention, he headed for the station.
Turning into Agar Street, he almost walked straight into Abigail Slater. ‘What are you doing here?’ he mumbled, in no mood for any fake pleasantries.
‘How are preparations going for your hearing?’ Slater asked, ignoring his question.
‘I have nothing to worry about on that score,’ Carlyle replied defensively. ‘Not that it matters now.’
‘Oh?’ Her face was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well,’ said Carlyle, just about holding on to his temper, ‘now that you’ve leaked the story to the media, I’m sure that the matter will be done and dusted before we get anywhere near a formal hearing.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Slater smirked. ‘I wouldn’t say that at all.’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned away from him and jogged up the front steps of the station.
‘Bitch,’ Carlyle hissed under his breath.
‘What?’ From nowhere, Roche appeared at his shoulder. In her hand was an outsized latte and a packet of cigarettes.
‘Nothing.’
‘Was that McGowan’s lawyer?’ Roche asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What did she have to say for herself?’
‘Nothing really.’ Carlyle told her about his call from the Crime Editor of The Times.
Roche sucked greedily on her coffee. ‘Did he mention me?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Anyway, I wouldn’t think Slater would have leaked that story.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too risky. A Catholic priest accused of child abuse is one of the few people with less public credibility than a copper. Even a copper like you.’
Carlyle gave her a funny look. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘It’s supposed to make you think that having this in the papers might not be altogether unhelpful.’
‘Slater didn’t deny that it was her.’
Roche shook her head. ‘Why would she? Lawyers will never confirm or deny anything if they don’t have to. Ambiguity and bullshit is in their DNA.’
‘Anyway,’ said Carlyle, bored with the whole thing, ‘she likes winding me up.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Roche said, ‘don’t let her get to you. Sticks and stones and all that.’
‘We are in a cheery mood today,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.
‘Come on,’ said Roche, leading him towards the station. ‘I’ve got something that will definitely cheer you up.’
Letting her go on ahead, Carlyle watched a tourist almost get run over by a refuse truck. A drop of rain fell on his head, followed by another. With some reluctance, he headed inside.
Roche had reached the front desk when the opening bars of Eminem’s ‘Love The Way You Lie’ started up. Sighing, she stopped and began rummaging around inside her bag. After a few moments, she found her mobile.
‘Roche.’ A confused look spread across her face as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. ‘What?’
Carlyle hovered a respectful distance away. Looking up, she gave him an angry glare. What have I done now? he wondered.
‘What was he doing there?’ Roche demanded down the phone. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! When di
d this happen? Okay, we’ll be right there.’ Ending the call, she shoved the phone back in her bag. ‘Come on,’ she said, half-jogging back towards the door. ‘We need to get up to UCH. Colin Dyer’s escaped.’
Carlyle firmly believed that you should never get ill. If you did, seeing a doctor, any kind of doctor, should only be an absolute last resort. He had never, in his entire life, encountered a medical professional who had inspired confidence. The motley crew currently on duty at A&E in University College Hospital did nothing to change that deeply held view.
‘We are very busy here, you know.’ The inspector glanced at the name-tag on the young man’s white coat, resisting the temptation to give the little berk a good slap.
‘I understand that, Dr Higgins,’ he replied through clenched teeth, ‘but this is a very important matter. The man who has disappeared had been arrested in relation to an extremely serious crime.’
Higgins looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He was short, plump and well on the way to being completely bald. His florid complexion more than hinted at a taste for drink. The overriding impression was of a heart attack on legs. ‘Well,’ he pouted, folding his arms, ‘it might have been helpful if your colleagues had explained that to us at the time.’
Carlyle looked around for the two constables who had brought Dyer to the hospital but they had wisely made themselves scarce. He turned his gaze back to Higgins. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘Like I said,’ Higgins sighed, ‘the man was brought in about an hour and a half ago. We were very busy, but the officers insisted that he was seen straight away.’ Higgins gestured at a row of curtained-off cubicles to his right. ‘I took him into the nearest one of those and had a look at him.’
‘And?’ Roche asked.
‘Before I could say anything, the man dropped his trousers and showed me his penis,’ said Higgins matter-of-factly, as if this was an everyday occurrence, which, in reflection, Carlyle supposed it might well be. ‘He said that he had some “flesh-eating bacteria” that was going to kill him if he wasn’t treated immediately.’
If only, thought Carlyle. He glanced at Roche, who simply shrugged.
‘He seemed quite distressed,’ Higgins continued. ‘I could see some inflammation and possibly a discharge. There was certainly a very strong odour – although, of course, that could simply be poor personal hygiene.’
‘Did you give him an examination?’ Roche asked.
Higgins shook his head. ‘I went to find some latex gloves. When I got back, he had disappeared.’
‘The CCTV shows he just walked out of A&E,’ Roche confirmed. ‘The constables had gone to get coffee.’
Carlyle rubbed his temples. ‘Okay.’ He looked at Higgins. ‘Thank you, Doctor. We’ll let you get back to your patients. Let’s hope you’ve had your quota of member-munching bugs for the day.’
Higgins grunted and scuttled off.
‘What do we do now?’ Roche asked, as she watched the doctor move away.
‘Apart from rip the shit out of the idiots who brought him here?’
‘Yes,’ Roche muttered. ‘Apart from that.’
The inspector looked at his watch. The day was slipping away and he had things to do. He took a moment, sorting their priorities in his head. ‘Get back to the station and make a list of all the places he might have gone,’ he said finally, ‘and get uniforms started on checking them out. Speak to Dyer’s lawyer, Kelvin Jenkins. Make sure he knows that if his client doesn’t turn himself in immediately, we will go after him for assisting a fugitive.’
Roche frowned. ‘But we don’t know that he was involved.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Carlyle said firmly. ‘Kelvin needs to understand that we will take this chance to fuck him up if he doesn’t help us out. Then go and talk to Damien Samuels, let him think he might get a better deal if he helps us find Colin – see if that loosens his tongue.’
‘Will do,’ Roche nodded.
‘No need to tell Dugdale yet,’ Carlyle added. ‘Dyer’s an idiot. He won’t stay free long, so let’s see if we can get him back in custody before the Commander gets to hear about it.’
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t want to damage your chances of getting into SO15,’ he added cheekily, ‘if we don’t have to.’
‘Very funny.’ She shot him a dirty look. ‘Where are you going?’
Carlyle watched a wizened old woman shuffle past them with the aid of a Zimmer frame. ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll go and have a word with Colin’s dear old mum.’
THIRTY
On the third floor of Phoenix Court, Carlyle gave Carla Dyer’s front door one last thump and turned away. Either the woman wasn’t in or she was hiding in a back room. He might be pissed off at the antics of the Dyer family but he wasn’t going to kick the door down on the off-chance that she was under the bed. Roche could come back later. His stomach rumbled and he wondered what his chances were of finding a decent café in Somers Town; probably not that bad, as long as he didn’t set the bar too high.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused to let an old woman pass on the way up. She was carrying a plastic bag filled with groceries and moving slowly. Making eye-contact, Carlyle gave her a friendly nod.
‘Are you a copper?’ she asked suspiciously, struggling on the landing.
Carlyle laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’
The woman took a moment to catch her breath. ‘No one round here would be so polite as to let me past,’ she said finally.
‘I’m looking for Carla Dyer.’
‘Now, that is a big surprise.’ The woman continued on her way. ‘Try the Cock Tavern on Chalton Street.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle as he headed down the stairs. Five minutes later he was standing in the Cock Tavern, eyeing a large early-lunchtime crowd. The haggard woman sitting at a table in the corner could, at first glance, have been anything from between forty and sixty-five. Wearing a replica Arsenal away shirt from four or five seasons previously, she held a bottle of Beck’s lager to her lips while contemplating the Sun crossword.
‘Carla Dyer?’
The woman barely glanced up from her paper. ‘Who are you?’
Carlyle pulled up a stool. ‘John Carlyle,’ he said quietly. ‘Metropolitan Police.’
Carla took a swig of her beer and lowered her eyes still further. ‘I don’t know where he is, so fuck off.’
Carlyle laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Colin did a runner a couple of hours ago. How did you know we were looking for him?’
She took another mouthful of beer and let the newspaper fall on the table. ‘So he phoned me. Big deal. I don’t know where he is.’ Her eyes flitted around the room. ‘If you don’t fuck off and leave me alone, I’ll scream the place down. There’s plenty of folk in here who would happily give you a good shoeing, copper.’
‘It is surprisingly busy,’ Carlyle persevered, ‘for the time of day.’
‘We’re all refugees from the Coffee House, down the road,’ Carla scowled. ‘Some fucking Frogs took it upmarket and banned loads of regulars. They only want professional people in suits in there now.’
And who can blame them? Carlyle wondered, eyeing up the motley crew of refugees from Gastropub Land who had been washed up in the Cock.
‘It’s a disgrace.’
‘Look, Carla,’ said Carlyle, tiring of her musings on the evils of gentrification, ‘Colin is in deep shit. You either help us find him now, or the whole thing gets prolonged and, when we catch him, we throw the book at him.’
‘All over again, you mean?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘All over again.’
Draining the last of her beer, Carla let out a belch as she picked up her purse and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to the bar for another,’ she said, waving the bottle in his face. ‘Make sure you fuck off before I get back.’
As he watched her walk over to the bar, Carlyle caught a glimpse of her large red shoulder bag, doubtless some
designer knock-off from a nearby street market, sitting open on the floor under the table with a mobile phone sticking out of a side pocket. He glanced at the bar. With her back to him, Carla was waiting for her drink. Taking his chance, he reached under the table and grabbed the phone. As he did so, he realized that there was something else in the pocket. Pulling it out with the mobile, he saw it was a photograph. After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped them both inside his coat.
Getting to his feet, he moved sharply to the door. Out on the street, he paused for a moment and tasted the air, a foul mix of exhaust fumes and cooking smells coming from a kebab shop two doors down. Then with a backward glance towards the Cock, he marched off at a brisk pace, heading towards Covent Garden.
At Il Buffone, the lunchtime rush was still in full swing. Squeezing into the last available seat by the bench in front of the window, the inspector found himself next to a fat man in a suit who was slowly eating a plate of lasagne while reading a story in that morning’s Metro; a couple of policemen had arrested the driver of a Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VIII high-performance sports car on the Embankment and then decided to take it for a test drive around Central London. The end result was a collision with two trees on The Mall at 2 a.m. The £30,000 car was a write-off and the policemen were suspended. More fantastic PR for the Met, Carlyle mused. You couldn’t make it up.
The newspaper story didn’t give the names of the officers involved but everyone at the station knew who they were. Carlyle knew one of the coppers reasonably well. The guy had always struck him as quite sensible and he hoped that his career wasn’t now as totalled as the car. Turning in his seat, he watched Marcello trying to toast a sandwich and make a latte at the same time. Catching the owner’s eye, he signalled that he was in no great hurry to be served.
Just as well I’m not that hungry, he thought, as he idly counted eight people waiting to be fed, the queue spilling out along the street. As one departed, lunch in hand, another one joined the back of the line. By a quirk of the licensing laws, Marcello was not supposed to be running a takeaway business, just operating an eat-in café. But Carlyle was well aware that, without the additional trade, the place would be even more unprofitable than it already was.
