by James Craig
Carlyle appeared by the desk as she ended the call. ‘Are you okay?’
She gave him a blank look. ‘How did you get on downstairs?’
‘Some morons cannot be helped.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘We should leave Colin to the lawyers.’
‘What about the missing gear?’
He looked at her carefully. ‘How much is still unaccounted for?’
Roche consulted a print-out on her desk. ‘Almost ten million.’
‘I think we’ve probably taken this as far as we can.’
‘Probably,’ Roche nodded.
‘I’m going to call it a night.’
‘Me too.’
‘We can formally charge Dyer in the morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine.’ Carlyle turned and headed for the stairs. ‘Have a good one.’
‘You too.’ She watched him disappear and slowly began counting in her head. Reaching thirty, she grabbed her bag and followed him out.
THIRTY-TWO
‘Are you here for another peek at my bum?’ Katrin Lagerbäck grinned at Carlyle and gestured for him to sit down.
Carlyle’s eyes fell on the photo on the wall behind her head. The image was just as memorable as he recalled. ‘Not just that,’ he said, slipping into the empty chair in front of her desk.
‘Oh.’ She returned her attention to a stack of papers under her nose. ‘It must be important for you to come and see me at this time of night.’
You’re not the only one who works long hours, Carlyle thought resentfully. And at least you get paid for it. ‘I thought I’d come by on the off-chance that you’d still be here.’
‘I’m always here,’ she sighed, picking up a couple of sheets of A4 and tearing them in half before dropping them on the floor by her chair. She gave him a thin smile. ‘I’m not a hard person to track down.’
‘So,’ Carlyle remarked blandly, ‘if you’re busy, business must be finally improving.’
She shook her head. ‘Hardly. If it was any good, it would be parties, networking events and “business trips” to Milan, Barcelona and New York. Now it’s a question of poring over spreadsheets trying to recover every last penny.’
‘Ah.’
She sat back in her chair and went on: ‘Mayfair is awash with that fin de siècle feeling. Fund managers are burned-out, world-weary. We are handing back investors’ cash with a polite “thanks, but no thanks”. Everyone thinks our best days have been and gone. Markets are flat and directionless. Making money is either easy or it’s a terminal bore. No one can summon up any enthusiasm. More to the point, investors won’t pay big fees for mediocre performance. We might as well leave it all to the computers. The party has come to an end.’
‘So, are you closing Hubaishi Dorning Klee?’
‘That’s not my call, but I suspect that it’s only going to be a matter of time.’
‘What will you do?’
She drummed her immaculately groomed fingernails on the desk. ‘I’ve been thinking about that for some time, without reaching any firm conclusion. Maybe go back to Berlin.’
‘And what would happen to St James’s Diamonds?’
She shrugged. ‘It’ll get sold.’
‘Is it worth much?’
‘Not as much as if we were to finish executing the current strategy,’ she said. ‘Maybe someone would take it on as a business; maybe they would just want the stock.’
‘In terms of the robbery . . .’
‘Yes?’ She gave him a nice to see you’re finally getting to the point smile.
‘Have you had any insurance payment yet?’
‘No. That will take a while. The insurance company will want to be sure that you are unable to recover all of the items before making a payout. Why do you ask?’
‘I was wondering,’ said Carlyle, ‘if you might be able to help me with something.’
‘Here you go.’ Roche placed a pint of Strongbow cider on the table in front of Samuel Smallbone and pulled up a chair.
‘Thanks.’ Smallbone quickly finished the last of his old pint and took a sip of the new one.
Roche scanned the dingy pub, full of grubby people, and wished she was at home in a nice warm bath. She took a large mouthful of Stolichnaya vodka and felt it hit her empty stomach. Just the one, she told herself. You are leaving after just the one drink. She caught Smallbone eyeing her up and shuddered. He looked as sallow, nondescript and feckless as ever. ‘What have you got?’ she asked.
‘About the reward . . .’
Roche finished her drink and smacked the empty glass down on the table. ‘Look, I will make sure that you get anything you’re due, all right?’
Looking a little hurt, Smallbone gestured at her empty glass. ‘Want another?’
‘No,’ said Roche with self-control. ‘Just tell me what you’ve got and I can crack on with trying to track down your money.’
Smallbone took a wary sip of his pint. ‘Colin Dyer . . .’
Why can’t you just speak in sentences, Roche wondered, like a normal person? ‘Yes?’
‘He didn’t do the job on his own.’
‘We know that,’ said Roche wearily. ‘Damien Samuels is also in custody.’
‘Yeah. But apart from him . . .’
The sergeant yawned. ‘Name,’ she said. ‘Give me a name.’
Extricating herself from the wretched Smallbone, Roche hovered on the kerb, scanning the road for an available taxi. She ached to be home. She wanted that bloody bath. As usual in these situations, a procession of black cabs rolled past, already occupied with their lights off. It was one of the immutable facts of London life – you could never get a taxi when you needed one.
‘Wanna cab?’ Roche turned to face a small Indian guy, waving a set of keys in his left hand. He gestured towards a beaten-up Vauxhall Corsa parked across the street.
‘Are you licensed?’
The guy gave her a funny look and laughed. ‘Where you wanna go?’
‘Show me your ID,’ Roche demanded. Without a licence from the Public Carriage Office or local authority, the guy in front of her was breaking the law. Not only was it illegal for minicabs to pick up or tout for passengers off the street, but the risks associated with getting in a vehicle with one of these cowboys was considerable. Random and excessive fares were bad enough. Much worse, on average, eleven women were attacked in London each month after taking an unlicensed minicab. A staggering 80 per cent of stranger rapes were committed by unlicensed cab drivers.
The guy waved again at his piece of shit motor. ‘Come . . .’
The guy looked as decrepit as his car. If he tried anything funny, the sergeant could doubtless take him out with both hands behind her back. Even so, she wasn’t going to get in the Corsa. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, walking away in the direction of the bus stop twenty yards down the road. She was halfway there when a bus glided past her and headed on without stopping. ‘Shit!’ Her mobile started ringing and she pulled it out of her bag.
‘Roche.’
‘Sergeant, this is Commander Dugdale.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘Yes.’ Roche reached the bus shelter and looked up at the indicator board, which told her that the next bus wasn’t due for another twelve minutes. It’s just not my day, Roche thought as she squeezed onto the bench inside, next to a massive black woman laden with groceries.
‘Good job recovering Colin Dyer.’ Not for the first time, Dugdale sounded like he had partaken of some strong drink. There was music playing in the background. Roche thought she could make out the voice of Marvin Gaye, but she may have been mistaken. The thought of the Commander getting down to ‘What’s Going On’ was just too horrible to contemplate.
‘It was Carlyle who tracked him down,’ she replied casually.
Dugdale grunted. ‘Just don’t lose him again.’
‘No. We won’t.’
‘Has he been charged yet?’
‘In the morning.’
‘Good. O
nce that’s done, come up to Paddington.’ Dugdale stopped to take a slurp of whatever he was drinking. ‘Let’s say eleven.’
Roche sighed. The schlep would waste half her day. She took a deep breath. ‘Of course. What is it about?’
‘I want you to meet my number two at SO15.’
Your former number two, she thought snidely, before you were kicked out.
‘I’ve given you a big write-up,’ Dugdale smarmed. ‘I think we’re making some progress on your transfer.’
Roche squirmed. ‘Great. Thanks.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Dugdale replied, his voice becoming oilier by the second. ‘It is hugely important that talented young officers like yourself are carefully . . . nurtured through the ranks.’
Roche glanced up at the indicator board. There were still nine bloody minutes before her bus was due. Peering optimistically into the middle distance, she saw the Indian cabbie lead a passenger towards the Corsa. She was relieved to note that the customer was a bloke; the worst that could happen would be a row over the fare.
‘There is one other thing . . .’
‘Huh?’ Roche belatedly tuned back into the conversation.
‘Another issue,’ Dugdale repeated.
‘Yes?’
‘The Carlyle hearing.’
‘Oh,’ said Roche warily.
‘The date is next week.’
I am perfectly well aware of that, she thought angrily. ‘Yes.’
‘I will be conducting the hearing, alongside Superintendent Buck.’
Roche frowned. ‘Is it normal for an officer to be directly investigated by his commanding officer?’
Dugdale coughed. ‘It is . . . allowable. A considerable amount of discretion is permitted in the way these things are set up.’
‘But is there not a conflict of interest? Surely the Federation will protest?’
‘The Federation,’ Dugdale said breezily, ‘can go fuck themselves. I have agreed the format with the IIC and also the PCC. What we want is for the matter to be dealt with swiftly, discreetly and with a minimum of fuss.’
It sounded like a kangaroo court to Roche.
More slurping noises came down the line and Dugdale turned his attention to someone at his end. ‘Get me another, will you . . .’
The Corsa drove slowly past the bus stop. Still seven minutes to wait.
Dugdale came back on the line. ‘So, I wanted to check on what you were planning to say at the hearing.’
As of right now, Roche thought, it’s none of your fucking business. This thing was getting out of hand and she made a mental note to contact her own Federation rep in the morning. ‘I think, sir,’ she said, trying and failing to keep the anger from her voice, ‘that it is reasonable to assume that I will be repeating what I said in my original statement.’
‘I see,’ said Dugdale. ‘Maybe we could look at ways in which your submission could be more constructive.’
You have got to be fucking kidding, Roche fumed. Gritting her teeth, she said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ Dugdale continued, ‘I won’t detain you any longer this evening. Have a think about it. We can have another chat tomorrow.’
Roche waited for him to end the call and let out a deep breath. Her fucking bus was still five minutes away, but all thoughts of home and a luxurious bath had evaporated. Instead, she was resigned to heading back to the office. There was work to be done.
THIRTY-THREE
It was not shaping up as a green tea kind of day. The fact that Carlyle had eight missed calls on his mobile told him that The Times had indeed run their story. Picking up a copy of the newspaper from his newsagent on Drury Lane, he repaired to the relative sanctuary of the Box café for breakfast. He had barely taken a seat when Myron Sabo appeared at his shoulder and placed a double macchiato on the table. Carlyle smiled appreciatively. ‘Thanks.’
With the merest of grunts, the café-owner wandered back behind the counter. The coffee was sharp and hot, just the way Carlyle liked it, and he paused to savour the moment, watching a refuse truck slowly move along Henrietta Street, a trio of bin men following behind it, dumping yesterday’s waste into the compactor at the back. To his mind, these guys did the most under-appreciated job in the whole of London. Without them, he thought, we would drown in our own shit in less than a week. Picking up his paper, he resisted the temptation to start at the back with the sports pages, as he usually did, and flicked through the home news, looking for Brian Sutherland’s piece about the Catholic Legal Network’s lawsuit. He had to go through the paper twice before he found it, halfway down page twenty-three: CHURCH SUES MET AHEAD OF POPE’S VISIT. He read it and then read it again. There was a brief explanation of the situation and the comment that: The dispute has the potential to embarrass the government as the Pope’s visit looms. Abigail Slater was quoted as saying: ‘This is just another example of how the basic rights of members of the Catholic Church are being eroded. It is essential that this matter is dealt with properly.’
The Met, according to Sutherland, declined to comment. Happily, Carlyle’s name was not mentioned.
Finishing his coffee, Carlyle went over to the counter and picked out an iced doughnut to go with a second coffee. Returning to his table, he checked his calls. He had four messages. There was a curt Call me text from Dugdale and a voicemail from Roche explaining that she would be out for most of the morning. Carlyle drummed his fingers on the table in annoyance; he had wanted her to chase up some of the lines of enquiry on the Leyne investigation. Roche was getting into the habit of never being around when he needed her – something that annoyed Carlyle immensely. He was feeling increasingly out of synch with his sergeant, and wondered if her mooted move to SO15 might not be best all round.
The second voicemail message was from the Headmaster’s office at Alice’s school. ‘Inspector Carlyle, this is Judith Atkinson from Dr Myers’ office . . .’ Carlyle’s heart sank. What on earth had happened now? If Alice had gotten into more trouble, there would be hell to pay. And why hadn’t Helen told him about it? ‘Dr Myers wanted me to thank you for the recent talk you gave at the school. The girls found it very stimulating. He was wondering if you might be able to come in and give us another one.’
What? Relieved, Carlyle laughed out loud, prompting Myron to give him a bemused look. ‘Stimulating’? Whatever next? He replayed the message, a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘You have got to be kidding,’ he said aloud. Alice was going to love this.
The final message was from Katrin Lagerbäck. ‘I think we are on,’ she said. ‘Call me this afternoon.’ Blimey, Carlyle thought, that was quick. His mood was further improved by Myron placing the doughnut in front of him. Dropping the phone back into his pocket, he took a large bite, before returning to his newspaper and the all-important sports pages.
Taking its name from one of the popular saints of the day, St Boniface’s Church was built in 1290. The oldest Catholic church in England, it was one of only two remaining buildings in London dating back to the reign of Edward I. It had survived the Great Fire of London and the Blitz – despite a bomb tearing a six-foot hole in the roof – and was still much used for baptisms, weddings and funerals more than seven hundred years after being built. But at this time of the day, it was his and his alone. Scanning the sheet of paper in his hand, Francis McGowan wondered how much the Holy Father knew about his church.
I am very much looking forward to my visit to the United Kingdom and I send heartfelt greetings to all the people of Great Britain. I am aware that a vast amount of work has gone into the preparations for the visit, not only by the Catholic community but by the government, the local authorities in London, the communications media and the security services, and I want to say how much I appreciate the efforts that have been made to ensure that the various events planned will be truly joyful celebrations. Above all, I thank the countless people who have been praying for the success of the visit and for a great outpouring of God’s grace upon the Church and the people of you
r nation. While I regret that there are many places and people I shall not have the opportunity to visit, I want you to know that you are all remembered in my prayers. God bless the people of the United Kingdom!’
Francis McGowan carefully folded his copy of the Pope’s letter to the people of Britain and placed it in his pocket. Switching on the PA system, he let the sound of the choir’s ‘Ave verum corpus’ fill the church. Turning the sound down to a modest level, he moved slowly towards the main doors. It was already almost twenty minutes past the due opening time, but it was rare for anyone to seek the solace of St Boniface’s at this time of the morning. And those that did were used to waiting patiently and suffering delays in silence.
Unlocking the door, he stepped outside and sniffed the cold morning air. As he had anticipated, there was no one waiting and he decided to have a swift cigarette before getting started on the business of the day. Lighting up a Benson & Hedges King Size, he took a hearty drag, glancing up at the church noticeboard as he did so. Next to a newsletter covering various aspects of the church restoration programme was a poster advertising the Catholic Children’s Society Parish Family Day on the coming Saturday. I should probably give that a miss, McGowan thought. Finishing his cigarette, he tossed the stub down a nearby drain and headed back inside. As he did so, the phone in his pocket started ringing, to the tune of ‘Salve Regina’. Sighing, he answered it. ‘This is Father McGowan.’
‘Father?’ The voice was young and nervous. ‘It’s me.’
Oh sweet Jesus. McGowan closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Simon?’
‘No, Father, it’s Eddie – Edward Wood.’
McGowan felt a wave of relief wash over him. Concentrating hard, he tried to put a face to the boy’s name.
‘Father?’
‘Ah, yes, Edward.’ A thought struck him. ‘How did you get this phone number?’ he asked gently.
‘I’m a friend of Simon’s. We came to your drop-in centre. He gave it to me.’
‘I see.’ McGowan felt his relief begin to recede. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I have been looking for him. I wondered if you might be able to help me.’
