by James Craig
McGowan stuck another cigarette between his lips. ‘I can try,’ he said dreamily. ‘Why don’t you come and see me? We can talk it over.’
Chief Superintendent Nicholas Tett looked at Roche and scowled. A tall man with pinched features and short curly hair that appeared dyed, he looked like a banker in a uniform rather than a copper. Taking a sip from the cup of coffee that he had been cradling for the last twenty minutes and which by now would be stone cold, he returned his gaze to a spot high on the wall of Dugdale’s office. Since saying ‘hello’ at the start of the meeting, Tett had not spoken a single word. He was clearly out of the loop regarding his former boss’s agenda vis-à-vis Carlyle and struggled to muster a level of interest in the conversation. If this was what the top team in SO15 was like, Roche was beginning to wonder if she might not be better off staying at Charing Cross.
Dugdale checked his watch and smiled. ‘So,’ he said, glancing at Tett, ‘I think we’re all on the same page.’
The Chief Superintendent hasn’t even opened the book, Roche thought bitterly. She nodded.
Tett smiled vacuously. ‘Always.’
‘Good.’ Dugdale struggled to his feet and gestured towards the door. ‘I’ll see you at the hearing.’
‘Yes.’ With some effort, Roche stopped herself from breaking into a jog as she headed for the door.
It was one of those days when no one was answering their phone. The inspector had called Katrin Lagerbäck, as instructed, only to get her voicemail. It was a similar story with Sally Jones, the second wife of Roger Leyne. Sighing, he left another message and wondered what he should do with the rest of his afternoon. After a moment’s thought, he called Trevor Cole. ‘Third time unlucky,’ he mumbled to himself as a robotic voice told him, once again, that he should leave a message. Quickly ending the call, he sifted through various bits of paper on his desk until he found Cole’s office number. It took him three attempts to dial it correctly and then he was passed between various secretaries before finally finding himself talking to Cole’s PA.
‘Mr Cole is on holiday this week,’ the woman said chirpily, as if this made her life a happier one. ‘Do you want to leave him a message?’
‘Do you know where he went?’ Carlyle asked.
The woman’s tone turned frostier. ‘I’m not sure we would disclose that kind of information, sir. Would you like me to take a message for Mr Cole?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Carlyle. ‘It can wait.’ Ending the call, he tossed the handset onto his desk, on top of a copy of Roger Leyne’s bank records. Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if there was more that he could be doing on that front. The professor’s bank statements made very interesting reading, showing that he had withdrawn almost fifty thousand pounds over the last year and was seriously in debt. But, unless he could work out what had happened to the cash, the inspector knew that he wasn’t going to get very far.
He was contemplating heading out for something to eat when his mobile started ringing and Helen’s number popped up on the screen. Lifting it off the desk, he immediately said ‘Hi.’
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he yawned, ‘a bit of a boring day, not making much progress. You?’
‘Hectic. Work is crazy – but it’s good to be busy.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Carlyle said gently. They were due to get the results of the BRCA2 cancer gene test in less than a week and the thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. The different scenarios played out in his head endlessly. The hospital; the doctor. Good news; bad news. The relief; the fear. It was all bollocks. Work was a blessed relief.
‘Anyway,’ said Helen, ‘are you going to Fulham tonight?’
Shit, thought Carlyle. He’d forgotten about his promise to take Alice to see his mother. ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Helen. ‘In that case I’ll work a bit later.’
‘Don’t overdo it.’
‘I won’t. Now, the other thing is that my mother has agreed to come up for the weekend.’ Carlyle’s mother-in-law had dumped Helen’s father (now deceased) years ago, about a week after Helen had left school. She now lived in Brighton, which was the usual destination for their family holidays. As Alice got older, Helen’s mother would occasionally come up to Town to babysit, allowing Carlyle and Helen to spend some time in her flat.
‘Great.’
‘So we can go to Brighton for a bit of time to ourselves.’
‘Yes. That will be good.’ He was looking forward to it, but nervous too.
‘But you have to make sure work doesn’t cause a problem.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Carlyle, ‘I’m not due to be working. And I won’t let anything get in the way.’
‘Make sure you don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle.
‘Lots of love.’
Glancing around the office, he lowered his voice. ‘You too.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Ahead of a trip across Town to see his mother, Carlyle decided he needed a workout to build up his reserves of physical and mental energy. The Jubilee Hall Gym, next to the Transport Museum in the south-east corner of Covent Garden’s piazza, halfway between the station and the flat in Winter Garden House, was where Helen did her yoga and Alice had a weekly karate class. Carlyle himself tried to do some exercise now and again, although his efforts had become increasingly sporadic in recent years.
Looking across the largely empty floor, Carlyle stepped onto a Life Fitness cross-trainer and switched on his Sony Walkman MP3 player, flicking through the random selection of tracks until he found Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and started off on a modest hill programme. Fighting against the machine, he took a minute or so to get into a decent rhythm before turning his attention to the TV screen on the wall in front of him. One of the news channels was running and, helped by the subtitles, he was amused to see that the reporter was doing a piece from Britain’s only ‘gay mass’ at the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption and St Gregory in Soho. ‘Anybody who is trying to cast a judgement on the people who come forward for communion,’ said a priest, ‘really ought to learn to hold their tongue.’
Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, Carlyle’s thoughts turned to Father McGowan and the upcoming disciplinary hearing. He belatedly realized that the hearing was the day before Helen’s results were due. ‘Next week,’ he said to himself grimly, ‘is gonna be a big week for you, Johnny boy. A big fucking week, indeed.’
An hour later, showered and slightly more relaxed, Carlyle walked out of the changing rooms, ready to face his mother.
Almost.
Wandering into the gym’s café, he ordered a latte and a plate of scrambled eggs and mushrooms on toast from the tired-looking girl in a Bruce Lee T-shirt behind the counter. Dropping his Adidas holdall on the floor next to a display for bodybuilding supplements, he took a seat at a table under a poster advertising Russian Military Fitness sessions – Train the Red Army way, with genuine Spetsnaz instructors! – and checked out a very attractive woman in tight shorts and a vest working out on a punchbag. Catching him staring, she gave Carlyle a hard glare and started kicking the bag in a way that suggested she would be happy to give him some similar treatment. Embarrassed, he turned his attention to his mobile and checked his messages. The first was from Katrin Lagerbäck, informing him that she was heading off early for the weekend and would call him when she got back. Carlyle tried calling her back anyway but only got her voicemail.
The second message was more of a surprise. ‘Inspector, this is Rose Scripps. Long time no speak. I hope you are well. Give me a call. It would be good to catch up. I’m still at CEOP. I think you might be able to help me with one of our investigations.’ Shamelessly, Carlyle let his gaze slip back to the woman at the punch bag; she was working up quite a sweat.
‘Here you go.’ The girl placed his coffee on the table. ‘The eggs are just coming.’
‘Thanks,’ Carl
yle took a sip of his drink and made a face. It was cooler than he liked but he couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss. He thought about Rose Scripps, a child protection social worker for the NSPCC, the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, who had been seconded to the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Victim ID Team. CEOP was the police unit responsible for chasing down many of the three thousand people a year prosecuted for committing sex offences against children, including rape, assault and grooming. Over the years, Carlyle couldn’t really say that he had been inundated with colleagues that he liked or admired – but Rose was definitely one of them. They had worked together a couple of years before on a nasty people-trafficking case, and he held her in high esteem.
The girl reappeared with the food and placed it in front of him. Nodding his thanks, Carlyle added some ketchup and shovelled a forkful of egg into his mouth. It was too hot for him to taste properly and he swallowed quickly. The woman in the gym gave the punchbag one last kick and stalked off to attack some free weights. The place was beginning to fill up now as the post-work crowd arrived and Carlyle began to feel somewhat undersized as a procession of over-developed guys with shaven heads made their way past him en route to the changing rooms. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized that he was already late. Attacking his plate with gusto, he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Rose would have to wait until tomorrow.
‘Jesus!’ Leaning against the frame of the living-room door, Carla Dyer placed a hand on her chest. ‘You gave me a hell of a fright! I almost didn’t recognize you.’
Standing in the hallway, the man in the Arsenal baseball cap smiled. ‘Have the police been round?’
Folding her arms, Carla nodded.
‘Did you speak to them about Colin?’
Carla looked at her visitor carefully. ‘What do you think?’ Her face broke into a scowl. ‘I didn’t tell them nuffin’. I’m looking at a charge of obstruction, or summink worse. Fuck ’em.’
The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
Of course that’s why I’m here, you silly cow. ‘I just wanted to speak to you and understand where we are with all of this.’ Sticking his hands into his trouser pockets, he forced himself to smile. ‘It’s always better to do these things face-to-face.’
The woman shrugged; like she could give a shit.
‘It would be a shame to blow it now,’ the man said, ‘not when it looks like we could be getting away with it.’
‘Getting away with it?’ Carla laughed. ‘You’re taking the piss, ain’t you?’
‘Things are going . . . relatively well.’
‘Don’t talk bollocks. Colin’s going down, for sure.’
The man spread his arms wide. ‘At least there’ll be something put aside for him when he gets out.’
‘Which ain’t gonna be for a helluva long time, not with that girl getting killed.’
‘That,’ the man sighed, ‘was very stupid.’
Standing up straight, Carla jabbed an angry finger at the man’s chest. ‘Well, maybe you should have planned it a bit better, shouldn’t ya?’
‘Maybe,’ the man shrugged.
Carla’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, what are you gonna do about it now?’
‘That’s a good question.’ Taking another step forward, he pulled a heavy sap from his pocket and gave her a firm backhand across the face.
Carla’s knees buckled but she didn’t go down. ‘Awww!’ she squealed. ‘You bastard!’
‘We can’t have you talking now, can we?’ On top of her now, he grabbed her by the arm, grunting as he smashed the sap across her skull, once, twice, three times. Finally she went down, blood oozing from her scalp, a long moan rising from her chest as she lay on the grubby carpet. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed, giving her a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘Keep your gob shut or there’ll be more where that came from.’ There were some more indistinguishable groans and finally she fell silent.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he put the sap back in his pocket and waited for his heart-rate to return to normal. Had he made his point? Had she got the message? Looking down at the body in front of him, Carla’s breathing seemed shallow but regular, the wound on her head superficial. In the distance, he heard a siren, but he knew that it wasn’t for him. In a dump like this, you could commit bloody murder and no one would lift a finger.
In a sudden moment of clarity, he knew what he should do. Turning round, he headed to the front door; once out on the landing, he looked around in the gloom. The place was deserted. He could see only one CCTV camera and that was pointing away from where he was standing. Returning inside, he left the front door open, marched down the hallway and stood over the prostrate Carla Dyer. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the hair.
‘Argh!’ she cried weakly.
‘Shut it!’ he hissed, giving her another kick for her trouble as he tried to pull her towards the door. Grunting with effort, he pulled too hard and went stumbling backwards, left holding nothing but a fistful of her badly bleached locks. ‘Shit!’ Regaining his footing, he grabbed Carla by the collar of her polo shirt and dragged her small frame along the hall at a reasonable speed.
Out on the landing, he propped her up against the low wall and quickly looked round again to check that there were no witnesses. As he started to lever her over the edge, Carla’s eyes popped open.
‘No!’ she wailed. ‘What are you doing?’
Despite himself, he had to laugh. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘I won’t say anything,’ she whimpered. ‘Not to any copper. You know I won’t.’
With a grunt, he gave her a final push and she disappeared over the wall. He paused, waiting for a scream, or at least a thud. ‘I do now,’ he said to himself, not looking down.
Sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of spaghetti, Alice looked up from her vampire novel and smiled sweetly. ‘Gran, is it true that Dad was a junkie when he was a teenager?’
‘What?’ With her back to the sink, Lorna Gordon took a mouthful of tea and glanced over at her son.
Standing in the kitchen of the small Fulham flat where he had grown up, Carlyle sipped his own mug of green tea. ‘It’s your granddaughter’s idea of a joke,’ he told her.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Alice sternly. ‘Dad gave a talk at school and said that he used to do drugs.’
‘I was just making the point,’ Carlyle said, equally sternly, ‘that not everyone who tries drugs becomes an addict.’
Lorna shook her head. Thirty-odd years ago, she would have given him a firm clip round the ear and stopped him going out for a month. Now she just sighed.
‘Anyway,’ said Carlyle, ‘my talk was a great success.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Alice sarcastically.
‘They’ve asked me back to do another one,’ he grinned.
‘What?’ Alice screamed in mock horror. ‘You have to be kidding!’
‘Not at all. I got a call from the Headmaster’s office asking me if I would be happy to do it again.’
‘And are you going to?’ Alice asked.
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Great,’ Alice groaned, returning to her book. ‘At least try not to be so embarrassing next time.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Carlyle laughed.
‘Maybe,’ said Lorna, ‘you could be a bit more circumspect about your own misspent youth.’
‘Yes, Ma.’ Well into her seventies, she retained the steely determination that had always been at the core of her being. His mother never let anyone put her down; she was the first in a long line of strong women who had kept Carlyle in his place all his life and he knew that it had been the same for his father too. Which was why his dad was currently living in a bedsit a couple of miles away, having been kicked out of the family home after a row over a decades-old infidelity with a neighbour.
‘So,’ he said, trying to affect an air of insouciance, ‘Helen tells me that the divor
ce finally came through.’
Lorna glanced over at Alice. ‘Do we need to talk about that in front of the child?’ she asked.
‘It’s fine, Gran,’ said Alice, not looking up from her book. ‘I know all about it.’ She shovelled another mouthful of pasta into her mouth. ‘Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Two of my best friends at school – their parents are divorced.’
‘We don’t know about the grandparents though,’ Carlyle quipped. His mother shot him a sharp look and he involuntarily dropped his gaze to the floor. He had long since given up trying to make some sense of the mess that his parents had got themselves into; it was their business. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.
Alice artlessly looked over the top of the book, clearly interested in the answer.
Lorna frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Will you and Ken . . . ?’ Ken Walton, an amiable if rather dull pensioner, had appeared on the scene the year before as his mother’s new companion.
His mother let out a snort of derision. ‘I intend to remain resolutely single,’ she harrumphed.
‘You could still live together,’ Alice suggested helpfully.
‘Ken and I,’ Lorna turned to face her son, lowering her voice. ‘Ken and I are no longer seeing each other.’
Jesus Christ, Carlyle thought glumly. The soap opera continues.
‘Ooh!’ Alice squealed, dropping her fork onto the plate, ‘Did you dump him?’
‘No – well . . .’
Carlyle was amazed to see his mother blush.
After a moment, she regained her composure. ‘Let’s just say we have parted company and leave it at that, shall we?’ Placing her mug in the sink, she forced a smile onto her face. ‘Anyway, young lady, what are you up to these days?’
‘Nothing exciting,’ Alice sighed, ‘just the usual.’
‘Come on,’ Carlyle chided her, ‘you’ve got lots going on.’
Alice shot him a dirty look and turned to her grandmother. ‘Well, of course, Mum’s got cancer.’
What? thought Carlyle.
‘What?’ asked Lorna.
