by James Craig
How many Simon Murphys could there be? Well, how many drunk, suicidal twelve-year-old Simon Murphys? Carlyle reread the story and punched the air in triumph. ‘Thank You, God!’ Ignoring the funny look from the girl behind the counter, he carefully tore the story out of the paper and reached for his mobile.
St Pancras Mortuary was a grim-looking place, located in a hidden part of London only a short walk from the Eurostar Terminus. Buttoning up her jacket against the cold, Roche wished that she’d dressed more appropriately for her visit. Skipping breakfast might have been a good idea as well. Carlyle had told her to make it as horrible as possible, but she wasn’t sure how you could make looking at a dead body more unpleasant than it already was. Roche wasn’t squeamish like the inspector, but still, there were plenty of other things that she’d rather be doing than this. And she couldn’t even begin to imagine how terrible it must be to have to identify a family member. Even a recidivist scumbag like Colin Dyer managed to elicit a twinge of sympathy from the sergeant under the circumstances.
Not waiting for the mortuary attendant, Colin Dyer stepped up to the trolley and pulled back the sheet. Looking up, he nodded at Roche. ‘Job done. Let’s go.’ Dropping the sheet, he turned and headed towards the two uniforms standing by the door.
‘Colin!’ Cold and annoyed, Roche hurried after him. ‘Don’t you want us to find who did this to your mum?’
‘Fuck off,’ he said hoarsely as he reached the door, his voice cracking.
Roche followed him into the corridor and out to the car park. ‘Want a cigarette?’ She was trying to give up for good, but still had some in her bag.
Dyer shrugged. ‘Yeah, why not?’
Roche glanced at the guards for their approval, only to find both of them lighting up themselves. Pulling out a packet of Marlboro, she handed one to Dyer, who stuck it in his mouth and took her lighter to fire it up. Inhaling deeply, he let out a long stream of smoke while giving her the eye. ‘You not having one?’
Roche shook her head. ‘Trying to give up.’
Dyer nodded at the packet. ‘Why don’t you let me keep those, then.’
Roche tossed him the packet, which bounced off his handcuffs and onto the damp tarmac. ‘Sorry.’
Grunting, Dyer bent down and picked up the cigarettes and pushed them in his pocket. Looking around, he took another drag, letting the cigarette burn two-thirds of the way down before dropping it on the ground and stubbing it out vigorously. ‘Will I get to go to the funeral?’
‘I would have thought so,’ Roche replied. ‘Given what happened though, the pathologist may want to keep her for a while.’
Colin looked over at the van waiting to take him back to prison. The guards were still chatting away, in no apparent hurry to crack on. ‘Fair enough.’
When he glanced back at her, Roche tried to maintain some kind of eye-contact. ‘We do want to catch the guy who did this, you know.’
Dyer snorted. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘We know it’s connected to the diamonds job,’ Roche persisted.
‘Look.’ Dyer stepped forward, gesturing at her angrily with his handcuffed mitts. ‘You know fuck all.’
Roche took an involuntary step backwards as the guards tossed their fag ends and looked over to see what the fuss was about.
‘I know who did it,’ Dyer hissed, lowering his voice. ‘I’m not fucking stupid. Unlike you lot.’
‘But—’
‘You couldn’t catch a fucking cold!’ Dyer started laughing at his truly super joke.
Roche took a deep breath and stared at the sky. You know what? she thought. Suit your-fucking-self. It was only your mother, after all. ‘Okay, Colin, we get the message.’
‘About fucking time,’ Dyer cackled. He turned and headed for the van. ‘Let’s get going,’ he shouted, gesturing at the guards.
Sitting on the train on the way back to London, Carlyle pulled a letter from his travel bag and read through it for the umpteenth time. It was from the Met’s HR Department, outlining the terms that he could expect to be offered if he were to go ahead and apply for voluntary redundancy. He showed it to Helen, who glanced up from her copy of More magazine and grunted.
‘I’ve seen it already.’
‘Maybe we could make the numbers work,’ Carlyle mused, gazing out of the train window. Watching the countryside slide past, he realized just how much he was looking forward to getting back to London. ‘Just about.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Helen laughed. ‘What would you do?’
‘I dunno,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘But with the pay-off, and your salary, I wouldn’t need to earn that much, as long as I cover the school fees.’
Helen reluctantly tore her attention away from a story about a washed-up pop singer who’d been jailed for driving under the influence of cannabis. ‘If you think I’m going out to work so that you can lounge about the flat all day, you’re sorely mistaken.’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Carlyle protested unconvincingly.
‘Anyway, we couldn’t afford it. The price of everything’s going up; we’re hardly flush as it is.’
‘But maybe it’s just time for a change.’ Carlyle winced at how lame the words sounded.
‘Only if you know what you want to change to,’ Helen said firmly. With a sigh, she closed her magazine and threaded her arm through his. ‘Why the angst? Are you worried about the hearing?’
‘Nah.’
She looked at him again. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Roche’s statement puts me in the clear. So does the police doctor.’
‘But will they stick to it when the time comes?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. Despite the current wrinkles in their working relationship, he still had faith in his colleagues.
‘They better had,’ said Helen grimly, returning to her magazine.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Home sweet home.
Walking down the platform at Victoria station, the inspector felt a familiar sense of relief at being reconnected to the kinetic energy of the capital. The world had speeded up to a pace he was more comfortable with. Somehow, he felt that life was no longer passing him by.
As he cleared the ticket barriers and crossed the main concourse, his mobile started vibrating in his pocket. He answered without checking the identity of the caller. ‘Carlyle.’
‘Inspector, it’s Rose Scripps.’
He had left her a message about the Murphy boy before leaving Brighton. ‘Thanks for calling back, but I’m just about to head into the tube.’
‘I’ll be brief then. We’ve tracked down Simon.’
Bloody hell, Carlyle thought, that was quick.
‘But there was no record of any next-of-kin, so the body was cremated three days ago.’
‘Ah.’
‘On the other hand,’ Rose continued, ‘McGowan probably doesn’t know that Simon is dead.’
‘Does that help us?’ Carlyle asked, weaving his way through a sea of people.
‘McGowan is meeting with Eddie Wood tonight because he thinks Simon is still out there, able to nail him.’
Shit, thought Carlyle, it’s tonight?
‘Now is gonna be our last chance to get something on him.’
Taking Helen by the arm, Carlyle stopped by the entrance to the tube station. ‘Okay. Where and when?’
Rose gave him a time and a place. ‘Let’s meet up an hour before, and I can take you through it all.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Carlyle. ‘I’ll see you then.’ Ending the call, he turned to his wife. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Work?’ Helen asked.
‘What else?’ he sighed. Together, they headed down into the underground, homeward bound.
‘We’re back!’ Carlyle dumped his bag in the hallway and went into the living room where Patricia, Helen’s mother, was sitting on the sofa with a mug of coffee and the Daily Mail crossword. ‘Hi Pat,’ he said as cheerily as he could manage. ‘Alice gone to school?’
‘Yeah,�
� Patricia nodded. ‘She left about half an hour ago.’ Dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, she looked even more gaunt than usual. He could see by the look on her face that her weekend hadn’t been as relaxing as theirs. In fact, the last couple of days looked as if they had aged her by about ten years.
Helen appeared at his shoulder. ‘Good weekend?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ her mother said tartly, gesturing at half-a-dozen rollups lined up on the coffee table next to a green Bic lighter. ‘I found her smoking one of these in her bedroom. When I told her to put it out, the cheeky little bugger told me to “fuck off”.’
Helen shot Carlyle a look that said: I wonder where she gets that kind of language from?
‘Then I tried to confiscate these,’ she gestured again at the roll-ups, ‘and she went crazy.’
Carlyle’s heart sank as he stepped over and picked up one of the homemade cigarettes, rolling it between his fingers as he gave it a sniff. Another visit to the Headmaster’s office loomed. Dr Myers had made it very clear that Alice had already been given her second chance. This time she could be out.
Patricia gave him a stern look. ‘Did you know she was smoking dope?’
Carlyle looked at Helen, who had turned red with embarrassment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we were aware of an issue . . . but that was a while ago.’
‘She’s a kid,’ Patricia scolded them. ‘She shouldn’t be smoking at all, never mind doing drugs, for God’s sake.’
Helen folded her arms, her embarrassment turning into defensive anger. ‘Now look, Mum, I don’t think we need a lecture on parenting.’
Oh Christ, Carlyle thought, here we go. Patricia had split with Helen’s dad and run off to Brighton not long after Helen had finished school. Family life had, by all accounts, been strained long before that. Anyway, he knew from his own experience that the mother-daughter relationship was a tricky one at the best of times. If this was going to develop into a full-blown row, he wanted to have the chance to run for the hills before things got too nasty.
He held up a hand. ‘Look,’ he said, giving Helen a firm stare, ‘we will sort this out.’ Letting his face soften, he turned to Patricia. ‘A while ago, Alice was caught with some dope in her possession at school. But it wasn’t hers and she wasn’t using it. At least that’s what she said. And, to be fair, I believed her.’
‘Well,’ Patricia interjected, ‘she certainly seems to have developed a taste for it now.’
‘She’s a sensible girl,’ Carlyle continued, ‘and we had a perfectly decent conversation about it at the time. Okay, so she’s a bit young, but she’ll have to experiment at some stage.’
Helen shot him a horrified look. ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she said, slipping out of the room.
Patricia said accusingly, ‘She did tell me that you did a lot of drugs when you were young.’
This is fucking ridiculous. ‘I did not “do a lot of drugs”,’ he protested. ‘I simply tried a few things – as a lot of people did – at an age when I was considerably older than Alice is now. It was never really a big deal.’ He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. ‘By the time I met Helen, I hadn’t done anything for years.’
‘It’s a different world now,’ Patricia said vacuously.
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said, ‘but we’ll get it sorted.’ I hope, he thought. ‘I’m going to get a cup of tea.’
In the kitchen, while the kettle was coming to the boil, Carlyle stepped behind Helen and put his arms round her waist. Kissing her gently on the neck, he wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
‘Bloody hell, John.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we will get this sorted. When I find the little bastard that’s supplying her, I’ll fucking kill him.’
Helen gestured back towards the living room. ‘That’s not what you were saying in there, to my mother.’
‘Sod your mother,’ Carlyle whispered, with feeling.
It was a relief to get back to work, even if that meant standing in the cold for four hours on the windowless second floor of an office block currently being gutted by builders. He turned to Rose Scripps, wrapped in a navy coat that reached down to her knees; she was gazing down at St Boniface’s Church on the opposite side of the street. ‘How long?’
‘Here’s our boy now.’ Rose pointed at the gangly figure of Eddie Wood who had just appeared in Ely Place. Turning off Charterhouse Street, he ducked through the gates at the end of the road and ambled slowly towards the church.
‘Do you think he’s up to it?’ Carlyle had wondered about the wisdom of putting a wire on a fifteen year old but had come to the conclusion that it was worth a punt.
‘We’re just about to find out.’
Opening hours at St Boniface’s had ended more than three hours earlier, but when Eddie stepped up to the door and gave it a gentle push, he found it unlocked and was able to slip inside. Carlyle held his breath as he stared at the Motorola Tetra digital radio handset placed on a bench in front of them, switched to loudspeaker mode. For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of Wood humming tunelessly to himself and then a whisper. ‘He’s here.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle hissed, ‘don’t give us a running commentary.’
Rose shrugged. There was nothing they could do about it now.
‘Edward.’ Carlyle recognized McGowan’s lazy drawl immediately. ‘You are intolerably late.’
‘Sorry,’ Eddie apologized. ‘My bus took ages to show up.’
‘Come this way. We can talk in the crypt.’
There was another delay and a burst of static that left Carlyle worried that the boy’s mike might have malfunctioned.
‘So,’ McGowan’s voice finally reappeared, ‘what do you think has happened to young Simon?’
‘I asked around,’ Eddie said casually. ‘Someone said he went to Brighton.’
Carlyle looked at Rose. ‘I told him to dangle that in front of McGowan,’ she said. ‘Give him something to say.’
Carlyle shrugged.
‘He’s doing fine,’ she said.
‘So far.’
‘Ever the optimist,’ Rose grinned.
‘Do you think you could find him for me?’ McGowan asked.
‘Maybe. Why?’
‘I need to talk to him,’ McGowan said smoothly.
‘Because he went to the police?’
Careful, thought Carlyle.
‘Because he is telling lies,’ McGowan said sternly. ‘Dangerous lies that could get him into trouble. I have spoken to the police and they recognize that he was not telling the truth. I just want to prevent Simon from getting himself into trouble.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Rose laughed. She glanced at her watch and gazed out into the night. ‘I hope my mum’s put Louise to bed by now.’
‘Handy to have the help.’
‘Yeah,’ Rose nodded, ‘I suppose so. But you know what it’s like when you’ve got to depend on the grandparents.’
‘Sure do,’ Carlyle agreed, safe in the knowledge that Helen’s mum should be back in Brighton by now. If that solved the problem of wife-mother-in-law relations, there was still the slight problem of wife-daughter relations. He had forced Helen to promise that she would leave Alice to him. At the same time, he was pretty sure the two of them would have some kind of row while he was out. A familiar mixture of guilt and relief spread through him at the thought of leaving them to it.
McGowan’s voice reappeared out of the radio receiver. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Eddie. ‘It wasn’t like you forced him to do those things. He usually quite likes it.’
Carlyle tensed. They were getting down to the sharp end of the conversation. Moving onto the balls of his feet he began rocking backwards and forwards, ready for a dash down the stairs and across the road. He looked at Rose. ‘Once he’s got everything out of McGowan that he can, he’s just gonna walk out of there?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, peering out of the e
mpty window at the brightly lit facade of the church. ‘That’s the plan.’
‘Great plan.’
She gave him a sharp look. ‘Thanks.’
‘What about you?’ McGowan asked. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Do I like what?’
‘Good boy!’ said Carlyle under his breath.
‘Do you like . . . those things?’
‘Why?’ Eddie asked coyly. ‘You want me to suck your cock, like Simon did?’
Holding their breath, Carlyle and Rose stared at the receiver.
McGowan said nothing.
‘It’s all about the money for me,’ said Eddie breezily. ‘Give me thirty quid and I’ll clean your pipes, no problem. Won’t even make you wear a johnny.’
There was the sound of what seemed like McGowan clearing his throat.
‘Cash in advance, of course.’
‘Of course.’ There was a further pause and then McGowan spoke again. ‘I only seem to have twenty-five.’
‘That’ll do,’ Eddie replied. ‘You can give me the rest next time.’
‘Thank you, my son.’
‘Shit!’ Carlyle hissed, already heading for the door. ‘Looks like he’s changed the plan.’ With Rose close behind, he rushed through the open doorway and down the stairs, carefully sidestepping various work tools and building materials that had been left strewn about the site. Outside, they ran across the empty road and approached the main entrance to the church. Carefully pulling open the door, Carlyle let Rose go in first then followed her inside. ‘Where’s the crypt?’
Rose shrugged her shoulders. ‘No idea.’
‘Fuck! Let’s hope Eddie takes his time.’
‘I get the impression he knows what he’s doing,’ Rose replied. ‘He won’t drag it out.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Come on.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Standing in the middle of the church, Carlyle looked up at the west window, the largest stained-glass window in London, depicting martyrs hung down the road at Tyburn gallows, under the gaze of a triumphant Christ. Even in the gloom, the window was truly impressive but he was focusing on his hearing, trying to distinguish any internal noises from the background traffic hum outside. Finally he heard what might have been a grunt off to his left. Slipping between the pews, he saw there was a half-open door behind one of the pillars that ran down the length of the building. As he approached, the groans became more distinct. Checking that Rose was following him, Carlyle pulled out his mobile and bounced through the doorway. ‘Father McGowan,’ he said cheerily, shooting the scene in front of him using the video mode on his handset. ‘We meet again!’
