by Craig, James
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.
Marcello took the money from one customer with a perfunctory ‘Grazie!’ and moved on to the next. What a tough job, Carlyle thought. Marcello had often complained to him that he couldn’t afford to bring in any help. As he watched his friend rushing around from Gaggia to grill like a madman, Carlyle hoped that he would get the place sold soon. Casting aside his selfish concerns, he knew that Marcello deserved better than this daily slog.
With a sigh, he pulled Carla Dyer’s mobile out of his pocket. A quick glance showed him that it was a cheap Samsung handset, presumably a pay-as-you-go model. The tiny battery in the top left-hand corner of the screen revealed that the battery was two-thirds charged. Happily, Carla had left the thing switched on, so he could easily check the voicemail box (empty) and the call lists. The latter showed that there had been a couple of calls received since Colin did a runner, but both were from unknown numbers. Carla had made one outgoing call, to another mobile. Carlyle looked at the screen for a few moments. Sod it, he thought. Maybe I should just ring it and see what happens. Before he could press the call button, however, the handset started vibrating in his hand.
Finishing his lasagne, the fat man struggled out of his chair. Tossing his newspaper on the seat, he waddled out of the door. Carlyle watched him disappear down Drury Lane and pulled up the incoming text message on Carla’s phone. It came from the same number that Carla had called earlier and simply said: Need £££ now.
‘Ah, Colin,’ Carlyle smiled to himself, ‘how nice of you to get in touch.’ He laboriously typed in a reply – how much? – and hit ‘send’.
Placing the phone on the bench, he picked up the discarded Metro and flicked through the news pages. The reply came when he was enjoying a story about the trial of a couple of conmen accused of trying to sell the Ritz Hotel for two hundred and fifty million pounds. The duo even managed to sucker a property developer into handing over a one-million down payment. ‘In that competitive world of secretive, multi-million-pound deals,’ the prosecutor told the court, ‘some people are prepared to take risks that might seem breathtaking to most of us.’ No shit, thought Carlyle. Laughing to himself, he opened up the new message.
£500
‘You’re having a laugh,’ Carlyle muttered, as he began typing back. Only got £200. Hitting ‘send’, he glanced at the queue in front of Marcello. It was down to two people now and he wondered about what he might want to eat. No decision had been reached by the time the handset started vibrating again.
OK. Meet @ Coffe House @4
What kind of spelling is that? And the Coffee House? Don’t you realize that’s been yuppified, so that wankers like you won’t want to go there any more? Shaking his head, Carlyle typed a response.
OK, c u there, luv mum x
He looked at the last bit and decided it would be taking the piss just a bit too much, so deleted the ‘luv mum x’ before sending the shorter version.
Job done, he called Roche on his BlackBerry. She picked up on the fifth ring.
‘Colin Dyer will be at the Coffee House in Somers Town at four this afternoon,’ he said, by way of introduction, ‘which, incidentally, is a pub, not a café.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Roche, who sounded as if she was in a pub herself. ‘How do you know this?’
‘The result of my investigations,’ Carlyle said cryptically. ‘Just make sure that the place is properly watched and that he’s caught. He thinks he’s picking up some cash from his mum.’
‘Should we bring her in too?’
‘Nah. She’s getting pissed in another pub up the road. Doesn’t know anything about it. We’ll deal with her later.’
‘I haven’t spoken to Samuels yet.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Carlyle snapped, annoyed at her inability to focus on the matter in hand. ‘Fingers crossed the problem is solved.’
‘Okay,’ Roche replied wearily. ‘Let’s hope he turns up. I’ve already had Dugdale on my case.’
‘Fuck him,’ Carlyle spat. ‘It’s hardly your fault that Dyer was allowed to walk out of the damn hospital.’
‘No, but—’
‘No buts,’ Carlyle ordered. ‘Get Dyer back in custody and then we’ll deal with Dugdale. I’ll see you back at the station this evening. Watch out for the flesh-eating bacteria!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Roche laughed. ‘The only thing that will be going anywhere near Colin’s crotch is the toe of my boot.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ He ended the call as Marcello appeared at his shoulder. ‘Rush over?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Just about.’ Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the corner of the tea-towel draped over his shoulder, Marcello blew out a breath. ‘What’re you havin’?’
By the time he had nibbled his way through a toasted cheese sandwich, the lunchtime rush had finished and the café largely emptied. Retreating into a now empty booth at the back, Carlyle asked Marcello for a green tea. He took out the photograph that he had stolen from Carla Dyer’s bag and placed it on the table just as Marcello appeared with his drink. The café-owner glanced at the photograph by Carlyle’s plate. ‘Brighton, yes?’
‘Could be.’
‘It is.’ Marcello tapped the picture with his index finger. ‘I know it well. We used to take the kids there every year.’ The old man smiled as he shuffled back behind the counter. ‘They loved the pier.’
Carlyle sipped his tea and peered at the picture of Carla Dyer standing at the entrance to Brighton Pier. It was, he guessed, an image from maybe fifteen or possibly twenty years ago. Even smiling in an ancient holiday snap, Carla looked like a mean-spirited piece of white trash, but at least back then she had youth on her side; as did the guy who was standing at her side. Maybe he was Colin’s dad, maybe not. Either way, he was long gone.
Carlyle glanced at the clock behind the counter, which told him it was almost two thirty. What to do with his afternoon? Nothing immediately sprang to mind. He had no desire to return to the station, but at the same time, it would be premature to have another chat with Carla Dyer before her arsehole son was safely back in custody. Finishing his drink, he tried to ignore the selection of pastries on offer. ‘Marcello!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Let me have the bill, please. I need to get off.’
THIRTY-ONE
In the event, after leaving Il Buffone, Carlyle headed back towards King’s Cross. Despite what he’d told Roche, he felt that he might as well see Colin Dyer’s arrest for himself. Coming out of Euston tube station, he took
a left up Eversholt Street. Ten or so yards in front of him, a refuse truck was slowly making its rounds. Taking the stolen Samsung from his pocket, he slid off the battery and removed the SIM card. Catching up with the truck, he casually tossed the two parts of the handset into the crusher in the back. Skipping across the road, he dropped the SIM card into the nearest drain and carried on his way.
Slipping into Polygon Road, a block from the Coffee House, he glanced at his watch. It was almost quarter to four but he knew that he had plenty of time. Scumbags like Colin Dyer were never on time. Pulling out his BlackBerry, he called Roche. The call went straight to voicemail and he hung up. From round the corner, there was the blare of a horn and the familiar refrain of a pissed-off cabbie.
‘Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Carlyle laughed to himself but the smirk was immediately wiped from his face as a body came hurtling round the corner and smacked straight into him, knocking him on his arse. ‘Hey!’ Carlyle shouted, winded. His surprise was compounded by the realization that he was staring at the equally shocked face of Colin Dyer.
‘Shit!’ Dyer tried to scramble to his feet but Carlyle grabbed him by the leg, taking a kick in the mouth for his trouble.
‘You fucker!’ Carlyle hissed, hanging on for dear life. ‘You’re nicked!’
‘Fuck off!’ Dyer shouted, kicking out as best as he could manage. Carlyle took a sharp blow to his left ear and felt his grip weaken. Dyer made it to his feet, caught in two minds about whether to leg it or give the inspector a good kicking. He seemed to be veering towards the latter when two uniforms rushed round the corner and took him out with a no-nonsense rugby tackle.
Carlyle struggled to his feet as Dyer was cuffed and pulled back upright. ‘About bloody time,’ he snarled at one of the constables.
The officer looked at him suspiciously. ‘And who would you be, sir?’ he asked, in an officious, don’t fuck with me tone. Dyer let out a shrill laugh. Spitting blood into the gutter, Carlyle pulled out his warrant card and shoved it towards the constable’s face. He could feel a bastard headache developing and his mood was black. ‘I would be the officer,’ he said darkly, ‘who apprehended this little shit while you fat fucks were waddling down the road, failing to stop his escape.’
Both constables gave him a hostile glare, causing Dyer to snigger again. This time, however, his amusement was cut short when Carlyle stepped forward and gave him a swift boot in the balls for his trouble. Dyer sagged backwards but didn’t collapse. ‘That might give the flesh-eating bugs something to think about,’ Carlyle said maliciously, resisting the temptation to give the worthless tosser another kick.
The constables exchanged confused looks.
‘It wasn’t you fuckwits that let him walk out of UCH, was it?’ Carlyle demanded.
‘No, sir,’ they replied in unison.
‘What’s going on?’ Barely out of breath, Roche appeared from round the corner, followed by another uniform.
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’
‘He turned up early,’ Roche explained. ‘That was the one thing we weren’t suspecting.’
‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle sighed, his headache now in full swing. ‘Try and get him back to the station without any more drama. I’ll see you back there later.’
‘Christ! What do you want now?’ Carla Dyer gripped her front door tightly, ready to smash it into the inspector’s face at the first sign that he would try and come inside.
‘I’m here to tell you that Colin’s been re-arrested,’ Carlyle said, trying not to sound too smug about it.
Carla Dyer gestured at the bruise on Carlyle’s cheek. ‘Did he give you that?’
‘He’s in deep trouble, Carla,’ Carlyle replied, ignoring the question.
‘That’s his problem,’ the woman shrugged.
‘You’re his mother.’
‘So what?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What can I do for him? He’s fucked.’
‘Where can I find his father?’
Carla Dyer looked at him suspiciously. ‘What would you want to do that for?’
Carlyle saw the red light blinking on the side of the WTC9SHR miniature bullet camera and looked straight down the lens and smiled. ‘Nice to see we are all together again,’ he said, pulling up a chair and offering his hand to Kelvin Jenkins.
‘Inspector,’ the lawyer nodded, managing a relatively firm handshake under the circumstances.
‘This needn’t take long, Kelvin,’ Carlyle said affably, pointedly ignoring Jenkins’ client, Colin Dyer, who was staring zombie-like into the middle distance. There were a couple of fresh bruises on his face and it looked as if he had been given a few more slaps before reaching the station, which only served to improve Carlyle’s mood further.
Roche, on the other hand, was wearing the kind of standard, pissed-off expression that he was very familiar with from home.
Tossing his A4 notepad on the desk, Carlyle sat down, turning to look at Roche as he did so. Conscious of his good mood, he tried to sound solicitous. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said sharply. ‘But do I need to sit in on this?’
Carlyle glanced at Kelvin, who was clearly as confused by Roche’s mood as Carlyle. He turned back to Roche and smiled. ‘Nah. It’s fine. I can cope.’
‘Good.’ She was out of her seat and almost through the door before adding a perfunctory, ‘See you upstairs.’
Carlyle listened to the door close behind her and pulled himself together. ‘Right!’ he said, tapping his empty notepad. ‘This shouldn’t take too long.’
‘No,’ Kelvin agreed.
Colin Dyer continued to stare into space.
‘Your client has had it,’ Carlyle said cheerily. ‘He’s totally fucked.’
‘What do you want?’ Jenkins said wearily.
‘What do I want?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I don’t want anything. Colin is going down for robbery, abduction and murder. Personally, I would just throw him in the Thames in a sack full of bricks, but it’s not my decision. He’ll be in jail for a long time; that’s good enough.’
‘So why are we having this conversation?’ Dyer put in, his gaze still focused on a point over Carlyle’s left shoulder.
‘Because we’re still missing some of the stuff you nicked from the St James’s Diamonds store. We’d like to get everything back so that we can put this thing to bed.’
‘You got all the stuff we took.’ A smirk spread across Dyer’s face. ‘I heard that maybe some coppers were a bit naughty after we scarpered.’
Carlyle had a strong urge to smack the little twat in the face. Then he remembered the WTC9SHR blinking at his back. ‘We’ve checked it out,’ he said. ‘You two took everything.’
Dyer looked at his lawyer and folded his arms. ‘Bollocks.’
Taking a pencil from inside the spiral rings of the spine, Carlyle scribbled a small smiley face on his notepad. ‘Either you help me,’ he said, not looking up, ‘or Carla will go to prison too. And the only way she’ll ever come out is in a box.’
‘Fuck off!’
‘She is in a cell round the corner right now,’ Carlyle lied. ‘And if I walk out of here unsatisfied with your level of cooperation, she will be charged as an accessory both to the robbery and to the murder.’ Looking up, he smiled maliciously. ‘Twenty-five years minimum, even before I make it my business to put in a bad word for her with the judge.’
Dyer glared at him angrily, tears in his eyes.
Now it was Jenkins’ turn to stare into space like a zombie.
‘Well, Colin, what do you have to say for yourself?’ Carlyle dropped his pencil on the pad and sat back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘I know what you did. I know who put you up to it. All I need to know is where the stuff is being stashed.’ He watched the cogs turning in Colin Dyer’s head. Here we go, Carlyle thought. He’s going to fold.
Kelvin Jenkins carefully watched his client as he waited for his response.
If you really know who pu
t us up to it,’ Colin snarled at Carlyle, ‘go and ask him where the fucking stuff is, you stupid cunt.’
Up on the third floor, sitting at her desk, Roche munched grimly on a cheese sandwich while sifting through 123 unread emails. Carlyle’s habit of dipping in and out of her case was becoming profoundly annoying. One moment he would give every impression of not giving a toss, the next he would be fighting in the street. Why he couldn’t just be a bit more consistent was beyond her. Lots of coppers could be temperamental, but Inspector John Carlyle took the fucking biscuit. It was another reason why she wanted to make the move to SO15; when you were running around with a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle under your arm, you couldn’t afford to be so egotistical.
The inspector didn’t seem particularly bothered whether she left Charing Cross or not, which was just one more thing that really pissed her off. They had been working together for well over a year now and, despite his obvious shortcomings, were quite a good team. She was surprised that he appeared so insouciant about her desire to move on. Her mobile started vibrating across the desk, no number displayed on the screen. She looked at it for a moment then picked it up. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
Not having a clue who was on the other end of the line sent her to a new level of grumpiness. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me,’ the voice pleaded. ‘Sam.’ It was noisy in the background, as if the guy was calling from a pub. ‘Samuel Smallbone.’
Fuck, why did I answer the bloody phone? ‘What do you want?’
‘I was wondering,’ Smallbone said, the self-confidence draining from his voice with every word, ‘if you might fancy a drink?’
Yeah, right. ‘I’m busy.’ Roche flicked open an email from the Police Federation complaining about a leaked paper on the future of policing by the Association of Chief Police Officers. ‘We are extremely disappointed,’ said the Federation Chairman, ‘that such an important paper has been leaked into the public domain, causing much anger and distress amongst police officers.’ Yeah, right, she thought. We’re all crapping ourselves.
