by Craig, James
Simpson looked at him carefully. ‘Not if you didn’t beat up your suspect, no.’
FORTY-SIX
Purring with delight, Christian Holyrod fell back onto the bed and gazed up at the ceiling. The Royal Suite of the Savoy was very much to his taste. One of the great London landmarks, a hundred-million-pound restoration of the Edwardian and Art Deco hotel provided him with an oasis of elegance and glamour that was truly worthy of his new paramour. Unzipping his trousers, he pulled out his flaccid penis and began masturbating lazily.
A look of disgust flashed across Abigail Slater’s face. ‘You never stop, do you? Put that bloody thing away!’
Holyrod forced himself upright. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, dick still in hand.
‘I want a drink.’
‘Fine.’ If Holyrod felt rather miffed by her attitude, it didn’t seem to bother his cock, which was now almost good to go. He gestured towards the mini-bar. ‘Help yourself. But I’ve only got half an hour.’
Turning away from him, Slater grabbed a couple of miniatures of Smirnoff Black and dumped the contents into a 50ml glass. Throwing back her head, she downed the contents in a single gulp.
‘Feel better now?’ Holyrod asked hopefully.
Looking at him in the mirror on the wall above the mini-bar, she shook her head. ‘I just don’t feel in the mood.’
Holyrod began to soften. ‘What?’ he said, a hint of desperation entering his voice. ‘Not even a quick blowjob?’
With no more vodka on hand, Slater started on the Gordon’s. ‘You didn’t sort out the policeman,’ she said abruptly.
‘For God’s sake!’ Holyrod threw himself back onto the bed in exasperation. ‘I’m the fucking Mayor!’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t go round interfering with police investigations just because . . . because . . .’
‘Because I’m a good shag?’ said Slater angrily, attacking the gin with gusto.
‘Hah!’ Holyrod laughed. ‘I’ve had better,’ he said meanly, immediately regretting the lie.
‘Fuck you!’ Slater screamed, hurling the now empty glass at his head. Taking evasive action, he fell off the bed just as the tumbler smashed against the headboard.
Lying on the carpet, he listened to her storm out of the suite. ‘That went well,’ he said to himself, as the door clicked shut. Slowly, he got to his feet. Tucking himself back into his trousers, he opened the minibar to see what was left to drink.
Tomorrow is the day, Carlyle thought nervously, as he gazed at Helen sitting on the sofa, concentrating on her Sudoku puzzle. Either we get the all clear, breathe a sigh of relief and get on with our lives or . . . not.
If it turned out that Helen didn’t have the faulty BRCA2 gene, Carlyle knew that, for him at least, the whole thing would be ancient history in a matter of days.
On the other hand, if she did have it, he would plough on trying to fight the problem head on.
But what if they fought and lost?
Looking up from the paper, Helen caught him staring. ‘Stop spying on me,’ she ordered. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’
‘N-no, of course not,’ he stammered, embarrassed. He pointed at her empty mug on the coffee table. ‘Want some more tea?’
She shook her head. ‘For God’s sake, John! Just leave me in peace. Go to bed . . . or go and find something to do.’
Without another word, he padded into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, he checked out the back cover of the latest Commissario Brunetti novel, which he had been saving for a moment when he could give it the attention that it deserved. The prospect of a couple of hours in Venice before bed filled him with some kind of happiness, and he managed a half-smile as he placed the book on the worktop and pulled a bag of green tea from the box on top of the microwave. Dropping the bag into a chipped Fulham FC mug, a Christmas present from his daughter several years earlier, he added boiling water. Just as he was removing the bag, his phone started ringing. Tossing the bag into the sink, he pulled the handset out of his pocket.
‘Carlyle.’
‘John, it’s Rose Scripps.’ The background traffic noise told him that she was out on the street.
‘Hi.’
‘Apologies for calling you so late.’
‘No problem.’ Carlyle took a sip of his scalding tea and winced. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m at the church. McGowan’s on the roof. He’s threatening to jump.’
Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Nice one. If he doesn’t bottle it, see if you can record the action on your mobile for me. Make sure you get a nice close-up of the mess on the road.’
‘I’m serious,’ Rose said sternly.
‘So am I.’
‘Look, you have to get down here.’
Carlyle slurped his tea noisily. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Inspector, we have a very serious situation here. The man says he is going to kill himself and he is demanding to speak to you.’
Carlyle let out a deep breath. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘Commander Simpson is on her way. And I’ve already seen that lawyer woman skulking about.’
‘Fine,’ said Carlyle huffily. ‘I’ll be there to see the whole damn freakshow in person. See if you can keep him from taking a dive for the next ten minutes or so. If I’m coming down, I don’t want to miss the action.’ Ending the call, he leaned back against the sink while he finished the last of his tea. Placing the mug next to the used tea bag, he glanced over at his book. ‘Looks like Venice will have to wait,’ he mumbled to himself, as he headed off to explain to Helen where he was going.
The slate roof of St Boniface’s fell away steeply to a lead-lined gutter about ten inches wide. Between the gutter and the edge of the building was a stone parapet about a foot high and the same again wide. Illuminated by spotlights that had been part of the church’s earlier refurbishment works, McGowan stood swaying on the parapet, at a point just below the spire. Just looking at him made Carlyle, who had no head for heights whatsoever, feel physically sick.
‘How did he get up there?’ Simpson asked.
‘You can access the roof via a skylight on the other side.’ Rose Scripps pointed at a figure crouching in the gutter at the other end of the roof. ‘That’s how our negotiator got up there.’
Carlyle looked around at the assembled circus: three police vans, two ambulances, two television trucks, a dozen or so uniforms and a growing crowd of gawkers. ‘Who is it?’
‘He’s called Angel,’ Rose said. ‘Sergeant Fletcher Angel. A very experienced guy, apparently.’
‘You can’t go wrong with an Angel,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Okay, I think,’ said Rose. ‘It’s hard to communicate with McGowan because he won’t let anyone get too close and he doesn’t have a mobile or anything,’
‘Well, at least he hasn’t jumped,’ said Simpson.
At that moment, there was an incomprehensible cry from up above. The crowd gasped as all eyes turned to the heavens. For a moment, McGowan seemed to teeter on the edge before stepping off the parapet back into the gutter.
‘Not yet, anyway,’ said Rose.
Carlyle gestured at Abigail Slater, pacing up and down behind the police cordon, talking animatedly into a mobile phone. ‘The best result would be if he did jump and landed on his bitch of a lawyer.’
Simpson and Scripps both shot him disgusted looks.
‘Hey,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘you can’t blame a boy for dreaming, can you? It would solve the problem of my hearing.’
Simpson gestured to the heavens with her chin. ‘Are you going up?’
‘Looks like it. Do we know what has prompted this little drama?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I asked the lawyer but she said she didn’t know. I’m sure she’s lying but there’s nothing I can do about that.’
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, reluctantly deciding to bite the bullet. ‘Wish me luck.’
Not waiting for a response, he strode off
in the direction of the church.
What was it Roche had told him? You need to put your chimp back in the box. The chimp theory might be bullshit, but if there was ever a time to give it a go, this was it. Now was not the time to get carried away with emotion, unless you wanted to risk crashing to your death. Taking a couple of slow, deep breaths, he closed his eyes and imagined locking away his inner primate. Putting the key safely in his pocket, he opened his eyes and blinked twice.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’ With his heart hammering inside his chest, the inspector stepped out onto the roof. Almost immediately, he was hit by a gust of wind that caused him to sway alarmingly. At least, for once, he had dressed for the occasion. Zipping his Berghaus Parka all the way up to his chin, he edged his way round the side of the building to where the police negotiator was crouched in the gutter.
‘Angel?’ Perching on the inside edge of the parapet, his feet firmly planted in the gutter, Carlyle shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘I’m John Carlyle.’ He nodded at the figure of McGowan, who was twenty yards away. ‘He asked for me?’
‘Yeah,’ Angel said.
‘And it’s safe for me to go along there?’ Carlyle asked, praying that the answer would be ‘no’.
‘Yeah,’ Angel grinned. ‘Just stay in the gutter, take it nice and slow – and don’t look down.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Carlyle grimly. Immediately disobeying and looking down, he was suddenly struck by just how much he liked the feeling of firm ground under his feet.
‘Good luck,’ Angel smiled.
‘Thanks.’ Another gust of wind cut through them and Carlyle was sure that, at any second, he was about to meet his Maker.
‘If he decides he wants to come down,’ Angel said, apparently unperturbed, ‘we’ve got a cherry-picker on the way. If you’re worried about being stuck, just sit tight.’ With his back against the roof, he manoeuvred past Carlyle, leaving the inspector free to continue on his journey.
‘Will do.’ Shuffling along on his haunches, with one hand on the parapet and another on the roof proper, Carlyle slowly made his way towards the priest. After five minutes, he had gone about halfway but McGowan, in his suicidal funk, showed no sign of acknowledging his presence. A thought suddenly hit him: what if Helen and Alice were watching this live on TV, right now? Unable to resist another peek down, he could clearly make out the lights of the TV camera pointed in his direction. The sheer bloody stupidity of what he was doing almost overwhelmed him and he stopped to fight for a few breaths before continuing on his way.
‘Stop! Don’t come any closer!’
Less than five feet from McGowan, Carlyle did what he was told. For a few moments the two men eyed each other warily. McGowan’s eyes were bloodshot and wild. At his feet was an almost empty bottle of Famous Grouse whisky. Not my first choice for a final tipple, thought Carlyle, but what the hell. ‘It’s fucking freezing up here,’ he shouted, gesturing at the scotch. ‘Can I have some?’
McGowan looked down at the bottle as if he’d never seen it before and kicked it in Carlyle’s direction. It came to rest against the parapet a foot away. Slowly, keeping his eyes on McGowan, Carlyle moved towards the bottle. Picking it up, he wedged himself into the gutter, with his back against the parapet, unscrewed the top and took a long mouthful.
‘Thanks,’ he sighed, and McGowan nodded.
Carlyle offered him the bottle back but the priest shook his head. Carlyle put the cap back on and placed the Famous Grouse upright in the gutter between them. The whisky was already having the desired effect, putting some warmth in his belly and taking the edge off his fear. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’
Taking a couple of steps closer, McGowan sat down tentatively on the parapet. There was now only a couple of feet between the two men. The priest went to say something, but all that came out was a loud burp. He held out a hand. ‘Pardon me.’
A bit late for manners, Carlyle thought, already eyeing the rest of the Famous Grouse. He turned his head towards the roof. The folks down on the ground wouldn’t be able to hear him, but he didn’t want any lipreading going on either. ‘What do you want, Francis?’
‘You have ruined me!’ the priest lamented.
‘Me?’ This time Carlyle did grab the bottle.
‘They are sending me away.’
I bloody hope so, Carlyle thought. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he shrugged. Another long swig left the Famous Grouse almost finished. No point in leaving such a small amount, he mused, sucking down the remainder greedily.
‘It was you,’ McGowan groaned. ‘You chased me down; you tried to kill me.’
Carlyle thought about throwing the bottle at one of the TV crews below, but commonsense prevailed. Tossing it back into the gutter, he wiped his eyes and yawned.
‘You wanted me dead,’ the priest repeated.
Yes, I did, Carlyle thought. The parapet was cutting into the small of his back, forcing him to shift position. He looked searchingly at McGowan. ‘And what about Simon Murphy? Who killed him, you old bastard?’
The priest looked at him blankly.
Carlyle sighed. ‘Let’s get down from here.’
McGowan gestured out into the illuminated night and the crowd below. ‘You have to admit your l-lies,’ he stammered.
‘What lies?’ Carlyle snorted.
‘You have to tell them I am innocent.’
‘But you’re not innocent.’ Carlyle could feel his mobile buzzing in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. ‘You’re as guilty as sin.’
‘I’ll jump!’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’
‘You must repent.’
‘Fuck off,’ Carlyle said angrily. ‘Look, either you jump or we get down from here right now.’ A thought popped into his head. ‘Anyway, I believed that taking your own life was a sin.’
‘It is,’ McGowan panted. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Well then,’ said Carlyle, wondering if he should maybe try and brain the crazy old bastard with the bottle, ‘that’s this little problem sorted. Let’s go and get another drink.’
Half-standing, McGowan looked as if he was going to lunge at Carlyle. ‘You . . . must . . . repent.’
Oh fuck, Carlyle thought, what do I do now? Trying to wedge himself as deeply as possible into the gutter, he grimaced as the priest took a step towards him then side-stepped off the parapet and into thin air. His brain flipped between a freeze-frame image of McGowan there and one of McGowan gone. Even as the screams reached him from down below, he wasn’t sure which picture was real.
The view from the gutter was not great. No London landmarks were visible; all you could make out was the light pollution from dozens of office buildings and hundreds of streetlights. But the polluted orange glow was at least the polluted orange glow of home and he was a man – a rather pissed man – at peace with his surroundings. After an indeterminate amount of time he became aware of a mechanical noise coming from somewhere below him. Shortly afterwards, a man’s head appeared beyond the parapet. Carlyle did a double-take before he realized it was the smiling face of the cherry-picker operator, come to rescue him.
‘Inspector?’
Carlyle nodded.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ the man said cheerily. ‘We’ll have you back down on the ground in no time.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’
After manoeuvring the small platform into place, the man opened a small gate and helped him to clamber on board. Holding onto the railings for dear life, Carlyle concentrated on breathing deeply while studying the cityscape in the middle distance to avoid looking down.
‘A word to the wise, sir,’ the operator said as they approached the ground.
‘What’s that?’ asked Carlyle, cheered by the realization that he probably was going to make it back down alive. Below them, he could see McGowan’s body being loaded into an ambulance which then began slowly moving away down the street. As it did so, he caught a glimpse of Slater stealing away into the night.
‘Oh fuck.’
‘I think I heard her say something about you “not answering your bloody phone”.’
‘Mm.’ Looking down, it didn’t take him long to pick out his wife and daughter. Alice waved at him cheerily and he almost felt like crying with gratitude. Helen’s expression, however, was a different matter entirely.
FORTY-SEVEN
‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Pushing her way past Simpson and Rose Scripps, Helen rammed an angry index finger into his chest. Carlyle reached over to give her a hug, but she brushed him away. ‘You stupid bloody bastard!’ she shouted, almost sobbing with rage, pointing to the skies. ‘What the fuck were you doing up there?’
Alice appeared at her mother’s side, giggling. Helen was not given to such foul-mouthed tirades and her daughter couldn’t help but be amused. ‘Dad!’ she shouted. ‘You were on the telly!’
The adrenaline was rapidly wearing off and Carlyle felt weary to his bones. ‘Let’s talk about it on the way home,’ he said, bending down to kiss his daughter.
Stepping closer, Helen sniffed him theatrically. ‘Have you been drinking?’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Not here. I’m fine. Everything else we can talk about in private. Let’s go home.’ He glanced over at Simpson, who nodded her agreement. ‘See?’ he grinned. ‘You can’t get this kind of excitement in Canada.’
Simpson laughed. ‘I’m on the first flight out of Heathrow tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Taking Alice’s hand, Carlyle forced a reluctant Helen to take his arm. Together, the three of them marched through the police cordon and off into the London night.
As he approached the front desk the next morning, Carlyle saw Roche engaged in an argument with a scruffy-looking kid. Nodding at his sergeant, Carlyle approached warily. ‘Everything okay?’
‘I want my money!’ said the boy, stamping his foot in a way that made Carlyle want to laugh.
‘Inspector,’ said a weary-sounding Roche, ‘this is Sam Smallbone. He wants to claim a reward for information provided regarding the St James’s Diamonds robbery.’
