by James Craig
‘Jesus. That sucks.’
‘It’s always the little people that suffer. The Met says it has to save another twenty per cent from its budget, due to cuts in government spending.’
Carlyle eyed the Starbucks cup enviously. ‘How do you know so much about all this?’
‘I read the memos from Simpson – unlike you, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Simpson would be in favour of all this though.’ Over the years, the inspector’s opinion of Commander Carole Simpson, his immediate boss, had changed dramatically. Whereas once he had dismissed her as a vapid careerist, he now cast her in the role of compassionate and engaged leader.
‘I’m sure the Commander is sympathetic to your point of view. But she won’t have a say in these things, any more than we have.’
‘I suppose not.’
As the conversation petered out, one of the workers started up with a drill, sending the two officers scurrying for the stairs.
EIGHT
Reaching the welcome calm of the third floor, the sergeant dumped her bag and promptly disappeared into the lift. Carlyle fired up his computer and started deleting the contents of his inbox.
After a few minutes, Roche reappeared, a mug of green tea in each hand. Placing one on Carlyle’s desk, she switched on the TV that hung from the ceiling.
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle wished it was an espresso but at least Helen would be happy with his reduced coffee intake. Taking a sip of the tea, he glanced up at the screen. As usual, it was muted, tuned to the News Channel. Slowly, he realized that it was the same story he’d seen last night: same strapline, same metal gates, just a different reporter. This time it was an earnest-looking bloke who couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two or twenty-three. The poor guy appeared cold, tired and hungry. Rather unfortunately, his ears stuck out to the extent that he looked like one of the Bash Street Kids.
A good face for radio, Carlyle mused.
‘Got much on today?’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. You?’
Roche perched on a nearby desk. ‘I’ve got to go and interview David Howard.’
The name didn’t ring any bells.
‘He’s the cyclist who was knocked off his bike and had his wallet lifted by one of the passers-by who went to help.’
‘What’s that got to do with us?’ the inspector grumbled. ‘It didn’t happen anywhere near here.’
‘He reported it here,’ Roche shrugged, ‘and no one volunteered to take it off our hands.’
Carlyle grunted. He had little sympathy for London’s cyclists. Most of them rode like lunatics. As far as he was concerned, they deserved everything they got.
‘Apparently, the Standard has made a big thing about it. He was in the paper last night, complaining that the police aren’t taking it seriously.’
‘How very kind of him. Was there much in the wallet?’
‘Fifty quid. Something like that. The usual cards and stuff.’
‘Fifty quid! Definitely worth your time and attention.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Roche sighed. As she stood up, Carlyle noticed a distinct thickening around her midriff. The sergeant had always been very lean but now there was a distinct bulge over the top of her jeans.
Catching him staring, she frowned. ‘Beginning to show, is it?’
‘What?’ Carlyle stammered, feeling himself blush.
Roche looked around, confirming that the rest of the room was deserted. ‘The baby bump.’
Baby bump. ‘You mean, you’re—’
‘Yes.’
‘But how?’
Now it was Roche’s turn to blush. ‘What do you mean, “how”? How do you think?’
‘But what I mean is . . .’ What did he mean? The inspector had no idea.
‘The time was right,’ said Roche firmly. ‘So I decided to get on with it.’
‘And the father?’ Carlyle tried to think back to the last time Roche had mentioned a boyfriend of any sort.
‘I’m going to be a single parent,’ was her rather terse comment on the matter.
‘Well, er . . . great.’
She carefully scrutinized his facial expression. ‘It’ll be tough, but I’ll be able to cope.’
‘I have no doubt,’ he said sincerely. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiled sheepishly from behind her mug.
‘When is it due?’
‘Don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘You don’t have to worry about finding a replacement for me just yet.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he fibbed.
‘I know, I know. But it is early days, so I’ll still be around for a while. I wanted you to be the first person at work to know.’
Bloody hell. ‘Well, that is fantastic. Good for you.’ Getting to his feet, the inspector gave her a brief, awkward hug.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Can I tell Helen and Alice?’
‘Of course!’
‘They’ll be chuffed too. And, of course, if there’s anything we can do to help. A friend of ours is a doctor at UCH, so—’
‘That’s very kind.’ Roche put her mug down on the desk. ‘My mum will be coming down to help, closer to the time. But at the moment, it’s business as usual.’
Yeah, right. ‘Okay.’
‘So, I’m off to do the Howard interview.’ Roche grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘See you later.’
‘Okay, see you later.’ Watching her go, Carlyle felt a stab of irritation. He had fought hard to secure Roche’s return and now she would be off again. How long would the maternity leave last? A year? Maybe longer. Maybe she would never come back. Either way, he was back to square one.
I’m the one going to be left holding the sodding baby here, he thought.
A large part of his annoyance was down to his inability to hold on to colleagues for any length of time. The inspector had to admit that his recent track record with sergeants was very poor indeed. As soon as he thought he’d got it cracked, the wheels came off.
Roche’s predecessor, the occasionally brilliant but routinely irritating Umar Sligo, was a perfect example. Umar had resigned from the Force, jumping ship before he had to face a disciplinary hearing which would have almost certainly led to him being found guilty of gross misconduct and being summarily sacked. At the time, the inspector had been happy enough to see him go. Now, he would have welcomed the stupid bugger back with open arms. That, however, was a complete non-starter. Umar would never be allowed back on The Job. Last heard of, he had been working as a ‘security adviser’ for a Sloaney pimp called Harry Cummins.
Returning to his chair, Carlyle placed his hands on his head and stared dolefully at his computer screen. He should call Simpson; the last thing he wanted to do was have to break in a new sidekick, but maybe the Commander could help him come up with someone who would be relatively low maintenance. Springing into action, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for her office in Paddington.
‘Good morning!’ The hyper-cheery voice of Simpson’s PA, Michael Hastings, almost caused him to drop the handset.
‘Michael, it’s John Carlyle in Charing Cross.’
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Good morning to you too. I was wondering if the Commander was around this morning.’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s out for the next couple of days.’
‘Okay. I’ll try her on the mobile.’
‘Her phone will be switched off,’ came the instant reply. ‘She’s on a management course.’
Carlyle’s antennae started to twitch. The Met was famous for wasting money on fatuous training sessions. What nonsense were they peddling now? ‘A course?’
‘A course,’ Michael repeated, worried now that he had already divulged too much.
‘What kind of a course?’
There was a pause. Then: ‘I don’t know.’
You’re not much of a liar, Carlyle thought. ‘Ok
ay. No problem. If you speak to her, can you let her know I was after a word?’
‘Of course,’ the boy replied, happy that he wasn’t going to be pushed any further on his boss’s whereabouts.
‘Thanks.’ Ending the call, Carlyle immediately dialled Simpson’s mobile. As Michael had predicted, the call went straight to voicemail. Hanging up without leaving a message, the inspector chortled to himself. ‘A course, eh? What nonsense have they got you on now?’ Taking a mouthful of his rapidly cooling tea, he wondered what to do next. In the absence of any pressing police work, the sensible option would be a trip to the gym. Looking down, the inspector contemplated his stomach, which was at least as large as Roche’s. How long was it since his last visit to Jubilee Hall? At least a week, probably nearer two. A thirty-minute blast on the cross trainer would do him a power of good.
On the other hand . . .
Hovering over the computer keyboard, his fingers started to type in Spargo Cork Street, and he hit Search. In an instant, a host of results appeared on the screen. At the top was a link that said Petition Westminster Council – Save Cork Street. Clicking on it, he was taken to an article entitled Art & Culture Being Strangled by Foreign Cash.
SAVE CORK STREET!
For nearly 100 years Cork Street has been recognized as one of the most important, if not the most important street in the world for art. It has launched more careers in the art world than any other street. Small independent dealers mean diversity and innovation. Cork Street is known and loved not only in Britain but internationally, and provides a major draw to London and the UK throughout the course of a year. The history and atmosphere of this street, as well as its close proximity to the Royal Academy of Arts, make this a unique place to visit for collectors, art enthusiasts, students and tourists alike.
Now, we face being thrown out of our home so that a developer can turn it into a new version of Bond Street, a characterless mix of luxury shops and office developments. Already, five galleries have been given notice to leave their premises as part of a massive redevelopment of a site that stretches right through to Old Burlington Street. And what a developer! Spargo Developments is owned and run by Lucio Spargo, a man who has always shown himself to be ruthless in dealing with anyone who gets in his way. Ask the family of Sally-Anne Mason.
Ignoring the ‘Save Cork Street’ petition, Carlyle typed in Sally-Anne Mason next to Spargo in the search engine. A couple of seconds later, he was reading a twenty-year-old article from the Daily Telegraph:
Controversial property developer Lucio Spargo was released without charge last night as police said they were closing their investigation into the death of Sally-Anne Mason. Mrs Mason, 79, was found dead in her St James’s flat three weeks ago. Police are refusing to say if they are treating the death as suspicious. The widow was the last remaining resident of Mathias Mansions who was holding out against a redevelopment of the property by Mr Spargo’s company, Spargo Developments. Mrs Mason’s family condemned the decision not to charge Mr Spargo. Helen Parsons, 52, Mrs Mason’s daughter, said: ‘My mother has been harried to her grave by greedy men, obsessed by money.’ Mr Spargo was unavailable for comment.
The piece was illustrated by a picture of the block of flats. Carlyle estimated that the location had to be little more than a two-minute walk from Dom’s gallery.
‘Haven’t moved far over the years,’ noted Carlyle. Then again, why would they? There could have been few better locations around the world to have been a property developer than smack in the centre of London.
Closing the story, the inspector delved into the PNC. The Police National Computer system was rather unwieldy at the best of times, particularly when you started looking for data that was more than a decade old. Therefore, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Spargo’s profile wasn’t on the National DNA Database, nor his prints on IDENT1, the fingerprint database. There was, however, an Arrest Summons Number, relating to an incident only eleven months earlier. The ASN had been generated by an officer in the West End Central station. Once again, Carlyle picked up the phone.
The number rang for what seemed like an eternity.
He was on the point of hanging up when a bored female voice finally answered. ‘Which station, please?’
‘Eh?’
‘You’ve reached the Control Rooms and Enquiries Department,’ said the woman, who sounded like she’d already had her quota of idiots on the line today. ‘Which police station do you want to speak to?’
Carlyle gritted his teeth. CR&ED was the Met’s outsourced call centre. Another cost-saving initiative, which meant it was now impossible just to pick up the phone and call a colleague direct.
‘Which station?’
‘West End Central,’ he said quickly, before she decided to cut him off.
‘Putting you through.’
It took the best part of another five minutes before he found the direct line he wanted. However, any hope he might have harboured that his quest was over was crushed when a recorded message kicked in: ‘You have reached the voicemail of Inspector Sarah Ward . . .’
Aaargh! Resisting the temptation to smash the handset into small pieces, Carlyle took a deep breath and then left a vaguely coherent message. That done, he jumped to his feet and headed for the exit, thinking that maybe he would go to the gym, after all.
NINE
Alison Roche watched a steady procession of kids troop through the school gates. Some of them were hand in hand, heads bowed in earnest conversation, others were focused on waving goodbye to their parent or nanny, all of them seemingly happy enough to be going to school on this grey, featureless morning. It had rained heavily overnight and Roche groaned inwardly as she stepped off the kerb, straight into a large puddle of dirty rainwater that had collected in the depression of an incipient pothole. Shaking her damp foot, she crossed the road.
An old-looking guy, wearing a tweed jacket under a garish red waterproof, greeted each of the new arrivals. One of the teachers, she assumed, or possibly the head. According to the board next to the gates, the headmaster was one Dr Alfred Byron Fry OBE. Byron! Roche wondered if he had been interviewed about the bicycle incident. There was nothing about it in the original report. Then, again, that had been a masterpiece of box-ticking brevity, little more than the victim’s statement and a crime reference number for the benefit of the insurance company.
Waving at a departing woman, the man briefly caught the sergeant’s eye. A faintly quizzical look passed across his face as he tried to place her, before he was distracted by a couple of small boys who were engaging in a spirited bout of shoving and name-calling before they made it into the classroom. By the time that had been sorted out, Roche had been forgotten. A solitary woman hovering outside a school was not going to invite much scrutiny; a man, of course, would be another story entirely. Roche grinned at the thought. In some ways, a woman’s relative invisibility was a benefit when it came to being a cop.
The sergeant’s gaze alighted on a well-dressed thirty-something blonde woman waving animatedly to a smiling girl as she skipped across the playground and disappeared inside the rather tatty-looking redbrick building. As soon as the child was inside, the woman pulled an iPhone from her bag and started tapping on the screen. Clamping the device to her ear, she began a vital conversation while marching down the street in the direction of Park Lane. That’ll be me in a few years from now, Roche thought, trying to juggle the work-life balance, keep the show on the road. Happily, it was not a daunting prospect. She had always been an organized and practical creature and was looking forward to the challenge. Schools, of course, would be a big issue. Roche wondered what kind of ranking Dr Fry’s establishment enjoyed. She made a mental note to check out its performance results online when she got home in the evening. Her child might not have been born yet but everyone knew that, when it came to securing a decent school place in London, you had to start as early as possible.
The blonde woman disappeared round the corner. The flow of new arrivals was
starting to slow now, as most of the kids were dropped off in good time. A group of boys were chasing each other in the playground, but most of the kids had gone straight inside, ahead of registration. Hovering on the kerb, Roche brought her thoughts back to the reason for her visit. Ten yards down the road was a zebra crossing. It was here that David Howard had been knocked off his bike. The cyclist had agreed to meet her at the scene to talk her through the incident and the subsequent theft of his wallet. As Carlyle – always very good value when it came to stating the bleedin’ obvious – had been quick to point out, the police investigation was little more than a PR stunt. Simpson, however, had been adamant; cyclist abuse was a hot topic and Mr Howard was keen to exploit his moment in the media spotlight. As a result, they had to show they were taking the matter extremely seriously.
Roche looked at her watch and uttered an annoyed cluck. For his part, Mr Howard was demonstrating the seriousness with which he was treating the matter by being twelve minutes late and counting. The sergeant gave her damp foot another shake. How long should she wait? If she left now, all it meant was that she would have to come back again later. The bloody public. As far as they were concerned, they paid your salary and that gave them the right to waste as much of your time as they liked.
For want of anything better to do, she pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the crossing.
‘What are you doing?’
Roche looked round.
‘What are you doing?’ This time the question was accompanied by a tug on her jacket.
Roche looked down into the face of a pretty girl, maybe five or six. In one hand was her school bag, in the other a half-eaten pain au chocolat. ‘I’m taking some pictures of the crossing,’ she explained.
The girl looked puzzled. ‘Why? It’s not very pretty.’
‘No, it’s not. But I work for the police. A man got knocked off his bike here the other day.’
‘I saw that!’ the girl said brightly.
‘Oh yes?’
