by James Craig
‘He’s not a dealer,’ Carlyle snapped. Not any more.
‘He’s got a bloody big habit then,’ the constable sniggered. ‘Maybe you should get him a DRR.’
Dom’s the last person who would ever need a Drug Rehabilitation Requirement Order, Carlyle mused.
‘Or maybe just find yourself some better sources.’
Carlyle had to resist the temptation to give the little scrote a smack in the mouth. ‘What was your name again, son?’
‘Templeton.’ The scrote’s grin grew wider as he realized that he was getting under his superior’s skin. ‘Noah Templeton.’
Noah? WTF? Carlyle felt his annoyance begin to melt away. No one with a moniker like ‘Noah’ was going to be able to offer him any serious grief. He gave the youngster the gimlet eye. ‘And how did you happen to be in the Molby-Nicol Gallery this evening, Noah?’
The young man stiffened, breaking off eye contact as he stared at a poster behind Carlyle’s head advocating the merits of road safety. ‘It’s on my patch,’ he muttered, somewhat defensively.
‘But why were you on the premises?’ the inspector persisted. ‘And what gave you probable cause to investigate Mr Silver’s office?’
A constipated look passed across the young officer’s face as he tried to work out how much information he needed to divulge.
‘Well?’
‘It was a tip.’
‘A tip?’
‘You are not the only person with contacts, sir,’ the constable responded, trying to reassert some control over the conversation.
Carlyle nodded, reasonableness personified. ‘And who was the source of this tip?’
Now the constable stood properly to attention, giving him the full 1,000-yard stare. ‘I’d rather not say, sir.’
‘And I’d rather not make a formal complaint, Constable,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘You don’t want a black mark against your name at this stage of what is, no doubt, otherwise shaping up to be a very promising career.’
Muttering something incomprehensible, the constable stared at his shoes.
‘What?’
‘It was a guy called Jimmy Gallagher. He’s a local vagrant. Usually hangs around Berkeley Square and Green Park.’
Bollocks, Carlyle thought. ‘And how does Jimmy know about Silver?’
‘Dunno,’ Templeton shrugged. ‘He just does.’
‘Given you other quality tips, has he?’
‘A few.’
‘And so you took this tip from Jimmy the wino, and went off on a solo drugs bust. Who do you think you are, son, bloody Serpico?’
‘Who?’
The youngster was saved further interrogation as Dom appeared, shoving his wallet into the inside pocket of his jacket. Ignoring Templeton, he gave Carlyle a rueful shake of the head. ‘Ten minutes, eh?’
‘Stop moaning,’ Carlyle replied, embarrassed.
‘Let’s go and get a coffee,’ said Dom, heading for the exit, ‘so I can share some of that confidential information you were after.’
Ignoring the sour look on the constable’s face, Carlyle dutifully followed his CI out of the door and into the chill of the night.
EIGHTEEN
Dom skipped down the front steps of the police station, mobile clamped to his ear. Carlyle watched from a polite distance as he made a succession of calls. Taking out his own phone, the inspector checked the time and winced. Deciding it was too late to call, he sent Helen a text.
Sorry, got a problem at work. Home soon. x
The reply was gratifyingly quick.
Ok. Gone to bed. x
Happy that he wasn’t in the dog house, Carlyle waited patiently for Dom to finish his calls before leading him across the road to the Arcade Café, an all-night greasy spoon, complete with faded Art Deco interior, that somehow managed to survive in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in the city while still charging less than two quid for a cup of coffee. Given the insane level of local taxes and business rates, the inspector had long suspected that the place had to be the front for some kind of money-laundering operation. On the plus side, it served an excellent all-day breakfast.
Even at this time of night, the place was still pretty full with an eclectic crowd, ranging from taxi drivers, to late-night shoppers, to a group of young clubbers lining their stomachs before a night out. Carlyle gestured towards a free table by the far wall, under a pretty ropey oil painting of an old Routemaster bus, and they carefully manoeuvred their way towards it.
A pretty waitress appeared at their table even before they had sat down on the uncomfortable wooden seats. Dom ordered a coffee and an egg sandwich, while Carlyle made do with a green tea.
‘Helen’s still weaning you off the caffeine, eh?’ Dom was talking to Carlyle, but his eyes were on the waitress as she slalomed back behind the counter.
Carlyle shrugged. ‘I quite like it. Anyway, it’s not as if I’ve given up on coffee completely. It’s just that I’m down to a couple of cups a day or thereabouts.’
‘You always did drink too much coffee,’ Dom observed.
‘Hardly.’
‘Made you wired.’
‘Me?’
‘Jumpy.’
Carlyle put on a miffed expression. ‘I’ve always considered myself coolness personified. Anyway, there are worse things to be hooked on than the humble coffee bean.’
‘Right enough,’ Dom agreed.
Carlyle slipped off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair. The slight intoxication of earlier in the evening had been replaced by an intense sense of weariness. ‘I’m sorry about the palaver tonight.’
Dom waved the apology away. ‘It was my own stupid fault. I should have stuck the bloody stuff in a drawer. Or, at least, closed the office door.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle tried to sound sympathetic. However, the chips had settled uncomfortably in his stomach and he had to stifle an acidic belch.
Graciously, Dom ignored his comrade’s lack of table manners. ‘Thirty-odd years in the business and never arrested.’ He heaved a sigh.
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Never?’
‘Never arrested,’ Dom repeated. ‘And now this.’
The inspector suspected that there was a bit of airbrushing of history going on, but he let it drop. ‘What did you tell Eva?’
‘I said that a buyer had turned up unexpectedly, so I had to take him out to dinner.’ Dom scowled. Like Carlyle, he didn’t like lying to his wife. They were both firmly committed family men, who understood that honesty was the bedrock of a successful, long-term relationship. More to the point, the reverse could get you in far more trouble than you could ever find in a West End Central holding cell. ‘I could have gone through what happened,’ he reasoned, ‘but now is not the time. There’s a lot going on at the moment and this would only stress her out more.’
More?
‘There’s no need for that,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘No.’ Dom looked at Carlyle.
‘When you talk about her being stressed, you mean the problem with Lucio Spargo?’
Dom nodded. ‘Eva was very involved in setting up the gallery – everything from the finances through to choosing the artists we would exhibit. She even hired the girl Fiona on reception.’
Not her finest hour, Carlyle reflected.
‘She really enjoyed it,’ Dom continued. ‘Obviously, she was happy about my change of career but above all, I think it gave her something to focus on as the kids started becoming more independent. And I think she liked the fact that it was something we could do together.’
‘I’m not sure Helen and I could work together,’ Carlyle commented.
‘It isn’t like it’s a nine-to-five thing.’
‘No, but still. She’d probably kill me after about a week.’
‘You do tend to have that effect on people,’ Dom grinned.
The waitress appeared with their drinks. After placing them on the table, she gave Dom a big smile and told him, ‘Your sandwich is coming.’ Sh
e clearly wasn’t English, but Carlyle had long since given up playing the game of guess the accent. Aside from all the usual foreigners, London was chock-full of people from places you’d never even heard of. That was one of the things that made it such a great place.
‘Thanks,’ Dom smiled back. Taking a sip of his coffee, he waited for her to leave before continuing. ‘Then, one day, she was in the gallery alone when Spargo and his henchman turned up. She hasn’t been back since.’
‘They threatened her?’
‘Duh?’ Dom widened his eyes. ‘You reckon? You know, it’s amazing that they never made you Commissioner.’
Carlyle didn’t rise to the bait. ‘When was this?’
‘I dunno. About four months ago maybe – when it became clear that we wouldn’t go quietly and accept Mr Spargo’s plans for redeveloping the street.’
‘Four months ago? Bloody hell! Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
Dom picked up a sachet of sweetener between his thumb and forefinger, waving it around aimlessly before tossing it back on to the table. ‘What’s to say? I didn’t want to bring my troubles to your door.’
‘I had no compunction about bringing mine to you,’ Carlyle shot back.
‘That’s a bit different though.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, when it came to your dad, there was something specific that I could do to help.’
The inspector bridled at the suggestion that there was nothing he could do when it came to the Spargo problem. Realizing, however, that there was more than a smattering of truth to that assessment of the situation, he kept schtum.
The waitress reappeared with Dom’s sandwich. ‘Here you go,’ she said pleasantly.
‘Thanks.’ Reaching for the ketchup bottle, Dom added some sauce before taking a dainty bite and chewing vigorously. ‘Spargo’s a canny operator. The police haven’t been able to touch him.’ Taking a napkin from the dispenser, he wiped the corner of his mouth. ‘The word is that he’s got political contacts, along with some pretty senior friends on the Force.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyone we know?’
‘I didn’t get any names. The point is that Spargo knows how to play this game. He’s been doing it for decades – operating in that rather large grey area between what is legal and what can be proven to be illegal.’
‘That’s a very large area,’ Carlyle observed. ‘And a very grey one too.’
‘Quite.’
‘You, on the other hand, preferred to go straight into the black.’
Dom conceded the point with a slight lift of his chin. ‘That’s very true. Then again, making people homeless was never part of my business plan.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Not that I’m trying to claim the moral high ground.’
‘God forbid!’
‘This project on Cork Street is supposed to be Spargo’s crowning glory. A new, luxury “destination address” in the heart of Mayfair. Local businesses and long-term residents out. Absentee owners and international brand names in. No little gallery owner is going to be allowed to prevent that from happening. It’s just the way of the world. It’s odds-on that he’ll get what he wants.’
Carlyle sipped his tea. ‘So why the need for violence, or even the threat of violence?’
‘You can take the boy out of the ghetto . . . Spargo grew up on a tough estate in Elephant and Castle.’ Dom took another bite of his sandwich. ‘He was picking pockets before he was ten, robbing houses at twelve. It’s claimed that he killed a man in a dispute over money when he was seventeen.’
‘But there’s no criminal record,’ Carlyle said. ‘It sounds like an urban legend to me.’
‘Maybe so, but the man has a taste for other people’s pain, both physical and emotional. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’
Carlyle did not demur.
‘Eva described him as a torturer in a suit.’
Carlyle grimaced. ‘Did he hurt her?’
‘She says not.’
‘You think she wouldn’t tell you?’
‘She will always try to protect me,’ was Dom’s cryptic response.
‘Well,’ Carlyle let out a long sigh. ‘You know people. You could always have him taken out.’ The irony of a policeman talking like that was not lost on him. However, where family was involved, lines could be crossed. He had crossed them himself. They had crossed them together.
Dom shook his head. ‘Not worth it. Why risk everything for what is essentially a glorified hobby. Better just to walk away.’
Dismayed by his friend’s defeatist talk, Carlyle changed tack. ‘How long is your lease?’
‘There’s a little less than twenty years left to run,’ Dom told him. ‘Spargo is happy to buy me out, but the cost of finding somewhere else would be prohibitive . . . unless I run the place at a loss, which I won’t do on principle, or we move to Walthamstow or somewhere.’
Carlyle shivered at such a grim prospect. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Dunno.’ Dom finished his sandwich. ‘I can hold out for a while, but Spargo will withdraw his offer and I’ll basically be left sitting in the middle of a building site. Then, one night, the place gets robbed, or accidentally burns down . . . you know what it’s like.’
‘You have insurance,’ Carlyle pointed out, somewhat feebly.
‘Yes. But I’d effectively be out of business.’ Dom wiped his hands on another napkin. ‘Apart from anything else, what kind of artist wants to exhibit in a gallery that might get firebombed?’
‘Fair point.’
‘Anyway, that’s not what I’m really worried about. Suppose Eva or Fiona were to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ The pained expression on his face was genuine. ‘I wouldn’t want them to end up like that granny up the road.’
‘No.’ Sally-Anne Mason, aged seventy-nine, Mathias Mansions. Carlyle was surprised that he could remember the details. ‘Do you think Spargo killed her?’
‘Directly or indirectly.’
‘Either way, he got away with it.’
‘Like I said, he has some useful friends and allies.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out, but even friends in high places wouldn’t have saved him from a murder charge.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘No way.’ Although Carlyle liked to think of himself as supremely cynical when it came to all things relating to law and order, even he didn’t believe that fellow Met officers would look the other way when it came to murder.
‘Spargo knows how to get what he wants,’ Dom repeated. ‘And what he wants is me out.’ Taking a mouthful of coffee, he caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another sandwich. ‘Anyway, we’re not going to do anything about that tonight. How’s Alexander?’
‘He’s doing okay, under the circumstances. I have to say, he’s being very stoical about the whole thing. This is the kind of situation where his Calvinist fatalism really comes into its own.’
‘Good for him,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about his pain relief, by the way. It’ll be no problem to get some more. And this time, I won’t leave it lying around where the local plod can spot it.’
‘What did you make of that kid?’ Carlyle asked. ‘I got the sense that there was something off about him.’
‘I’ve seen him around a few times. Turned up just before closing and said he was investigating some local robberies.’
‘Mm. He told me that he’d had a tip-off from a local tramp that you had the stuff.’
‘He’d been tipped off, all right.’ The waitress quickly returned with a second egg sandwich. Once again, Dom added ketchup and started to nibble around the edges. ‘Your dad’s stuff was sitting on my desk in a takeaway bag. He walked right up to it and peered inside. He’s not going to get that kind of gen from some dosser though, is he?’
‘Spargo?’
Dom looked sceptical. ‘How would he know?’
‘Maybe he knows about your past
. Maybe he’s got Templeton on a retainer to help him deal with local problems.’ Carlyle knew it was thin but, as his dad liked to say, you had to speculate to accumulate.
‘A constable?’ Dom snorted. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I don’t like him,’ Carlyle announced.
‘John,’ Dom chuckled, ‘you don’t like anyone.’
‘Harsh.’
‘But fair.’
‘I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. In my experience, most people, if you give them a chance, turn out to be complete tossers.’
‘I agree with you about Templeton – he seems like an officious little prick. Don’t worry about it though. We could drive ourselves mad trying to unravel imaginary conspiracy theories. Give me a couple more days and I’ll get your dad sorted out.’
A worrying thought occurred to Carlyle. ‘How much did the stuff cost?’
Dom mentioned a figure that was rather more than the balance of the inspector’s current account.
‘Christ!’
‘Don’t worry about it; it’s my shout. More useful than getting your old man a wreath later on.’
‘No, no.’ Pushing back his chair, Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘Sit tight. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Dom grinned. ‘If you get arrested, just remember – don’t call me.’
NINETEEN
The Evidence Room in West End Central was located at one end of a long, dingy corridor on the first floor. At this time of night, the offices on either side of the hallway were empty, save for members of the cleaning crew. As Carlyle walked under the harsh strip-lighting, he listened to the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum. The only other noise came from the sound of a vacuum cleaner being operated with unnatural vigour by a tiny woman in an office that bore the title Public Liaison & Customer Complaints. As he walked past, Carlyle gave the cleaner a friendly nod. Responding in kind, she smacked the side of a desk with her machine, sending a discarded cup of coffee tumbling to the floor. Not wishing to cause any more trouble, the inspector moved swiftly on.
Reaching his destination, he contemplated the large metal door, painted in battleship grey, with the warning NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS stencilled on it in fading red letters. Next to the door was an Access Control System and, for those without the required electronic fob, a large green buzzer. Carlyle hit the buzzer with the palm of one hand, using the other to show his ID to the lens of the inevitable security camera hanging from the ceiling.
