by James Craig
‘I need some travel expenses.’ Isaacs mentioned a figure.
Durkan nodded. ‘There’s just one other thing.’ He quickly ran through the highlights of his earlier meeting with Bob Biswas.
‘You’ll have to sort that out yourself,’ was Isaacs’ cool response.
‘Story of my life.’
This time Isaacs did smile. ‘But you know people,’ he said quietly, ‘so it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Oh no,’ Durkan said hastily. ‘No problem at all.’
‘Good. I’ll call you later when the Carson thing’s done.’ Isaacs got to his feet. ‘Stay close to your phone. This can’t be allowed to drag on.’
Not waiting for a reply, Isaacs walked briskly away. There was work to be done and no time to waste. One way or another, he had every intention of being on a flight out of the country within the next seventy-two hours. The basic question remained, however: where precisely should he go?
THIRTY
‘Mum!’
Sitting in the shade of her eucalyptus tree, Becky Carson looked up from her copy of More! magazine and squinted at her daughter.
With a scowl on her face that made her look about three years old, Lucinda walked towards her, arm outstretched, mobile phone in hand. ‘It’s Dad. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Jumping up from her chair, Becky chucked the magazine aside and snatched the handset, sticking it to her ear. ‘What are you doing, calling here?’ she screeched. ‘The bloody police could be back at any minute.’
Not wanting to be party to yet another parental row, Lucinda retreated inside the house.
‘Don’t start,’ Carson shot back. ‘I called on Lucinda’s phone, didn’t I? No one will be listening in to that.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Becky muttered. ‘Anyway, make it short.’
‘I’m okay,’ he told her. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘Good,’ Becky said grudgingly, her mind starting to focus on what she needed to get out of this conversation.
‘I’ll have to lie low for a bit though.’
Yeah, for something like thirty years at least. Walking over to the swimming pool, Becky felt sun-warmed paving stones on the soles of her feet. ‘You can’t come here.’ Extending a leg, she dipped a toe in the water.
‘I know that,’ Carson snapped. ‘I’m not stupid.’
That’s a matter of opinion.
‘What I’m gonna do is—’
‘Andy! Not over the sodding phone.’
‘Yeah, well, you know the place we used to go to, before the kids were born?’
Adjusting her bikini top with her free hand, Becky frowned. ‘Which one?’
‘It was when I had that old Escort. The green one with the racing stripes.’
‘The one that got nicked?’
‘Yeah. Remember when we used to go off in the Escort, in the days before I joined up?’
It took a few moments longer but, finally, she recalled the cottage on Mersea Island where they had gone for their summer holidays. She had gotten pregnant with Liam there, the first time Andy had refused to use a condom. By the time the boy was born, they were married, Andy had joined the Army and she was effectively starting a twenty-year stretch as a single mother.
Happy memories.
‘Oh, yeah, right, I remember.’
‘I’ve fixed it and I’m gonna lie low there for a while,’ he told her. ‘It’ll be nice and quiet. I think I might do some fishing.’
Yeah, Becky thought sourly, a nice little holiday on the run.
‘I’ll give you a shout when I’ve planned my next move.’
‘What next move?’
‘Like, where I’ll go next.’
Becky felt a monster headache coming on. ‘Okay.’
There was an awkward pause while he digested the obvious lack of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘We’re gonna be fine, girl, we really are. And guess what? I’ve only gone and played a blinder.’
‘Good.’ The pain behind her eyes was growing. Becky didn’t know whether she wanted to cry or to puke. ‘I’m glad.’
‘I’ll call you soon.’
‘Okay.’
‘Give the kids a kiss from me.’
‘Will do.’
‘I love you.’
‘Mm.’
‘Becks?’
‘I love you too.’
It wasn’t much of a declaration but he knew that it was all he was going to get. ‘Okay, well, bye then.’
‘Bye.’ Bending down, Becky placed the phone carefully by the side of the pool. Taking off her sunglasses, she folded them and placed them next to the phone. Stifling a sob, she took a deep breath and did a forward roll into the water, diving down towards the bottom in the hope that her problems would somehow be gone by the time she resurfaced.
‘This is my day off, you know. What do you want?’ Sitting in the middle of a busy café near Victoria bus station, Noah Templeton bit his lower lip as he eyed the FitzGibbbon’s bag lying on the table between them. When the inspector offered up nothing more than an innocent smile, the young officer leaned forward and hissed, ‘And if that’s what I think it is, what the fuck is it doing here?’
‘I’m giving it back to you.’
‘Eh?’ Templeton scratched at his chest through his T-shirt as he scowled at the drawing of the Aberdeen Angus cattle on the bag. It looked as if he had just rolled out of bed to make their appointment. His face was puffy, his eyes unfocused and there was a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. The gash on his forehead – caused by the run-in with the flower box – was still clearly visible. Although it appeared to be healing nicely, the wound looked like it would leave a scar.
That would not necessarily be a bad thing, Carlyle thought – give the boy’s face some much-needed character.
‘Take it.’
A look of panic descended on Templeton’s face as he scanned the other tables, in search of someone waiting to pounce and arrest him. ‘Is this a set-up?’
‘Not at all. All I want you to do is to deliver the stuff you stole from West End Central to Lucio Spargo, as per your original plan. Nothing could be more simple.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ Templeton huffed.
The smile disappeared from Carlyle’s face. ‘Don’t fuck me around, sonny,’ he warned. ‘I have more than enough to bury you.’ He was about to launch into more detail when a waitress appeared at the table, shutting him up. She was a wrinkled fifty-something with shocking purple hair and a Siouxsie & the Banshees T-shirt. As she lifted Carlyle’s empty demitasse from the table, the inspector caught a flash of untrimmed armpit hair and winced. Unconcerned at his discomfort, she shot him an enquiring look. ‘Want another one, love?’
‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ Carlyle tried his best to smile.
The woman turned to the young constable, who was keeping a firm hand on his empty Coke can. ‘I’m fine too.’
Clearly not happy with the pair of squatters at her table, the waitress pointed at the paper bag. ‘You want me to take that away?’
‘No, no,’ they chorused.
Her eyes narrowed as she inspected Carlyle. ‘You can’t eat that in here, you know. Only food bought on the premises can be consumed at the tables. There’s a sign by the front door.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Otherwise I’ll have to charge you for it.’
‘It’s not food.’
The waitress made a half-hearted attempt to peer inside before being called over to a nearby table by a well-dressed woman.
‘If only she knew,’ Templeton said grimly.
‘I want you to do it today,’ said Carlyle, quickly returning to the order of business.
‘I’ve got plans,’ the boy said unconvincingly.
‘Fuck your plans. If you want to still be in a job by the end of the day, make sure that the gear is in Spargo’s office by six at the latest.’
‘What if he’s not around? He
quite often likes to ride along with Montrose on his rounds.’
‘Montrose?’
‘Peter Montrose,’ Templeton explained, ‘the American heavy. Was in the Special Forces, or something like that. So he says anyway.’
A thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘He’s not armed, is he?’
‘Hardly,’ Templeton sneered. ‘That would be way over the top. The guy just has to walk into a room and most people are shitting themselves. Mr Spargo’s not stupid, he knows that the prospect of serious injury is as effective as actual bodily harm, ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time.’
Mr Spargo. ‘You think he’s a genius, eh?’
‘Not necessarily a genius,’ Templeton said, ‘just successful.’
‘Does your mum know you work for him?’
‘No, and she doesn’t need to know, right? She thinks it’s great that I’m a policeman. There’s no need for her to know about any of this.’
‘Why did you hook up with him?’
‘He asked me. I bumped into him in a pub not long after I’d started at Savile Row. Had a bit of a chat. He said he’d had no one as good working for him since my dad died, but maybe I could do a few things for him here and there. Freelance stuff.’
‘Freelance,’ Carlyle repeated heavily.
‘Why not?’ Templeton shrugged. ‘The money’s good.’
‘I bet it is, when you’re selling drugs.’ Carlyle gestured towards the bag. ‘How much will he give you for that?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how much he gets for it, obviously,’ said the boy, narked at such a stupid question.
‘Who does he sell it to?’
Templeton shook his head. ‘Not my area. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Not really his area either, is it? I mean, he’s supposed to be a property developer.’
‘Mr Spargo likes to dabble. He sees himself as a bit of a wheeler-dealer. Easy cash is always welcome.’
Another question popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘How did you know the stuff was there?’
‘It was just luck. I have what Mr Spargo calls a “watching brief”; keeping an eye on the local gallery owners.’ He smiled proudly. ‘If I see something I think we can use, I have discretion to act on it. That’s basically what happened in this case.’
‘So you see yourself as working for Spargo first and the Met second?’ Carlyle began to wonder if the boy had any future on the Force at all. ‘Isn’t that the wrong way round?’
Templeton thought about it for several moments. ‘I work for myself,’ he said finally, ‘first, second and always.’ Pleased with the answer, he sat back in his chair.
‘Even if that means fitting up innocent businessmen?’
‘From what I hear about your mate Mr Silver,’ Templeton leered, ‘he’s hardly an innocent businessman.’
‘He’s not my mate.’ Over the hum of the traffic outside, Carlyle fancied he heard a cock crowing in the distance.
His denial brought a snort of derision. ‘Bollocks. I asked around. You two are famous among the old-timers.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘You were cops together, years ago. He went off to become a drugs dealer and you watched his back.’ The grin on Templeton’s ugly mug grew so wide it looked like it was going to split his face in two. ‘How much does he pay you, then? I bet you’re far more bent than I am.’
The next thing Carlyle knew, he was on his feet, a hand round the youngster’s throat. He squeezed hard, until Templeton’s smirk was replaced by a look of genuine concern. ‘I have never taken a fucking penny piece, from Dominic Silver or anyone else – understand, you little shit?’
Templeton held up both hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay,’ he croaked, his face beginning to turn puce. ‘My mistake.’
‘Too fucking right.’ Looking round the café, Carlyle realized that 90 per cent of the other patrons were staring at him. As his rage lifted, he released his grip and slowly dropped back into his seat.
With a frown on her face and the bill in her hand, the purple-haired waitress made her way quickly over to their table.
‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘if you don’t want anything else, I think it is time for you to leave.’ Slapping their bill on the table, she bent down and picked up the FitzGibbbon’s bag which had fallen on to the floor in the kerfuffle, along with Templeton’s Coke can. Placing the bag back on the table, she crushed the empty can in her hand. ‘Pay at the till. And if there’s any more trouble, I’ll call the police.’
‘Sorry,’ Carlyle muttered as she stalked off.
The boy gingerly massaged his throat as his face slowly returned to something approaching a more normal colour. ‘You wanker,’ he muttered, sotto voce, so that the waitress did not hear their continuing argument. ‘Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you.’
Ignoring the youthful bravado, Carlyle inspected his fingerprints, which were still clearly visible on the boy’s throat. ‘Just because you happen to have crossed the line, don’t assume that the same applies to other people.’
‘What fucking line?’
Not interested in an ethics debate, the inspector waved away the question. ‘Deliver the stuff to Spargo by six o’clock at the latest. As soon as it’s done, let me know.’
‘And what happens then?’
‘You just go about your business. If you can reinvent yourself as an ordinary copper, you won’t get any more hassle from me.’
‘What about Mr Spargo?’
Carlyle sighed. ‘You just have to walk away from him, Noah.’
‘What if he shops me?’
What is this? Twenty fucking Questions? ‘Don’t worry about that. I will deal with Spargo. There will be no comeback to you.’
‘I’m not letting you set me up.’
‘I am not setting you up,’ Carlyle said impatiently.
‘Fuck off. Do it yourself.’
‘Listen, you little wanker. Maybe you don’t care about getting kicked off the Force but that’ll just be the start.’
‘Bollocks.’
Carlyle folded his arms. It was time to play his Joker. ‘Nice little council flat your mum has.’ He gestured towards the street outside. ‘How many bedrooms does it have?’
Templeton frowned. ‘Three. Why?’
‘Because, since they changed the law, that’s two more than she’s entitled to have.’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘Don’t you read the papers?’ Carlyle immediately realized that it was a stupid question. ‘The government introduced a law limiting the number of bedrooms you can have in your council house, or flat. If you have too many bedrooms, you have to move.’ It was a rather simplified version of the situation, but close enough. ‘Anyway, I checked with the council; the bedroom tax people haven’t got round to reviewing Blefuscu Gardens Estate yet. They might never get round to it. On the other hand, if someone was to make Darbourne House a priority case . . .’
‘You sneaky bastard fucker.’
‘I can imagine that would be very tough on your mum.’ He would never dream of shopping the poor woman to the bedroom tax fascists, but the boy didn’t know that, and leverage was leverage. ‘On the other hand, I’m sure that there’s a nice family of refugees from Romania or Somalia or somewhere that are in real need of it.’
‘But it’s our home,’ Templeton wailed.
‘Says who?’ Carlyle happily turned the knife. ‘Is it really right for you and your mum to he hogging that property?’
‘We’re not hogging anything.’
‘It’s all about priorities. Put yourself in the position of some poor, overworked Housing Officer from the council,’ Carlyle smirked. ‘They have to manage all these competing demands.
It will be a total nightmare, worrying about making the right decisions, especially with property prices being what they are. It must be worth a bomb, your place.’
‘The one downstairs recently went for £860,000. It’s smaller though.’ Th
e boy looked like he was about to cry. He glanced at the bag containing the drugs, reviewing his options. ‘Mum always said that Dad should have tried to buy it when he had the chance. Can’t afford it now.’
‘Come on, Noah,’ Carlyle said gently. ‘Fair’s fair. The way to look at it is that you’ve had a good run. Been in the place a long time. It’s time for someone else to use it. You just have to move on. Funnily enough, I have a good contact in the Housing Department. I can have a word with her and, with a bit of luck, we can get your mum relocated to a cosy little one-bedroom place. You won’t have any of this uncertainty hanging over you any more.’ He paused. ‘Of course, the new place won’t be in Central London.’
Noah stifled a sob. ‘She ain’t moving to Enfield or nowhere like that.’
Carlyle said sadly, ‘I was thinking somewhere more like Hull. Or maybe Middlesbrough.’
The boy couldn’t have looked any more horrified if he had mentioned Warsaw. Or Mogadishu. ‘You wouldn’t . . .’
‘ ’Fraid so,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘In a heartbeat. So don’t fuck me around, Noah. Go and see Spargo, give him the stuff, and call me when it’s done.’ Getting to his feet, he gestured at the small slip of paper next to the bag as he moved towards the door. ‘And make sure you leave a big tip when you pay the bill.’
THIRTY-ONE
Back at Charing Cross, Carlyle purchased two green teas and a couple of Mars Bars from the canteen and headed up to the third floor. Approaching Roche’s desk, he put the paper cups down next to her keyboard, along with one of the chocolate bars.
‘About time,’ Roche said, not looking up from her screen. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages.’
‘I brought you a tea,’ Carlyle pointed out, as if that would be enough to keep him in the clear. ‘And a Mars Bar.’ Ripping the wrapper off his own bar, he took a large bite and began chewing voraciously.
‘God!’ Roche exclaimed. ‘Keep that damn thing away from me. If I eat any more bloody chocolate I’m gonna explode.’
Perching on the edge of the next desk, Carlyle looked her over, trying not to be too obvious about it. She looked pretty much like the same old Roche to him. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t necessarily have pegged her as pregnant. ‘You’re looking good,’ he offered.
