A Man of Sorrows (31 page)

Crossley angrily scribbled a note on an A5 pad on the table in front of him and looked up. ‘What precisely is your advice, Mr Mayor?’

‘Just drop the legal action. We will cancel the hearing,’ Dugdale made to protest but Holyrod cut him off with a wave of his hand, ‘and we will sit on this McGowan thing until after the visit is over.’

‘Will McGowan be released?’ Wagner asked.

‘He is already out on bail,’ said Slater. ‘He has been charged with sexually assaulting a minor and is due to report back to Holborn police station at the end of the week.’

‘We will get that pushed back for at least seven days,’ Holyrod said.

Wagner gazed out of the window. ‘Can’t you just get it dropped?’

Dugdale looked at the Mayor. ‘No,’ said Holyrod firmly. ‘The matter is far too serious.’

‘I think,’ said Crossley, ‘that the situation has to be dealt with in the proper manner, both in terms of Father McGowan and in terms of your officer.’ He gestured at Slater. ‘We have taken the necessary legal advice and we have every confidence in the CLN to handle this matter properly. Now, as you know, we still have a huge amount of work to do ahead of the visit. We cannot waste any more time on this unfortunate distraction.’ Getting to his feet, he handed his notepad to Wagner. ‘Now, you will have to forgive us, but we have work to do.’

Without getting up, Holyrod watched them leave, swiftly followed by Katya reappearing with a tray of outsized coffees. ‘What happened?’ she asked, handing Holyrod his Venti Caramel Macchiato.

Rising from her chair, Slater smiled grimly as she loaded papers into her bag. ‘Your boss just got told where to get off.’ She nodded at Dugdale. ‘I will see you at the Carlyle hearing tomorrow, Commander.’

Dugdale grunted as he grabbed one of the coffees.

‘It looks as if,’ said Slater airily, heading for the door, ‘that will be the last chance for you guys to avoid getting your arses sued off.’

The inspector let his gaze wander from the body covered with a plastic sheet up to the picture on the wall. The young Katrin Lagerbäck looked down, uncomprehending, on the dead Katrin Lagerbäck. Noticing a small amount of blood-splatter on the bottom left-hand corner of the photo, he idly wondered what would happen to it now. Probably, it would end up in the trash, which would be a shame.

‘Don’t forget it’s a Helmut Newton,’ said Roche, appearing at his shoulder. ‘It’s probably worth thousands.’

‘What?’

‘The portrait.’ She pointed with a latex-sheathed finger, ‘It will make some money for the estate.’

‘Practical as always,’ Carlyle observed. ‘Does she have any next-of-kin?’

‘Parents, maybe?’ Roche shrugged. ‘As far as I know, she wasn’t married. Certainly no kids. Not that kind of girl.’

‘No,’ Carlyle said. ‘I suppose not.’

Roche nodded at a badly dressed man, about Carlyle’s age, talking on a mobile in a low voice. ‘That’s Chief Inspector Arbuthnot.’

Carlyle checked the guy out. ‘Haven’t come across him before.’

‘
Archibald
Arbuthnot. Archie to his friends.’

‘That won’t include me.’

‘No, I guess not. Anyway, this is his investigation. He’ll want to talk to you about the background to what happened.’

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle wearily.

‘I’ve already talked him through what we were up to,’ Roche said, ‘so he’s up to speed.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So,’ she went on, ‘unless you’ve got other plans for me, I’m gonna head back to Charing Cross. I thought I could chase up some of the loose ends on the Roger Leyne investigation.’

I
’
d forgotten all about that
, Carlyle realized. ‘Good idea.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be a lot to go on.’

‘No.’

‘Maybe we should do a proper case review.’

‘Makes sense. I’ll see you there. We can have a catch-up.’

She grinned. ‘I hear that you managed to catch McGowan with his trousers down.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’

‘Will it affect the hearing?’

‘Nah. I wouldn’t have thought so. Dugdale’s out to get me. If that means protecting a child-abusing pervert along the way – hey, that’s a small price to pay.’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ Roche said kindly. Then: ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Okay.’ As Roche disappeared through the door, it came to him that he had forgotten to ask her about SO15. If the transfer was still on, he needed to start thinking about a replacement – assuming he still had a job, that is. Dying for a coffee, he hopped from foot to foot while he waited for Arbuthnot to finish his phone conversation before stepping up to introduce himself.

‘Carlyle.’

Tall, thin and balding, Chief Inspector Archie Arbuthnot had the air of a man who was easily inconvenienced by things like dead bodies. ‘Ah yes. I’ve spoken to your sergeant.’ He smiled lecherously. ‘She’s an impressive woman.’

You mean she’s got a nice arse
, Carlyle thought. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘She was explaining to me about the St James’s Diamonds situation. Do you think that had anything to do with this?’ Arbuthnot gestured towards the body and Carlyle shuddered as his usual squeamishness came to the fore. ‘Presumably the two things are interrelated.’

‘It seems a perfectly reasonable assumption,’ said Carlyle, ‘but we don’t have any evidence of that, so far.’

‘I will need to see your files,’ Arbuthnot said next.

Carlyle nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Is there anything else you think might be useful for me to know?’

‘Nothing immediately comes to mind.’ Carlyle tried to look thoughtful.

Arbuthnot pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. ‘Well, call me if you can think of anything.’

‘I will.’ Carlyle held the card carefully between his thumb and his index finger. ‘We’ll speak soon.’ With one last glance at Katrin Lagerbäck’s body, he made for the door.

Head down, deep in thought, the inspector dived into the constant chaos of Piccadilly. He had barely put one foot on the pavement, when he walked straight into someone coming the other way. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, barely breaking his stride.

‘John! I was just coming to find you.’

Slamming on the brakes, Carlyle finally looked up and did a double-take. The woman in front of him looked tanned, relaxed and ten years younger than he remembered. In jeans, a white blouse and a fawn jacket, Carole Simpson looked more like a Euro-Sloane tourist than a police officer heading for the scene of the crime.

‘Commander!’ he explained. ‘You’re looking good.’

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ replied Simpson.

Carlyle held his hands from his sides and shrugged. ‘It seems like it’s been a long day already.’ He gestured towards the lobby of the HDK office building. ‘The body’s upstairs.’

‘I’m not here for that,’ Simpson told him. ‘I’m here to see you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ she said, surprising him by taking his arm. ‘Let’s go and get a coffee.’

By the time they’d reached the relative calm of Lansdowne Row, a couple of blocks to the north, Simpson had explained that she was in London for a few days’ catch-up with family matters and to spend some time with her new boyfriend. Carlyle hadn’t been aware that she had resumed dating since the death of her husband, but didn’t pry. In turn, he filled her in on selected developments at home, giving her a quick run-through of the problems with Alice, while steering clear of Helen’s medical issues. Although their relationship had become a lot closer in recent years, he still didn’t feel the need to share everything.

It was a mild morning, so they took a table on the street outside the Nightingale café, Carlyle ordering a green tea while Simpson went for a black Americano. ‘Are you coming back?’ Carlyle asked, having run out of small talk, as they waited for their drinks to arrive.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said immediately. ‘My life is in London – and I miss it. But the secondment has been interesting. And it’s got a few months still to run.’

‘Okay.’

‘How are you getting on with Dugdale?’

Carlyle let out a long breath. ‘Fine. He’s a time-serving drunk bastard on the way out who wants to get me sacked. What’s not to like?’

The waitress arrived and placed their drinks on the table. Simpson nodded her thanks, waiting for her to retreat from their table before continuing. ‘I hear you’ve been getting into trouble again.’

Carlyle took the tea bag from the cup and placed it on his saucer. ‘So that’s why you’re here?’

‘I took a call from Ambrose Watson last week.’ She waited for the look of exasperation to finish spreading across Carlyle’s face. ‘He’s a good guy.’

Carlyle daintily sipped his tea. ‘I know.’ It was true. By now he had featured in an unfortunate number of investigations involving the fat IIC man, and it would have been more than churlish not to recognize Ambrose’s efforts to try and help him out of several tricky situations.

‘Ambrose suggested that it might be a good idea for me to look you up if I was in London. He explained the situation with the priest.’

‘McGowan is a nasty individual. We caught him with his trousers down, literally, a couple of days ago.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ Simpson retorted, ‘but the IIC hearing is still going ahead.’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dugdale wants me out – no pension, no nothing. He blames me for getting kicked out of SO15, and this is payback.’

‘He didn’t get kicked out of SO15,’ Simpson corrected him.

‘He got kicked sideways, whatever. No offence, but I’m sure he would still be rather running round after terrorists than keeping your seat warm for you.’

‘Yes, well.’

‘And, realistically, what chance has he got of ever getting back to Counter Terrorism Command?’

Playing with her cup, Simpson said nothing.

‘He’s a waste of space,’ Carlyle continued. ‘But he’s not going to be able to kick me out. My Federation rep is very relaxed.’

‘Perhaps,’ Simpson acknowledged. ‘But it’s not
his
job on the line.’

‘Fair point,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but my sergeant and I are consistent in what we’re saying and there are no other witnesses. Plus, a doctor looked McGowan over and gave him the all clear.’

Simpson gave him a careful look but said nothing.

‘It’ll be fine.’ Carlyle took another mouthful of tea. ‘Anyway, with the redundancy terms on offer, I might want to walk anyway.’

Simpson watched a thin man struggling to return one of the Mayor’s rent-by-the-hour bikes to its docking station. ‘I’m not sure I believe that.’

‘I’ve talked to Helen about it,’ Carlyle divulged. ‘The numbers just about add up.’

Leaning across the table, Simpson pointed a crooked index finger at him. ‘John Carlyle, do not try and kid me. There is bugger all chance of you walking away from the job before you have to.’

‘Maybe,’ said Carlyle, staring vacantly into the middle distance.

‘I recall you saying something similar to me when Joshua died and I was thinking of packing it in.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were right,’ she said briskly. ‘I didn’t mean it then, just like you don’t mean it now.’ Reaching into her bag, Simpson pulled out her purse, signalling to the waitress for the bill. ‘Both of us will be dragged out, kicking and screaming, at the latest possible opportunity.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ he conceded.

The waitress appeared and Simpson handed her a ten-pound note, waving away the change. ‘One of the things you do realize, though,’ she sighed, ‘when you are away, is just how bloody expensive this place is.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Even with a strong Canadian dollar,’ Simpson mused, ‘the cost of living is so much cheaper over there.’

Grunting, Carlyle got to his feet. Currency movements were not his strong point. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

‘My pleasure.’ Simpson gestured north. ‘I’m heading up to Oxford Street, so I’ll leave you here. But I thought I might come to the hearing tomorrow, just to observe.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘That would be great,’ he said finally. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘Good.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

‘Yes. See you tomorrow.’ Feeling rather happier about things than he had for a while, the inspector watched her cross the road and disappear into Curzon Street.

Walking along Pall Mall, in no hurry to get back to the station, he felt his mobile go off in his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen but answered it anyway.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector,’ the voice on the other end of the line sounded tired and distant, ‘this is Sally Jones.’

On the far side of the road, a workman helpfully started up with a pneumatic drill. ‘Who?’ he shouted.

‘Sally Jones,’ the woman said patiently. ‘You rang me about Roger Leyne.’

Shit! He’d forgotten all about wife number two. ‘Ah y-yes,’ he stammered, ‘sorry. Thank you for calling me back. I’m investigating your husband’s – sorry, your
ex
-husband’s – death.’

‘Yes,’ Sally Jones replied, waiting for him to tell her something that she didn’t already know.

Carlyle began jogging down the road, trying to get as far away from the man with the drill as possible. ‘I was wondering,’ he wheezed, ‘if I could come and see you.’

There was a pause.
It
’
s not a bloody question
,
madam
, he thought, irritated.

‘I think,’ she said finally, ‘that would be a good idea.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ said Sally Jones. ‘You see, I think I know who might have killed Roger.’

FORTY-ONE

‘Hey, stranger.’ Marcello looked up from the Gaggia and grinned. ‘You’ve been avoiding us!’

Entering the empty café, Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Nah,’ he said, injecting some weariness into his voice for effect, ‘just busy.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Marcello sarcastically. ‘I hear you’ve been going to the Box café, the other side of the piazza.’

Christ
, thought Carlyle as he slipped into the back booth,
how did you know about that?
‘I’ve been going there for years,’ he said somewhat defensively. ‘It’s near the station.’