Sins of the Fathers (2 page)

Almost twenty years younger than the inspector, Umar could still, just about, claim to be in his prime. With an Irish father and a Pakistani mother, he was living, breathing proof of the benefits of the multicultural society. He had arrived at Charing Cross via Kassim Darwish Grammar School for Boys (‘
the true measure of a good education is to explore the limitations of your knowledge
’) and a first-class degree from the University of Manchester in Politics and Criminology. A successful spell in the Greater Manchester Police saw him become a sergeant when he had just turned twenty-three.

Umar had arrived in London a little over a year ago. At the time, Carlyle was on a dismal run, having just lost his second sergeant in quick succession. To lose a third would have been deemed more than careless, so he had made an effort to keep hold of Master Sligo, even when the young man repeatedly had seemed more interested in chasing WPCs than chasing criminals.

Just why Umar had decided to up sticks and move to the capital had never become clear. The inspector, who, perversely, lacked the basic curiosity of your average person, had made no effort to find out. Having grown accustomed to working with him, Carlyle was comfortable enough with the younger man. He considered their relationship as ‘okay’, no more than that.

‘Boss.’ Umar waved his notebook by way of greeting.

‘Sergeant.’

‘Not a great start to the day.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘ ’specially not when it’s supposed to be my day off.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’ Carlyle nodded towards the rather pathetic-looking white tent, about thirty yards off to his left, which denoted the crime scene. ‘Who’s the victim?’

‘A guy called . . .’ Umar glanced at his notebook ‘Julian Schaeffer. He was here with his daughter, Rebecca. Apparently they came here quite often. A couple of the mums knew the kid from parties and things.’

Carlyle’s heart sank.

‘She’s fine,’ Umar said hastily. ‘Well, I mean she wasn’t injured or anything. She didn’t see the actual shooting, as far as we can tell. Which is a mercy.’

A very small mercy, Carlyle thought.

‘We haven’t tried to interview her yet. A doctor is checking her out and one of the PCSOs is looking after her.’

Carlyle sucked in a breath. He had a low opinion of Community Support Officers – ‘plastic policemen’ as they were known – but looking after a child for an hour or so should be just about do-able. ‘Where is she?’

‘Over there.’ Umar pointed at a series of illuminated windows off to his right. ‘In the nursery.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle knew he would have to speak to the child and he was already dreading it. In a situation like this, dealing with adults was bad enough. ‘They’re also sending a child psychologist.’

‘Good.’ He would wait until the shrink arrived before launching into an interview. ‘What else have we got?’

‘The whole thing has caused quite a commotion.’ The sergeant gestured over his shoulder towards a group of twenty or so women and children. They were huddled on the far side of the park, around the tiny café, as far from the tent as possible. A trio of female uniforms went between them, taking statements.

‘Obviously.’ Carlyle sighed heavily. ‘A hit man walks into a playground and shoots a bloke reading his paper while his daughter plays nearby. I can see how that might cause a bit of upset among the yummy mummies and their little ones.’

‘Not many yummy mummies round here,’ Umar observed sadly. Carlyle glared at him. ‘We’ve conducted the initial canvass,’ he added, clearing his throat.

‘And?’ Carlyle never ceased to be amazed how quickly the sergeant could completely exhaust his reserves of patience before the day had even started in earnest.

‘They all want to go home.’

‘Apart from that?’

‘It would appear that no one saw anything.’

Carlyle let out a frustrated yelp. ‘But the guy was shot three times.’

‘A couple of people heard what, presumably, were the shots, but they just thought it was a car backfiring. How many people would know the difference? Anyway, it’s probably just as well. If anyone had noticed what was going on and tried to intervene, they might have been killed as well.’

‘Fair point,’ Carlyle conceded. ‘What about CCTV?’

Umar shook his head. ‘The space doesn’t really lend itself to it.’

Must be the only space in London that doesn’t
, Carlyle observed. He pointed at a tall building towering over the park, a block to the west. ‘What about them?’

Umar looked round. ‘I don’t see why they’d be filming a playground, but we can ask.’

‘You know the drill. We need to check any cameras from the surrounding blocks that might show the guy entering or exiting.’ A thought struck him. ‘By the way, how did he get in?’

Umar scratched his ear. ‘Through the gate, I suppose.’

‘I thought only adults with kids were allowed in? Presumably he didn’t bring a child along to facilitate the hit.’

‘It’s not exactly tight security. The place relies on volunteers. There doesn’t seem to have been someone on the gate this morning. Anyone could just walk in.’

Carlyle nodded. Now that he thought about it, he could not recall ever being challenged when he’d come into the park, even if he was alone and Alice was already playing inside. ‘So, in the absence of witnesses, CCTV or anything else, what
do
we have?’

‘The victim was found by a boy called . . .’ Umar glanced at his notes then closed the book and stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans, ‘Harry Scott. Aged six. Young Harry saw that the guy had dropped his paper and went to retrieve it for him. When he approached the bench, he got a bit of a shock.’

‘I bet he did.’ Carlyle idly wondered if someone might be on the end of a compensation claim as a result of young Harry’s trauma. Deciding that, even if the youngster’s parents did turn litigious, he personally would be in the clear, he let the question slip from his mind.

‘Even then, it took them a few minutes to find out what he was screaming about. They thought he’d had a fall or something.’

‘Kids do a lot of screaming,’ Carlyle said sagely, ‘as you are about to find out.’

Looking glum, Umar nodded. His girlfriend, Christina, was due to give birth to their first child in a few weeks’ time. ‘Actually . . .’

‘Yes?’ Carlyle watched a couple of young boys arrive at the front gate. The taller had a football under his arm. One of the uniforms stopped them. There was a brief protest from the boy with the ball before they headed off towards the public gardens next door. It wasn’t as good as Coram’s but it would do for their kickabout.

‘We wanted to ask you a favour.’ Umar stared off somewhere beyond Carlyle’s left shoulder.

Let me guess
, Carlyle thought sourly,
you’re going to leave me in the lurch by taking a monster holiday
. The government had just brought in new legislation allowing fathers to take up to twenty-six weeks’ extra paternity leave. Half the coppers in the Met were probably desperately trying to get their old lady up the duff as a result. He tried not to scowl. ‘Sure.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Depending on what it is, obviously,’ Carlyle added hastily.

‘Yes.’

‘I mean, if I can.’

‘Would you be my best man?’ Umar blurted out.

This time the inspector did scowl. ‘What?’

‘Christina and I are getting married next week.’ Umar gestured past a couple of goats in the direction of St Pancras station. ‘Just up at Camden Town Hall. Nothing fancy but we need a couple of witnesses. I wondered if you and Mrs Carlyle would be prepared to do the honours?’

Mrs Carlyle? For a second, the inspector was stumped. Technically, there was no ‘Mrs Carlyle’. After their nuptials, Helen had kept her own name, mainly as a matter of principle but also as a partial hedge against him turning out to be a totally hopeless husband.

‘We need two witnesses,’ Umar repeated, ‘to sign the register.’

Carlyle looked his sergeant up and down suspiciously. Him and Helen? The only guests at the wedding? What about family and friends? Casual acquaintances? Passers-by, even?

‘You know this is supposed to be a celebration, don’t you?’

‘We just want to get married with a minimum of fuss.’

‘Well,’ the inspector observed, ‘you’re certainly going the right way about it.’

Carlyle had first come across Christina O’Brien during a police raid on Everton’s, a strip club located on a grubby side street near Holborn tube station, in search of illegal immigrants. Taking offence at having her work schedule interrupted, the American pole dancer had become an instant legend by battering an innocent constable senseless with a monster dildo, while wearing not a single stitch of clothing. The assault, captured for posterity by a police cameraman, was well on the way to becoming an Internet sensation, having been viewed more than 900,000 times before some killjoy Met lawyers managed to execute a series of takedown notices, depriving future generations of the chance to see Christina in action.

As far as Carlyle could recall, no illegal immigrants were arrested in the operation. For the feisty Ms O’Brien, however, assaulting a police officer brought not only the threat of arrest, but also of deportation back home to the United States. Not wishing to return to the land of the free and the home of the brave, Christina had offered Carlyle ‘a freebie’ in one of the Charing Cross interrogation rooms in exchange for help to get the charges against her dropped. Always one to resist temptation, the inspector had declined, keeping the matter to himself. He had never told Helen; it wasn’t the kind of thing you recounted as an amusing anecdote when you got home.

In the event, the charges were dropped without the need for any bartering of services. A combination of a smart lawyer and the embarrassment of the Metropolitan Police at one of its officers being beaten up by a naked Amazon meant that Christina was quickly released and allowed to stay in the country. Soon thereafter she hooked up with an understandably smitten Umar, gave up the stripping for a job in PR and got up the duff. Not necessarily in that order.

Not knowing how to respond to this most unexpected of invitations, Carlyle looked around the empty playground. ‘Coram’s Fields will be handy when you’ve got the kid,’ he mused. ‘It’s a good place. Apart from the odd shooting, of course,’ he added.

‘It’s too far away. We’re living up in Archway.’

Unlucky
, Carlyle thought. With the best will in the world, Archway was a soul-destroying dump. ‘You can always get the bus,’ he ventured.

‘Maybe.’ Umar’s expression suggested he was contemplating the loss of his Sunday mornings for the next ten years or more.

‘Worth keeping in mind.’

‘True. Anyway, we’ve got to get married first.’

‘Indeed.’

‘It’s just going to be a very small thing. A quick ceremony, sign the register, a couple of photographs and then maybe we could have some lunch. I thought we could go to the Champagne Bar at St Pancras.’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle had no idea what to say. The poor bugger must be desperate to be asking him to be his best man. Not to mention the fact that the reception was going to be held in a train station. ‘When is it?’

Umar gave him the date. ‘We need to be at the Town Hall at eleven.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle scratched his head.

‘You’ll do it?’ A look of relief and gratitude spread across Umar’s face.

‘Um . . .’ Then:
Don’t be such a git
, the inspector told himself sharply.
The kid is getting married; it’s a big deal. Be a supportive colleague for once in your life.
‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll talk to Helen.’

‘Great.’ Umar smiled nervously.

‘And congratulations to both of you.’ He tried to think what Helen would say in a situation like this. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Just one thing.’

‘What?’

‘When it comes to Helen, don’t call her Mrs Carlyle. It’s Helen Kennedy. She didn’t change her name when we got married and getting it wrong wouldn’t go down well.’

‘Good tip,’ Umar grinned.

‘She didn’t say anything about obeying me either,’ Carlyle grumbled. ‘Something to do with “the vicious hegemony of the patriarchy” and the “terrible shortcomings of the antediluvian wedding vows”.’ Still listening to similar complaints thirty years later, he could recount Helen’s charge sheet verbatim.

Umar’s grin grew wider. ‘I don’t blame her.’

Carlyle shot him a look.

‘Sorry,’ the youger man apologized. ‘I just didn’t think anyone said “obey” these days.’

‘No. Back then refusing to say it was a bit more of a statement.’

‘Christina is going to change her name, though.’

Bad move
,
Carlyle thought.
If you get a divorce, she’ll just have to change it back again
.
Why bother with all the hassle?
Trying to shake all the negative thoughts from his head, he thrust out a hand. ‘Well done.’

Umar shook it warmly. ‘Thanks.’

‘I hope it all goes well.’

‘I’m sure it will.’

You never know
, Carlyle thought,
maybe it just will
. Giving Umar a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he began walking towards the small group of parents and children congregated by the café. ‘C’mon,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let me buy you a cup of tea to celebrate.’

Before he could reach the café, however, a familiar figure appeared from inside the tent and beckoned him over. Desperately needing an injection of caffeine, Carlyle tried to ignore the signals until Umar, bringing up the rear, gave him a tap on the shoulder.

‘Boss, I think they need you over there.’

Muttering to himself, Carlyle reluctantly changed course. As he approached the tent, a smiling Susan Phillips held up a small clear plastic evidence bag containing a wallet and a watch. Under a transparent plastic body suit, he could see that she was wearing a pair of worn jeans and a Cure T-shirt. By the pathologist’s usual standards, it was a very casual ensemble.

Perhaps I wasn’t the only one on a day off
, Carlyle mused.

‘I know you don’t like the sight of blood,’ she smiled mischievously, ‘so I thought I’d bring these out for you.’