Sins of the Fathers (28 page)

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure. Look, we’re having a reception at the gallery in a couple of weeks for a new opening.’

‘Yes?’ Carlyle couldn’t manage to sound even remotely interested.

‘Yes. It’s a new Max Slater installation called
Taking on the House
. It’s about how we disseminate and deconstruct pre-digital cultural paraphernalia in the post-digital age.’

Post
-digital?
Where? What? When?
The inspector himself was still struggling into the digital age and wasn’t too thrilled about it.

‘Why don’t you come along? Bring Helen and Alice. Eva and the kids will be here.’

‘Sounds good. I’ll definitely try.’

‘Okay. I’ll get Eva to give Helen a call. Just try to avoid getting beaten up by George McQuarrie in the meantime. I’ll see you at the reception then.’

‘Great.’ Ending the call, Carlyle wondered about Dom’s new career in the art world. If he was finally going legitimate, the inspector could surely put up with listening to a whole new lexicon of bullshit. Maybe their relationship – which went all the way back to the early 1980s – would survive, after all. The thought made him feel glad.

Having set Sergeant Savage the task of tracking down the guys on Ivor Jenkinson’s list, Carlyle found Umar in the basement of the station, picking over a plate of lasagne in the canteen.

‘How’s it going?’ Carlyle placed a can of Coke on the table and pulled out a chair. By way of response, Umar shovelled a massive forkful of pasta into his mouth. ‘Still not getting any sleep, eh?’ Chewing thoughtfully, Umar nodded. Carlyle pulled the ring on his can and waited for him to swallow.

‘Not a bloody wink.’ Umar stabbed his fork into the remains of the lasagne. ‘Can’t remember the last time I got laid either,’ he said dolefully.

Welcome to the real world.

The young man shook his head sadly. ‘It’s got to have been a week, at least.’ Another slab of lasagne disappeared into his mouth. ‘I have made some progress with regard to Julian Schaeffer, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ Umar wiped a piece of tomato sauce from his mouth with a napkin. ‘He wasn’t exactly Parent of the Year.’

Picking up his Coke, Carlyle tilted back his head and emptied the can down his throat.

‘He wasn’t making child support payments, even though his wife had threatened him with the MPA.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Carlyle grunted. The Maintenance Protection Agency was supposed to chase absent fathers for their payments. Billions of pounds in debt, with a massive backlog of unprocessed cases, it had long since become a national joke. The money it brought in was almost matched by its insane running costs. The Government was always being urged to dissolve the MPA and transfer its responsibilities to HM Revenue and Customs. His stomach started to rumble. He realized that he really should have gone for the apple pie. Then he had an epiphany – he
would
go for the pie. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet.

Umar waved his fork in Carlyle’s direction. ‘And he had been arrested.’

The inspector sat back down. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Well,’ Umar dropped the fork back on to the plate, ‘in the last year, his wife has rung the police three times to complain about his allegedly threatening behaviour.’

Carlyle nodded. They should have picked up on this earlier but he let it slide.

‘The third time, he was arrested outside the family flat and taken to West End Central. In the end, no charges were made.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘but they were still getting on well enough to share looking after the girl.’

‘Only after Westminster Social Services had done an investigation,’ Umar pointed out.

‘Which concluded what?’

‘Nothing in particular.’

‘Big surprise,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘It’s almost always impossible to get to the bottom of what happens behind closed doors.’

‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed. Both men knew that trying to deal with domestic arguments was a nightmare. When trust and goodwill went out of the window any concern with truth went with it. ‘But when it comes to Rebecca, I get the impression it was more a case of pass the parcel than anything else.’

‘Poor kid.’ Carlyle told himself he should give the girl’s grandfather, or step-grandfather or whatever he was, a call. Ironically, Ronald Connolly was the only one who seemed to give a damn about the kid. He stared morosely into his cup. ‘Doesn’t get us much closer to why anyone would want to shoot the father, though, does it?’

‘No.’

‘Next steps – we need to speak to George McQuarrie.’ Carlyle mentioned the name of the restaurant that Dominic Silver had given him. ‘Find out about his relationship with Iris Belekhsan. Had he met Julian Schaeffer? What did he think of him?’

‘Who he thinks might have offed him?’

‘Exactly. Savage is upstairs checking some other stuff for me. Take him with you.’

‘Surely I can manage that on my own?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Carlyle wagged an admonishing finger at his sergeant. ‘This guy is a brute. His father – Arthur – was a well-known Soho bookie and property developer thirty odd years ago. He was famous for – allegedly – having three guys tortured and shot in a basement in Windmill Street. Never convicted, of course; apart from anything else. the bodies were never found. George had the public school education and the posh vowels, but that was never going to be enough to override his dad’s DNA. Sadly for Georgie boy, though, he’s not as smart as his dad. He’s been sent down twice, for Assault and Actual Bodily Harm. He’s a big bastard too, so take some support. I would come along but I need to check on the Paul Fassbender situation.’

Lifting his mug, Umar took a mouthful of tea. ‘Angie was telling me about that. Sounds like a right blast from the past.’

‘Yeah. It’s a strange one.’

‘Some vigilante pensioner.’

‘Daniel Sands is just an old bloke who wants justice for his child. Any half-decent parent would feel the same.’ Carlyle waved his index finger at the sergeant. ‘Just you wait till Christina drops that sprog, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. The minute you hold that baby, it will hit you like a bolt of fucking lightning.’ He let out a long breath. ‘Until then, it’s impossible to understand.’

‘Sounds like you support the guy.’

Carlyle got to his feet and stretched out his arms. ‘And why shouldn’t I?’

Back upstairs, Angie Middleton was perusing the latest copy of some celebrity magazine. Another minor member of the royal family was getting married and the world was supposed to stop turning so that everyone could fall to their knees and tug their forelock. Carlyle smacked the back of the mag with his hand.

‘Why do you read that stuff?’ he asked.

‘Because I like it,’ she grinned, not looking up. ‘Not all of us around here are stuck-up London liberals, you know.’

The inspector laughed out loud. ‘You know, that might be the nicest thing that anyone in the Met has ever said to me.’

‘Get over yourself.’ Middleton turned a page. ‘Commander Simpson is looking for you, by the way.’

‘Isn’t she always?’ Carlyle quipped. ‘I’ll give her a call later on.’

‘No need.’ The voice was accompanied by a gloved hand descending on his shoulder.

Middleton quickly shoved her reading material underneath the desk as the inspector wheeled round to greet his boss.

‘Commander.’

The look in Carole Simpson’s eyes suggested a headmaster who’d just caught the boy who was responsible for the graffiti in the school toilets. ‘Come with me,’ she said firmly, striding off down the corridor. Carlyle exchanged a joky
Oh shit
glance with Middleton, who shrugged apologetically before quickly returning to her reading.

Simpson had already reached the stairs. ‘Hurry up.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Carlyle. Giving a mock salute, he jogged after her.

Keeping up a more than brisk pace, the Commander led him to the first floor. When she stopped abruptly in a corridor lined by meeting rooms, the inspector almost ran into the back of her.

‘Sorry.’

Turning, Simpson smiled.

At least she’s in a good mood
, Carlyle thought, grateful for small mercies.

‘Now, John,’ she said, standing close to him, keeping her voice low, ‘I am having a good day today.’

Where the hell was she going with this, Carlyle wondered. Not happy with having his personal space invaded, he stared at his shoes. They were badly scuffed. Had he ever polished them? he asked himself. Probably not.

‘People are doing what they are told.’

‘Er, good.’

‘For a start, I told Dino that I was leaving him,’ there was more than a trace of relish in her voice, ‘and that the wedding was off.’

Poor old Dino
, Carlyle thought.
He’s probably getting over the disappointment by banging a couple of lithe bimbos as we speak.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing.’ Suppressing a grin, he looked up. ‘I’m glad you were able to sort things out, one way or another.’

‘The point is, he took it without complaint and did what he was told without protest.’

She’d lost him again. Carlyle reverted to a thoughtful nod.

Raising her index finger, Simpson pointed down the corridor, to the second door on the left. ‘So when we go in there, I want you to do the same.’

Carlyle scrunched up his face in confusion. ‘You’re dumping me?’

‘If only I could,’ Simpson sighed. She pointed again at the door. ‘No. We are going in there and I am going to tell you what to do and you are going to smile, say, “Yes, Commander”, walk back out of the room and execute my orders with immediate effect.’

‘Execute your orders?’

Simpson nodded.

‘With immediate effect?’

‘Yes. Do you think you can get your head round that?’

Carlyle scratched his chin. ‘I suppose so,’ he tutted, ‘at least on a theoretical kind of basis.’

‘John.’ Simpson took half a step backwards as if she was getting ready to punch his lights out.

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘No, no. I get it.’ He set off down the corridor. ‘Let’s give it a go. After all, there’s a first time for everything.’

Opening the door, he let Simpson enter before stepping inside behind her. The room was small, almost completely filled by the rectangular table in the middle which had three chairs along each side. The chairs on the near side were empty. The chairs on the far side were filled by Paul Fassbender, his lawyer, Sidney Hardy, and a fierce-looking woman of late middle-age in a classic Chanel suit. On the table in front of Fassbender was a crisp new German passport. Simpson stayed on her feet, so Carlyle also stood, hands behind his back, eyeing each of the trio in turn. The looks he received from them suggested that they would happily have had him disembowelled on the spot.

Just as well that life is not a popularity contest, he thought.

Simpson cleared her throat. ‘I think that you gentlemen both know the inspector,’ she said, her tone brisk and businesslike. Fassbender and Hardy nodded and the Commander gestured to the woman.

On reflection, he thought that she looked a bit like Coco – circa 1965 – but maybe that was just the suit.

‘Inspector, this is Nathalie Kelvin QC.’

Now it was Carlyle’s turn to nod brusquely. Hardy started to say something but Simpson quickly cut across him. ‘I have reviewed the situation here,’ she said, rushing her words in a way that told him she was nervous, ‘both the original case history and the events of the last few days.’ She nodded at Fassbender. ‘Once again, I can only express our sympathy for your most unfortunate ordeal.’

Harrumphing, the doctor folded his arms.

‘I can assure you,’ Simpson continued, ‘that we will make all reasonable efforts to bring those responsible to justice.’

‘You know who is responsible,’ Fassbender protested. ‘You know where he lives. Why hasn’t he been arrested yet?’

‘I have applied for an arrest warrant for Mr Sands. It should be ready by the time we finish here.’

Pushing back his shoulders, Carlyle stared at a spot on the ceiling.

‘The inspector will go directly from this meeting to execute that warrant and bring Mr Sands to the station for questioning.’

‘I’m afraid,’ Nathalie Kelvin sighed, ‘we have no confidence in the inspector’s ability to perform his duties in a professional and rigorous manner.’

‘We?’ Narrowing his eyes, Carlyle gave her a hard stare. ‘In precisely what capacity are you present?’

‘She is an interested observer whom we are happy to accommodate,’ Simpson hissed. She looked along the faces on the other side of the table. ‘And the inspector here is one of my very best men.’

Pardon?
Carlyle tried not to look surprised at this rare endorsement.

‘Indeed, he is one of the most successful officers in this Force.’

Steady on.

‘Plus, he has extensive experience of the background to this case.’ She turned to Carlyle and smiled. ‘Are you ready to collect Mr Sands?’

Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘Yes, Commander.’

Was it his imagination or did a look of surprise ghost over Simpson’s face as he delivered his lines?

She cleared her throat. ‘Good. Bring him back here as quickly as possible.’

‘Yes, Commander.’ He had to resist the urge to salute. Simpson shot him a look that said
Don
’
t overdo it.

Ignoring the hostile looks coming from the other side of the table, he turned and opened the door.

‘Oh, Inspector?’

‘Yes?’ He half turned to see a look on Nathalie Kelvin’s face that would curdle milk.

‘If – ever again – you try to feed my name to the newspapers, I will have your guts for garters. And the rest of you for medical research.’

Thanks a million, Brian Sutherland
, the inspector thought angrily. Ignoring the grimace on Simpson’s face, he ducked out of the door and fled down the corridor.

Carefully pouring the last of the wine into her glass, the large man on the opposite side of the table arched his eyebrows enquiringly. Haley Devlin blushed violently. ‘For God’s sake, George,’ she whispered, ‘I’m not giving you a hand job. No way.’