Sins of the Fathers (34 page)

Slater looked at him slyly. ‘And what might these “things” be?’

‘It has to be
completely
off the record.’ Carlyle nodded at the pad. ‘With just you and your client.’

‘Very well. Kieron, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ The associate was already out of his seat and halfway to the door. Clearly, the youngster was used to getting kicked out of meetings when they started becoming interesting.

Looking around the room, Carlyle waited for the aide to leave and the door to close behind him. ‘And you are not making any recording of this conversation?’

‘My, my, we are paranoid today, aren’t we?’ Slater licked her lips. ‘This had better be good, Inspector. But, no, for the non-existent record, there are no recordings of this conversation being made.’

‘Okay.’ He would just have to take her word for it, however uncomfortable that made him feel. He looked at each woman in turn, trying to at least give off a vague vibe that he knew what he was doing. ‘As you may know, George McQuarrie was taken into custody last night.’

‘Yes, of course we knew that,’ Slater said impatiently.

From Belekhsan, however, he began to detect the first signs of unease.

‘I expect that he will be charged in the morning.’

‘With what?’ Slater demanded.

‘With a range of things,’ Carlyle said blandly. He focused his gaze exclusively on Belekhsan who, this time, would not meet his eye. ‘I believe we have enough to link him to the shooting of Julian Schaeffer.’ It was an outright lie but he hoped that he could get them to a position where they believed it too.

Slater stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘I will be interested in seeing the evidence.’

Ignoring her, Carlyle moved on to his pitch. ‘On that basis,’ he said, ‘I can do one of two things.’ Finally, Belekhsan looked at him. ‘Either I can arrest you as well, for conspiracy to murder, in anticipation of Mr McQuarrie implicating you, which I am sure that he will do.’ There were definite signs of concern in those dark eyes now. ‘Or you can get your retaliation in first, as it were, and lay it out for me, explaining how the whole thing happened and how Mr McQuarrie was the driving force behind the shooting of your husband.’

Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms and waited for their response.

A cold wind gusted off the Thames, causing Umar to shiver. Standing amidst a group of maybe twenty yachts in the marina at St Katherine’s Docks, he looked up at Tower Bridge which had been opened to let some naval ship head further upriver. Even at this distance, he could make out the lines of traffic queuing on the south side of the bridge, and the odd, futile blast of horn made its way towards him on the wind.

The sergeant was feeling sorry for himself. Not only did he have his family problems to deal with, but the inspector had dumped the Ayumi Ninomiya case on his desk as well. With Savage still enjoying the hospitality of the Stanley Bowles Ward at UCH, Umar was left to track down the remaining sugar daddies that the girl had met through the Leafhopper website. After four hours chasing his tail, he had managed to rule out one of the three outstanding men – a banker who admitted meeting Ayumi once but then ditched her because, quote unquote, ‘her tits weren’t big enough’. Of the two that were left, one was a film financier who was apparently in Los Angeles on business. That left Ivan Borloo, a ‘green entrepreneur’, whatever that was, who ran a consultancy called NoN (Now or Never).

Umar had presented himself at NoN’s suitably fashionable Spitalfields offices to be told that Mr Borloo was rarely present. Indeed, looking across the large open-plan space that NoN rented, the sergeant counted twenty desks, all of which were empty. The only member of staff on duty – a pretty red-haired receptionist called Valerie – was more than happy to chat.

‘So where is everyone?’ Umar asked.

‘Oh,’ said Valerie, ‘the consultants aren’t tied to their desks. They spend most of their time on the road.’

‘What do they do, exactly?’

‘Not sure,’ Valerie said merrily, as if it were a feather in her cap to be oblivious to whatever it was her employer was actually selling. In her early twenties, she sounded like she was from South Africa. Under her Chipmunk T-shirt, she looked very pert indeed.

Umar found himself smiling brightly, until he remembered that he was in enough trouble already. ‘Is the business doing well?’ he asked, taking a precautionary step away from the reception desk.

Valerie looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘But Mr Borloo’s loaded, isn’t he?’

‘Oh yeah. But that’s the family money. His family made a killing in uranium mining.’

‘Nice.’

‘And now he’s trying to give something back.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘That’s why he lives on his boat.’

Obviously
.

Shivering, Umar cursed the fact that he didn’t have an overcoat. To his left, an almost empty tourist boat made sluggish progress as it headed towards Docklands and the Thames Barrier. As he walked along the jetty, reading off the names of the various boats –
Milky J
,
Bertie’s Delight
,
Lunar Lady
, a series of 30-, 40- and 60-foot single-mast yachts – he thought about Niamh’s unscheduled appearance in Seven Dials. If it wasn’t for the fact that Inspector Carlyle took such obvious delight in his discomfort – he was a bit of a bastard like that – Umar would have been worried about his charmless sister mouthing off in front of his boss. The question was, should he take her advice and go up to Manchester at the weekend? Try to sort out the situation once and for all?

When confronted with a seemingly intractable problem, Umar liked to try and break it down into manageable parts. In this case, he placed the ex-girlfriend on one side of the ledger and his parents on the other. He felt annoyed about Sandra. They had gone out together for the best part of three years. To be frank, that had been about the best part of three years longer than he had originally envisaged dating her. With the benefit of hindsight, he could see that he had left it too long to pull the plug. However, he hadn’t counted on Sandra Norris’s tenacity. He must have sat her down and told her what was happening at least four times. On each occasion, however, she would simply reappear a week later as if nothing had changed.

In the end, he had opted for a drastic course of action. One of the reasons he had come to London was to make it clear that they were over. After more than a year, Sandra continued to peddle the myth that somehow they were couple. Of course, she had a willing audience in his parents, who both thought he should have been married long ago, living in Prestbury or some other Cheshire bolthole, with a rapidly expanding brood.

Umar was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t mentioned the London wedding to his folks – hadn’t even mentioned Christina – but he knew that if he did, they would just give him endless grief. Better to present them with a fait accompli once it was all done and dusted.

He shook his head angrily. Umar liked to think that he was a fairly laid-back kind of a guy, but it irritated him beyond belief that he was unable to escape the dead hand of other people’s expectations.
Why can’t they just live their own lives
, he wondered. For a moment, he considered the scene around the dinner table if he broke the news – ‘I’m marrying my American girlfriend’ . . . no, ‘I’m marrying my
pole dancer
American girlfriend in London, who just happens to be
eight and a half months’ pregnant
.’

The thought of tossing that little hand grenade into a pot of his mother’s stew made him grin guiltily, leavening his dark mood, at least for a couple of seconds.

Maybe he could even take Christina with him.

No, no, no, don’t get too carried away
. That could cause a riot.

He was suddenly conscious of music coming from one of the boats, some kind of Techno that he didn’t recognize. Easing out of his own problems he turned his attention back to the boats –
Lucky Dollar
,
Crazy Dog
,
Anne Sinclair
. . .

Anne Sinclair
.

The music was coming from the cabin of Ivan Borloo’s boat, which was just a short distance from where he was standing. Umar tried to peer inside but it was small and dark and impossible to see who was there.

‘Hello?’ His words were carried away on the wind.

‘
Hello?
’

Still no response.

He looked down at the small platform on the back of the boat, maybe three feet from the jetty. Should he jump on? He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it. Up above, to some appreciative honks from the traffic, Tower Bridge began lowering. He was still girding his loins for the leap onto the boat when a small figure appeared from the cabin. Despite the chill, she was wearing only a pair of Guess jeans and a white cotton vest with a massive Armani Jeans logo emblazoned on the front. Standing upright, she took an extended toke on a massive joint and smiled at the sergeant.

‘Hi,’ she giggled, offering him the joint.

Umar shook his head. He had never been much of a smoker.

Suddenly feeling the cold, she shivered.

Umar gestured towards the cabin. ‘It’s freezing out here, Ayumi. Let’s go inside.’

Carlyle looked at the number on the screen of his phone – Umar. Ignoring the call, he dropped the handset back in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Abigail Slater decided that they had all sat in silence long enough. She had not even made the pretence of needing to discuss his offer with her client. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we will need some time to consider this.’

Keeping his gaze on Iris Belekhsan, Carlyle said, ‘I’m sorry. The investigation is moving along at its own pace now. The evidence will be presented to the DPP and then the matter is completely out of my hands.’ Turning back to Slater, he made a hopeless gesture with his hands. ‘And I know,’ he added, almost as if it were an afterthought, ‘that Social Services are ready to take Rebecca into care this evening if your client is arrested.’

Slater’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that a threat, Inspector?’

‘Of course not.’ Carlyle tried to look offended. ‘It is just another factor that has to be taken into consideration . . .’

‘That’s enough.’ As if waking from her stupor, Iris Belekhsan slapped a palm on the table.

‘Iris,’ Slater protested.

‘Shut up, Abigail!’ Belekhsan reared up. Carlyle smiled; he was beginning to like Iris just fine. Slater glowered at Carlyle but said nothing. ‘George will try and pin it all on me, for sure. As the inspector says, I might as well get my retaliation in first.’

The sun was shining and it was a very pleasant twenty-one degrees. The inspector had clear ideas about the optimum temperature for London living: anything below fifteen degrees was too cold; above twenty-five was too hot. This was a city built for around twenty, which it got, God knows, all too rarely. When the weather was right, however, everything else seemed to follow; tourists were less of a nuisance, waiters were friendlier, the traffic moved relatively freely – even his caseload seemed to lighten.

Today, however, there was no ‘seemed to’ about it. Sitting outside the Café Lido on Charing Cross Road only a few hours after Iris Belekhsan had comprehensively grassed up her boyfriend, Carlyle was feeling pretty pleased with himself. His main outstanding cases seemed to have sorted themselves out, which was a major result. The dramas of the last few days were drawing to a close and for once, his desk was relatively clear.

He looked over at Alice, greedily sucking on a can of Diet Coke, and said, ‘Don’t tell your mother.’ He sometimes thought that Helen was more worried about their daughter having fizzy drinks than she ever had been about her doing drugs. It was an exaggeration, but not really that much of one.

Alice nodded and continued slurping away. Half-term beckoned. The inspector wondered whether they should try to get away to Brighton for a few days. They could stay with Helen’s mother. It was a bit of a squeeze, but doable; he would have to be on his best behaviour but he was sure he could manage it for forty-eight hours or so – thirty-six at least.

Finishing his double espresso, he contemplated ordering another. But there was no point in being too wired. Maybe he should have a green tea instead. Still in two minds, he placed his demitasse on the saucer, sat back and closed his eyes, listening to the comforting hum of the city.

‘
Real men take NO for an answer.
’

‘
My dress can
’
t say yes.
’

The inspector opened his eyes as a group of maybe a hundred scantily clad women of various ages turned the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and began marching down the middle of the road, in the direction of Trafalgar Square. Traffic quickly began backing up in each direction. The inevitable cacophony of horns started up and there were a number of distinctly un-PC comments directed at the protestors from a group of teenage boys leering on the pavement.

‘
Jesus loves sluts.
’

Carlyle scanned the crowd for Electra Hutton-Sunningdale. If she was there, however, he couldn’t make her out. Scattered among the protestors were a few men, looking suitably sheepish. He caught sight of a banner that said
Sluts Pay Taxes
and laughed out loud. Alice shot him a look.

‘Shouldn’t you do something?’ She seemed embarrassed by the whole thing.

‘Me?’

‘Aren’t they breaking the law, marching down the street like that?’

Carlyle shrugged. He couldn’t give a monkey’s. Personally speaking, he was quite happy for women to parade in the middle of the street in their smalls as often as they liked.

‘It’s, like, the second one they’ve done this week.’

‘I’m not a traffic cop,’ said Carlyle grumpily, signalling to the waiter for another espresso. The crowd was now passing the café. A large blonde woman in a pink bra and lime-green lycra cycling shorts stepped over to their table and handed Alice a leaflet.

‘Thank you,’ said Alice, suddenly English politeness personified.

‘Why don’t you come and join us?’ The woman glared at Carlyle as she made the invitation.