Sins of the Fathers (4 page)

The man smiled. ‘That is a hypothetical question. How can I answer that?’ He gave Daniel a gentle pat on the arm. ‘We approached you, remember?’

‘That’s right.’ Daniel remembered when a man very much like the one now sitting next to him had arrived at the door of his Notting Hill townhouse. It was late one night and the air was fresh following a recent thunderstorm. The man was a ‘friend of a friend’ – he gave Daniel the name of a mutual acquaintance – and he claimed that he represented a group of men who had been moved by Daniel’s plight. They could help resolve the problem that had been eating away at him for years. They wanted to help.

The two men had talked late into the night yet, at the end of it all, nothing about the man or his group had been explained. It seemed that they were a band of brothers – mercenaries? vigilantes? – who existed only in the shadows. No proof was offered that they could do what Daniel required.

As he was leaving, Daniel’s mysterious guest handed him a scrap of paper containing the number for a mobile phone. Daniel had initially been sceptical. The whole thing sounded like a scam. Still, he had spoken to his acquaintance and taken up references he had been given and made a few enquiries of his own. If the results were not enough to give him a complete picture of his would-be saviours, it was enough to reassure him that they had the necessary skills and training to do the job. The seeds of hope had been sown. Anyway, what did he have to lose? Only money. He didn’t know what he was going to do with his wealth. Without a child to pass it on to, it seemed an almost intolerable burden.

After hesitating for several days he had called the number. Now here he was, a man who had never had so much as a parking ticket discussing a kidnapping.

‘We are not in this to make money,’ the man insisted. ‘Equally, there are costs involved in the project. If things go wrong, there can be no refund.’

‘I understand,’ Daniel repeated. ‘What do you think of our chances?’

The man stared at the horizon for several moments before venturing his opinion. ‘I am more of a pessimist than some of my colleagues, so I would say small.’

Inwardly, Daniel groaned. ‘How small?’

‘Small but not zero.’ The man gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, we will not let you down. I know that you have waited a long time for this.’

‘Yes,’ Daniel mumbled. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘Keep your phone switched on. We will be in touch.’

Watching the man walking away, heading towards Kensington High Street, Daniel pulled a tattered photograph from the pocket of his jacket. Blinking away a tear, he stared at the image of his daughter; his daughter, as he liked to remember her, an inquisitive, happy thirteen-year-old girl in jeans and a T-shirt, sitting on the steps of the National Gallery, drinking from a Coke can. It had been the first time that Lillian’s mother had let her come back to London to stay with her father, and he could recall every minute of their outing. When the picture had been taken, they had just been to see Georges Seurat’s
Bathers at Asnières
, for part of a school project that Lillian had been doing. From there they went off to have a pizza on Regent Street, followed by a trip to the theatre.

It had been, by some margin, the best day of his life.

It was the last time he saw her alive.

Daniel Sands felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he gazed at the picture. It was the only thing of value in his life. He would take it with him to his grave.

The inspector popped the last of the banana into his mouth and chewed it unhappily, wondering what to do with the skin. Sighing audibly, Commander Simpson pointed to a waste-bin by the side of her desk. A true status symbol in the twenty-first century hierarchy, since everyone below the rank of Chief Superintendent had had their bins taken away. It was supposedly an initiative to encourage recycling but mainly to do with cutting costs and avoiding the embarrassment of having cleaners who turned out to be illegal immigrants.

Getting out of his seat, the inspector dropped the skin into the bin. ‘Thanks.’

Waiting for him to sit back down, Simpson clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Dino’s asked me to marry him,’ she said abruptly.

Jeez
, Carlyle thought,
why does everybody suddenly feel the need to tell me about their nuptials?
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not going to ask me to be a bridesmaid, are you?’

‘What?’ Simpson’s face clouded and she looked like she was already regretting raising the subject. Sitting behind the desk in her office at Paddington Green station, she glanced around the bare walls. Apart from the cheap, threadbare furniture, the place was empty. Over the years he had been coming here, Carlyle noticed that the personal touches were becoming fewer and fewer. It was almost as if Simpson didn’t want her colleagues to know that she existed outside of the uniform.

‘Nothing,’ he replied hastily. ‘Well, that’s great, I suppose. Congratulations.’

‘I haven’t said “yes” yet,’ Simpson muttered testily.

‘Mm.’

She grimaced. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’ For some time now, Carlyle had wondered whether Dino Mottram, an old-style entrepreneur, ten years or more Simpson’s senior, was in line to become the second Mr Carole Simpson. The couple had been stepping out together for a while now and, initially, it had seemed to the inspector like a good idea. Husband number one – Joshua Hunt – had crashed and burned quite spectacularly: a conviction for fraud and jail, followed by terminal cancer, bringing the Commander’s career progression in the Metropolitan Police to a grinding halt as a result.

On the bright side, professional catastrophe had made things easier between Commander and Inspector. Once Simpson had accepted that her climb up the greasy pole was over, she relaxed considerably. Since her troubles with Joshua, Carlyle had found her much more agreeable, both professionally and personally. He liked the idea that their relationship had improved as her career had nose-dived. Being more than a little perverse, it made him feel slightly less alone working inside the Metropolitan Police Force.

Carlyle knew that he should keep his mouth firmly shut but his resolve lasted less than ten seconds. ‘I suppose you’ve discussed a pre-nup?’ he grinned. Dino, well known as a serial monogamist, was a regular presence in the various ‘Rich Lists’ so beloved of Sunday newspapers.

‘It’s a common enough practice these days,’ Simpson observed. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I need his money.’

‘Not very romantic, though,’ Carlyle chided her, ‘is it?’ If anyone deserved a bit of domestic bliss it was Carole Simpson. However, over the last year or so, the inspector had first-hand expereience of dealing with Dino and his company, Entomophagus Industries, on a professional basis. Now that he had seen the man in action, he wasn’t so sure that the Commander wouldn’t be better off staying single.

Simpson gave him the gimlet eye. ‘You don’t like Dino, do you?’

Carlyle mumbled, ‘I don’t really have a view . . .’

‘John, I know you. You are incapable of bullshitting your way through things like this.’ A smile crept across her face and she immediately looked ten years younger. ‘When they were handing out diplomacy genes, you simply didn’t get any.’

Carlyle laughed. ‘Seriously, I
don’t
have a view on Dino. I don’t have to have a view on Dino. It’s not me that he wants to marry.’

Simpson drummed her fingers on the table. ‘That’s hardly a ringing endorsement.’

Sitting up in his chair, Carlyle spread his arms in frustration. This wasn’t what he had come here to discuss. ‘What do you want me to say? You’re a grown up, you have to make your own decision.’

Simpson looked down at her desk.

‘If things are going so well with Dino,’ he burbled, trying to fill the silence, ‘why do you need to get married? It’s hardly a big deal.’

‘You’re married.’

‘True.’ Carlyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. How did the conversation get round to
him
? ‘But Helen and I lived together for years before that. In the end, we formally got married just before Alice was born.’

Simpson smiled. ‘A shotgun wedding?’

‘Not at all.’ Carlyle sat forward in his chair, feeling quite defensive now. His family was his family. He didn’t need to explain it to anyone. ‘It was just a bit of fun. The sun shone and we had a picnic in Hyde Park. It was a beautiful day. I’m happy to be married but it doesn’t really mean anything. It certainly didn’t change anything at home.’ He broke into a grin. ‘Helen has remained firmly in charge.’

Simpson gestured at his hand. ‘Is that why you don’t wear a ring?’

‘Not really.’ Carlyle rubbed his ring finger with his right hand. Looking across the table, he realized that the Commander was still wearing a simple gold wedding band. ‘I don’t like jewellery, that’s all.’

Simpson thought about it for a moment. Her gaze belatedly fell on the Clash
London Calling
T-shirt that he was wearing.

‘I was on a day off,’ Carlyle explained, scratching his stomach.

Simpson couldn’t have cared less. ‘Tell me about Julian Schaeffer.’

‘Shot in the chest at close range. No messing about. From what we can tell so far, it looks like a professional killing.’

Simpson frowned. ‘In a kiddies’ playground? This is London, for God’s sake, not . . .’ she tried to think of somewhere suitably dangerous, ‘Mexico.’

‘It’s a strange one,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘The priority at the moment is to find Mr Schaeffer’s daughter.’

He glanced at the screen of his BlackBerry. While he had been on the tube, it looked like Umar had finally come up with some additional information.

Simpson nodded, waiting for him to go on.

Squinting, he read from the screen. ‘Rebecca Schaeffer is six. She was an occasional visitor to the drop-in centre at the park. According to one of the volunteers who works there, the parents are separated, maybe divorced, we don’t know yet. It appears the father was looking after her for half-term.’

‘The sins of the father,’ Simpson muttered, ‘laid upon the children.’

‘Boss?’

The Commander said briefly, ‘
The Merchant of Venice
.’

‘Hm.’

‘You should really know your Shakespeare, John.’

Carlyle realized that now was not the time to mention that he had given up English Lit before O level. Worse, rude mechanical that he was, he considered the Bard ridiculously overrated. ‘We just have to discover what the particular sins of the father were, in this case.’

‘Find the girl first. What happened to her? Do you think she was abducted by the shooter?’

Simpson clearly didn’t realize that the girl had gone missing
after
the police had arrived at the scene. Carlyle wondered if he might yet survive this latest cock-up.

‘Er . . .’ Unable to come up with a watertight lie, he simply said, ‘We’ve got a full search underway.’

‘Do we have a photo of her?’

‘Not yet.’

Simpson looked suitably unimpressed. ‘Next steps?’

Carlyle stood up and allowed himself a stretch. ‘I need to go and speak to the wife and then visit Mr Schaeffer’s office.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Something in financial services.’

Simpson smiled sadly. Her former husband had been ‘something in financial services’ and the phrase did not inspire any sort of confidence. ‘That narrows it down.’

‘I’ll find out more.’

‘Keep me informed.’

Carlyle nodded. They both knew that his track record of keeping his boss in the loop was extremely patchy. ‘Of course.’

As he turned towards the door it opened and Simpson’s executive assistant walked in. Dressed in a pair of sandals, skinny white jeans and a printed blouse, Ellie Harris was twenty-five, five foot nine and blonde; in short, drop dead gorgeous. With a father in the House of Lords, a First Class law degree from King’s College, London, and a part-time modelling career, she had been the talk of the station within five minutes of arriving at Paddington Green. With immense force of will Carlyle tried not to gawp as she stepped up to Simpson’s desk and handed the Commander a single sheet of A4 paper.

‘Inspector, I thought you might want to see this.’

‘Thanks.’ Simpson quickly read the contents and offered it to Carlyle.

Ellie smiled at Carlyle as she left the room.

‘
John
.’ Simpson waved the piece of paper impatiently at him.

Carlyle grinned. ‘Is she any good?’

Simpson ignored the question. ‘A girl has been involved in a traffic accident on Rosebery Avenue.’

Rosebery Avenue was less than ten minutes’ walk from Coram’s Fields. It could be Rebecca.

Carlyle skipped towards the door. ‘Is she hurt?’

Simpson shook her head. ‘That’s all I have. There are no other details yet.’

‘Okay. I’ll get over there now.’

‘Take a car from downstairs.’

‘Thanks.’ Ducking out of the door, he nodded at the lovely Ellie in the office outside as he rushed towards the lifts. Flicking through a copy of
Vogue
, with a mobile wedged between her shoulder and her left ear, she didn’t look up.

The rain had cleared and the sky had returned to a cautious blue, with temperatures reaching the low twenties, high for London for the time of year. Discharging his driver on Clerkenwell Road, Carlyle made his way on foot through the backed-up traffic towards the police tape. Almost immediately, he felt sweat soaking into his shirt as his body temperature rose. The inspector was not good in the heat and he quickly began to feel oppressed and lethargic. As he progressed, the cacophony of horns grew louder and the air grew thicker with exhaust fumes. A dull headache gripped the back of his neck and he felt an acute need for some water. Halfway up the road, he passed a number 38 bus. It was stuck between stops and the passengers were arguing with the driver, who was refusing to open the doors so that they could get out. Carlyle watched a man in a suit and tie kick one of the doors in fury while a baby in a buggy started screaming its head off; just another fun journey for happy travellers in the big city. He ducked inside a newsagent shop and bought a chilled half-litre bottle of Evian, chugging down half of it before continuing on his way.