Then We Die (7 page)

‘Jesus!’ Carlyle felt a stab of genuine upset. ‘Everything’s fucking collapsing about my ears,’ he grumbled to himself. Taking a large bite out of his raisin Danish – his second of the morning, so far – he waited for the sugar rush to mingle with the double espresso already spreading through his bloodstream. When it had done so, his sense of well-being improved enough for him to ask: ‘What are you going to replace it with?’

Marcello studied the empty space on the wall for a moment, then said, ‘Dunno. I’m open to suggestions.’ A thought crossed his mind and his face broke into a broad grin. ‘Not Fulham, though.’

Suitably unfashionable, Fulham had always been Carlyle’s team. The thing he liked about them most as he got older was that they never got you too excited. ‘No, of course not.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘Got to be Italian.’

‘
Sí, italiano – certo!
’ Marcello cranked the Gaggia into action and before long dropped a fresh demitasse in front of his appreciative customer. ‘Inter are the team at the moment,’ he suggested doubtfully.

Carlyle held up his hands in mock horror. ‘Noooo . . .’

Stifling a yawn, Alison Roche looked up from her mug of tea. ‘Milan’s 94 Champions League winning team,’ she said quietly. ‘Albertini, Donadoni, Maldini, Desailly . . .’

Marcello nodded enthusiastically. ‘Good choice! Fabio Capello’s team. Beat Barcelona four-nil to win the European Cup!’

‘Yes,’ Carlyle assented. ‘I think we have a winner.’

‘I’ll find you a poster, Marcello,’ Roche promised.

‘Thank you. That would be perfect.’ Marcello gave Carlyle a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You’re a very lucky man, Inspector. The signora, she is pretty, she’s smart
and
she knows her football.’

‘Just don’t tell the wife, Marcello,’ Carlyle mumbled, before taking another massive bite out of his pastry.

‘So, Sergeant Roche, what’s your story?’ Marcello had retreated into his store room to check on the stock. Carlyle drained the last of his coffee from the cup and made a show of giving the sergeant a careful once-over. He didn’t know how long she was going to be around, but he might as well exhibit a degree of interest.

Roche considered her answer carefully. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve been at Leyton for two years, and been a sergeant for almost five now . . .’ She came to a halt.

Surprised at how quickly she had run out of steam, Carlyle bowled her another one. ‘Did you always want to be a copper?’

‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘I kind of drifted into it, I suppose.’

God Almighty
, Carlyle thought,
you
’
re not giving much away
,
are you?
On the other hand, however, he could empathize with people who kept their cards close to their chest. In his experience, there were far too few of them around.

‘I almost packed it in before I became a sergeant,’ Roche continued suddenly, sensing his dissatisfaction at her monochrome answers, so finally offering up a bit of colour.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ she said and laughed. ‘When I was a WPC, I did a stint as a dog-handler. I was paired with a German Shepherd called Robbie. Bloody psycho, that dog! We were chasing this armed robber one day, but instead of jumping on the robber, Robbie bit me on the arm as the bloke ran off with the eight grand he’d just stolen from a pub landlord.’

‘Christ!’ Carlyle chuckled despite himself.

‘That was the whole point. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. I was at Ealing station at the time and everyone took the piss out of me for ages.’

‘You can see the funny side . . .’

‘I can
now
. At the time I was bloody furious. It was really painful too, and I had to have rabies shots.’

‘What happened to Robbie?’ Carlyle asked, trying to suppress his laughter.

‘He was decommissioned after that. The last I heard, he was working for a security company, protecting building sites.’

‘Ah, well, at least you lived to tell the tale.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I refused to work with any more dogs after that, but I got over it fairly quickly once I got back on the beat.’

‘Thanks for helping me out today,’ said Carlyle, changing the subject. Having ticked the touchy-feely box, he now had to get on.

‘No problem.’ She smiled sadly. ‘I’m just sorry about the circumstances.’

‘Quite.’ Carlyle looked towards the store room. He wondered if he should tell Marcello the bad news about Joe, before deciding it could wait.

‘Round here is a bit more glamorous than Leyton.’

‘
Most
places are more glamorous than East London,’ Carlyle joked.

‘I suppose so,’ she agreed.

‘Look,’ he said, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen next. Obviously, we will be needing to get a full-time replacement for Joe . . .’

Roche gave him a look that suggested he was being a bit, well, emotionless about the whole thing.

He ignored that, ploughing on.

‘But that will doubtless take time. I don’t know whether you are going to be here for a day, a week or whatever, but like I said, I’m very grateful that you are here, so if you want to stick around, let me know.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, still giving him a rather curious look. ‘I will check in with Leyton this afternoon and see what they say. In the meantime, what should we do about that guy in the park?’

‘The guy in the park?’ Carlyle had forgotten about him already. ‘Well, let’s see what Phillips can tell us. The more she can narrow it down, the easier it will be for us i.e.
you
to chase down any relevant files from the time it occurred.’

Roche emitted a mock groan. ‘Great! Maybe East London isn’t so bad after all.’

‘Now, now,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘we could be looking at some genuinely interesting detective work here.’

‘Yeah, if you’re a historian!’

‘I’m sure we can wrap it up quickly,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Phillips has already said he’s an adult male. She should be able to make a reasonable guess at his age, and hopefully give us a better steer as to when he died. Then you need just take a quick look at any unsolved murders from around then, or people reported missing. If anything interesting comes up, let me know. Otherwise, we can just drop it into the bottomless pit of cases that will remain open forever.’

Carlyle fished a fiver out of his wallet and dropped it on the counter. ‘
Arrivederci
, Marcello! See you later.’

An indistinct reply issued from the store room.

He looked again at Roche, who seemed in no hurry to leave. ‘I’ll meet you back at the station. I need to go and see some people first.’

‘Inspector Carlyle? I’m Adam Hall.’

Carlyle looked up at the fresh-faced young man and scowled. He’d now been sitting in a windowless interview room for almost forty-five minutes, without even the offer of a cup of crap police coffee. West End Central’s hospitality left a lot to be desired. ‘Where’s French?’

‘Chief Inspector French is no longer involved in this investigation,’ Hall said, trying – and failing – to keep the smirk out of his voice.

Bloody hell
, Carlyle thought.
He didn
’
t last long
.

‘I will be conducting your interview,’ Hall explained, taking a seat at the table opposite the inspector.

‘And who are you?’

In a cheap suit and wearing a blue and white checked shirt open at the neck, the little scrote only looked about thirteen. Carlyle couldn’t believe he could be anything higher than a constable, so what the hell was going on here?

The youngster leaned back in his chair, while assessing the situation. ‘This,’ he said finally, sitting back up straight, ‘is all highly confidential.’

Yeah
,
yeah
,
whatever
. ‘Of course,’ Carlyle replied solemnly.

‘Nothing said in this room can be repeated to anyone –
anyone at all
– outside.’

Get on with it, you little twat
.

‘Of course,’ Carlyle repeated. For emphasis, he nodded and smiled a fake modest smile.

‘Good,’ Hall said slowly. ‘For your information only, I work for MI6. We are now handling this investigation.’

MI6, technically known as SIS, meaning the Secret Intelligence Service, was the UK’s external intelligence agency. It was famous for being the home of James Bond and, more recently, for spending £150 million on its not very secret HQ on the southern bank of the Thames in that no-man’s land called Vauxhall.

Carlyle took a moment to show the boy that he was digesting this
bombshell
news. ‘I take it,’ he said finally, ‘that this means that we don’t think this was the same gang who were taking down rich folk in their hotel rooms.’

Hall put on his best approximation of a poker face. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss anything relating to the matter.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Fine, fine, I understand.’ He gave Hall a hard stare. ‘Just remember, though, it was
my
partner who was killed by those cocksuckers. I will not just walk away from this.’

The kid blushed, saying nothing.

‘So do not fuck this up.’

‘Rest assured, Inspector,’ Hall stammered, ‘that will not happen.’

Sorry, Joe
, Carlyle thought.
It looks like things are moving away from us. But I promise I will do what I can to stop these spook bastards letting you down
. ‘Okay,’ he said, nodding towards the tape recorder on the table. ‘Let’s get started.’

Twenty-five minutes after completing his interview with the junior spy, Carlyle emerged from Edgware Road tube station, heading towards Paddington Green police station, a brutalist Sixties cube straight out of the
couldn
’
t-give-a-fuck
school of architecture that had been fashionable at the time. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in Simpson’s office, waiting politely for her to finish off a phone call. Her desk was bare save for a copy of the
British Medical Journal
. Carlyle tried to read the contents of the cover page, but it was upside down and the text was too small.

Simpson finished her call and put down the phone. ‘How are you, John?’

‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘A few aches and pains but basically okay.’

She nodded. ‘Good.’

‘I’ve just been to West End Central . . .’

‘Oh yes?’

‘. . . and MI6 have taken over the investigation into Joe’s death.’

‘Have they indeed.’

Simpson’s smile suggested that she already knew what was going on, and that she was not going to share.

Deeply annoyed, Carlyle went on: ‘That tells me two things.’

‘Does it, Inspector?’ Simpson’s eyes positively sparkled with amusement. ‘And what would they be?’

‘First, this is something political. The guy shot in his hotel room must have been someone important.’

‘Someone dangerous.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And the second point?’

‘The second point is that if our little spook pals are primarily investigating this bloke, then they won’t much care about what happened to Joe.’

‘But the same man was responsible for both deaths, was he not?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the Security Services can kill two birds with one stone, as it were.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘I am sure they will do what they can.’

‘Will you keep me informed?’

‘To the extent that I can.’ Simpson’s eyes lost their sparkle. ‘The quid pro quo here is that you leave well alone.’

‘Of course.’

‘This is a dangerous game, John,’ she added firmly, ‘one for the big boys. You have to accept that it is no longer a police matter. That has come down from the top. The very top.’

Carlyle stiffened. ‘That’s what the guy said as well.’

‘What?’ Simpson frowned. This part of their conversation had already gone on far too long.

What the hell
, Carlyle thought.
I might as well go for the sympathy vote
, and he launched into his mini-monologue. ‘When I was on my knees in that hotel room, looking down the barrel of his semi-automatic, waiting for him to pull the trigger,’ he stole a quick glance at Simpson, not wanting to overdo it, ‘he said, “You’re playing with the big boys now”. I still don’t understand why he didn’t pull the trigger.’

Simpson gave him a sceptical look. She knew Carlyle was no delicate flower, but she didn’t want to call his bluff. ‘If you need to see a psychologist . . .’

Carlyle dropped his gaze to his lap. ‘No, no.’

‘Okay,’ Simpson said primly, ‘but don’t rule it out. Anyway, that’s not what we really need to talk about.’

Carlyle looked up. ‘Oh?’

‘Charlotte Gondomar.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Don’t applaud, as they say – just throw money.’

‘Now is no time for one of your lame jokes.’ Simpson gave him a stern look. ‘She was found hanged in her prison cell this morning.’

Fucking great
. ‘Ah . . .’

Simpson’s mobile started ringing. She looked at the number on the screen, and cut it off. ‘So – we have a problem.’

‘We do?’

‘Don’t mess me about, John,’ Simpson hissed. ‘First, we have to explain why we didn’t show proper care and attention to a vulnerable girl in custody. Initial indications are that she died around five a.m. It seems that she wasn’t checked after one a.m.’

‘Someone fucked up.’

‘Too bloody right,’ Simpson snorted. ‘And there will be hell to pay over that. And with hindsight . . .’

‘Hindsight,’ Carlyle scoffed.

‘I know, I know,’ Simpson sighed. ‘But that won’t stop the press and the politicians from coming on board and giving us a good kicking. Did you really have to stick her in that cell?’

‘She was a drug-trafficker,’ he protested. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘She was a vulnerable young girl who you picked up with a large quantity of cocaine about her person.’

His patience snapped. ‘Don’t start trying to spin it.’

‘Plenty of other people will. Then there’s the question of why you didn’t hand this over to the Drugs Squad?’

‘It was my tip,’ he explained. ‘I was supposed to go to that fashion show with Joe.’ Carlyle sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Almost immediately, he decided that gesture could be interpreted as defensive body language, so he unfolded them again. All of a sudden, he didn’t know what to do with his bloody limbs. Finally, he clasped his hands as if in prayer and forced them down into his lap. He looked up, to give Simpson some good eye-contact: ‘My tip, my arrest.’