Time of Death (2 page)

Stepping away from him, Helen quickly buttoned up her jeans. Involuntarily, Carlyle grabbed his cock and squeezed it gently before giving his balls another pleasurable scratch. Now he really
needed to piss, but he couldn’t duck out of the bedroom too quickly, it would look like he was running away.

‘So you’re sure?’

Yesterday’s boxers lay on the floor next to his own jeans. He picked them up and gave them a quick sniff – not too bad . . . they would do for another day. ‘Look,’ he
said, struggling into the underpants, careful to revert to her choice of language, ‘there are whores and there are
whores
. Your average crackhead is not, in my experience, much like
Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
.’

Helen looked him up and down, reminding him – not that he needed reminding – that married life really was a continuous assessment. ‘So, if they had been prettier, or cleaner .
. .’

There was no going back now. He tried another grin. ‘Julia Roberts isn’t really my type anyway.’

‘But what if they looked like, I don’t know – the girl in that Bond film – Eva Green?’

Eva Green? ‘They don’t.’

Helen started brushing her hair. ‘But if they did? And if all you had to do was hand over the money?’

This time he did grin. ‘Policemen don’t have to pay. We get
freebies
, remember? Which is just as well, given the cash – or rather the lack of cash – in my
pocket.’

Helen now smiled her checkmate smile. ‘So you would? Or you did?’

So much for humour. Carlyle’s grin vanished, as his heart sank. ‘I need to piss,’ he said quietly.

T
he inspector sat outside Il Buffone, enjoying the gentle morning sunshine. The tiny 1950s-style Italian café sat just across the road from his flat on Macklin Street,
on the corner of Drury Lane in the north-east section of Covent Garden. Inside, there was just enough room for the counter and two tattered booths, each of which could seat four people, or six at a
squeeze. It was a case of risk a random dining companion inside or take one of the small tables outside on the street, where you were more likely to be left alone. Besides, the exhaust fumes were
free.

Although he didn’t appreciate any company at breakfast, Carlyle’s preference was to eat inside where he could sit under the poster of the 1984 Juventus scudetto-winning squad. The
poster was torn and faded, curling at the edges and held together with Sellotape. Marcello had tried to replace it several times, most recently with the Italian World Cup-winning team of 2006.
Always, however, the protests of Carlyle, and a few other regulars who knew their football, forced him to return the team of Trapattoni and Platini to their rightful place.

Today, however, Carlyle had hit the morning rush-hour and both inside booths were full. Sticking his head through the door, Carlyle didn’t spot anyone who seemed like they were about to
leave. Hovering in the doorway, he looked pleadingly at Marcello, the owner, who just nodded and said: ‘I’ll bring it out.’

The inspector had barely sat down when Marcello appeared at his table, dropping a double macchiato in front of him, along with an extremely impressive-looking cherry Danish that positively
begged to be eaten. Carlyle looked down at the pastry and felt the drool building up inside his cheeks. He then gave Marcello what he hoped was an expression of humble gratitude.

‘I thought you’d like that,’ Marcello grinned, already heading back inside. ‘See? It’s gonna be a great day.’

Carlyle took a sip of the macchiato, letting it scald his throat, finishing his coffee before taking a knife and carefully cutting the pastry into quarters. Picking up the largest piece, he
closed his eyes and contemplated the imminent sugar rush.

‘
Hey!
’

The first slice of Danish was just about to reach his mouth when he heard the blast of a horn, followed by the screech of brakes. A woman started to scream. Looking up, he saw an old man in a
cream raincoat on the ground in front of a white fruit-and-veg delivery van, by the zebra crossing in front of the Sun pub on Drury Lane, less than twenty yards away. Carlyle looked at the slice
sadly and dropped it back on his plate. Ignoring the growling of his stomach, he got up from his table and strolled towards the scene of the accident while signalling to Marcello – who showed
no interest at all in the mini-drama unfolding outside his door – that he would be needing another coffee.

Drury Lane was a relatively uncongested single-lane, one-way street, heading south to north. It could get you all the way from the Aldwych to High Holborn while avoiding the busier streets
nearby. In order to get to the traffic lights at the north end that little bit quicker, drivers of all descriptions liked to put their foot to the floor and race up the thoroughfare as quickly as
possible. The whole exercise was completely pointless since average traffic speeds in Central London remained a stately ten miles an hour, essentially the same as for the horse-drawn carriages more
than a century earlier. Carlyle, who didn’t own a car, could never understand the common urge to hurtle 200 yards only to spend longer at the next stop. Maybe it was a genetic condition; more
likely these drivers were just tossers. Either way, it was a miracle that there weren’t more accidents.

In this case, the front wheels of the van had stopped on the zebra crossing itself but it wasn’t clear if it had actually hit the old man. Leaning out of his window, the van driver was
remonstrating with the woman bystander who had now stopped screaming.

‘It’s a zebra crossing!’ the woman shouted, seemingly oblivious to Carlyle’s arrival.

‘The silly old fucker just walked straight out,’ the driver snarled, looking like he wanted to reach out of the window and grab her by the throat. He revved the engine, but
couldn’t move with the man still sprawling out in front of him. A taxi now pulled up behind the van, the cabbie giving an extended blast on his horn, just in case anyone had missed the fact
that he was there.

‘If you hadn’t been going so fast,’ the woman replied, ‘this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Mind your own fucking business, you stupid bitch,’ the man shot back, his attention now focusing on Carlyle, who was writing down his registration number.

‘Oi! Fuckface!’ The driver stuck his head further out of the window of the van. ‘What do you think
you’re
doing?’ Sweat was beading on his shaven head. He
was wearing a replica of the new Spurs away strip for next season, a fetching mocha and brown number in a retro style. Carlyle thought about arresting him just for that. Instead, he showed the
driver his ID and told him to switch off his engine. That prompted the taxi driver behind to let loose with another long blast on his horn. Carlyle ignored him. Already the traffic was backing up
towards Great Queen Street and beyond, but that wasn’t his problem. They could wait. He turned back to the old man and helped him up.

‘Are you okay, Harry?’ Carlyle asked.

Harry Ripley dusted himself down and fiddled with a button on his coat. He smiled sadly, like a man who fully expected to find himself dumped in the middle of the road every now and again.
‘Hello, Inspector.’

‘Did he hit you?’

The old man gazed at the tarmac. ‘No. I’m all right.’

‘Was it his fault?’

‘I’d say fifty-fifty.’

Carlyle nodded back in the direction of the café. ‘I’m just having a coffee in Il Buffone, so why don’t you come and join me?’ The old man nodded and shuffled back
on to the pavement, before heading slowly towards Carlyle’s table. The driver took this as his cue to restart his engine. Carlyle stepped back in front of the van, holding up his hand as if
he was a traffic cop. ‘Not so fast, sunshine. Hold your horses.’

The queue of traffic was now well into double figures and the cacophony of complaints was growing. The woman who had remonstrated with the driver was hovering on the pavement outside the Sun, as
if unsure whether to stay or go. Carlyle turned to her and smiled, which only seemed to make her more uncomfortable. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right now, I can sort this.’

‘Don’t you want a statement or something?’ the woman asked.

No, I bloody don’t, thought Carlyle. The paperwork would be the kiss of death; his day would be over before it had even started. How come members of the public only wanted to be helpful
when it wasn’t necessary? ‘No, it’s fine.’ He tried to sound grateful. ‘I’ll be able to handle it. Thanks for stopping.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle looked down at his shoes, trying not to smile.
Are you sure?
How many times over the years had he been asked that question? He was a policeman. Of course
he was sure. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Well, if you change your mind,’ the woman said, ‘I work at the launderette at the far end of Betterton Street.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘You can get me in
there.’

‘I know it,’ Carlyle said, which was true. When the Carlyle family washing-machine had exploded earlier in the year, he had been a regular customer. ‘Thanks.’

Reluctantly, the woman turned and walked away, leaving Carlyle to return his attention to the van driver. He moved to the driver’s door. ‘Name?’

The man couldn’t have looked any more pained if someone was poised to stick a red-hot poker up his arse. ‘Smith.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

‘No, really,’ the man said, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, ‘it is Smith. Dennis Smith.’ He fished out his driver’s licence and flashed it
through the window.

Ignoring the card, Carlyle leaned towards the window. ‘Okay, Dennis, you seem to have violated various traffic laws here, as well as behaving in a way that could easily have led to a
breach of the peace.’ Talking bollocks, of course, but getting his attention. ‘And that’s before we talk about any actual injury to the victim’s person. Or about you calling
me “fuckface”.’

‘But,’ Smith complained, ‘you just sent him off to get a coffee. He’s not hurt at all. Anyway, it was his fault.’

Carlyle let his gaze wander round the inside of the van. ‘Are you up here often?’

Smith shifted in his seat. ‘A bit.’

‘Well, I’m round here all the time and I don’t want to see any more boy-racer shit from . . .’ he stood up to look at the name on the side of the van ‘. . .
Fred’s Fabulous Fruit ’n’ Veg
.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. If I see this van doing more than twenty miles an hour up Drury Lane, you’ll be nicked and I’ll make sure that your boss knows about it. Now fuck off and drive
carefully. Try not to knock over any more pensioners today.’

Scowling and muttering under his breath, Smith rammed the van into first gear, revving the engine as he pulled away. Stepping back on to the pavement, Carlyle heard the jeers of the other
drivers who had been caught up behind this spat. As he walked back towards the café, he caught a couple of basic hand gestures reflected in the window of the William Hill betting shop, but
chose to ignore them. As he reached the table, Marcello appeared with Carlyle’s second macchiato and a mug of tea for Harry Ripley. Without saying a word, Carlyle sat down, drained the cup
and methodically ate the quarter slices of his Danish, one after another.

Harry lived three floors below the Carlyles, in Winter Garden House. He had been a close friend of Carlyle’s late father-in-law for many years and had known Helen since she had been born.
Now in his late seventies, Harry had served in Korea in 1952 as part of the City of London Regiment of the Royal Fusiliers, for which he had received both UK and UN Korea medals. Although he
didn’t have a clue what Harry had been doing in Korea, Carlyle had admired both honours on several occasions. Harry had followed his twenty years in the military with another twenty as a
postman, working out of the Mount Pleasant sorting office on Farringdon Road, near King’s Cross. He had been retired almost fifteen years now and a widower for more than a decade. He had no
kids and, as far as Carlyle knew, no other family. Now all he wanted to do was die – ‘while I still have my health’ as he put it. His fantasy, articulated many times over a pint
of Chiswick Bitter in the Sun, was to keel over while watching Arsenal win the Premier League, which was how he had come by the moniker ‘Heart Attack Harry’.

Carlyle fought a powerful urge to demolish another Danish. ‘What was that all about, Harry?’ he asked casually.

The old man slurped his tea and gazed into the middle distance. ‘The bloke should have stopped. He was going too fast.’

‘You should be grateful he wasn’t going any faster,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Anyway, that guy was a Spurs supporter. You should have known he was going to miss.’

Harry chuckled.

‘It’s not funny, mate. Have you ever tried anything like that before?’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t do it again, or I’ll bloody kill you.’

Harry looked at him soulfully. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Bollocks, Harry, you did it on purpose. You gave that bloke a hell of a scare, even if he was a prize twat. You just can’t behave like that.’ He gazed up at the blue sky. It
was already pushing 70 degrees; not London weather at all. Clearly, the day was going to be an absolute scorcher. ‘And what’s with the raincoat?’

Harry shrugged. ‘You never know when it might rain.’

Carlyle glanced at his watch. He really should be on his way to the station. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s supposed to be more than eighty degrees today; the hottest day of the year.
And knock it off with this morbid shit. There’s nothing wrong with you. I’ll probably kick the bucket before you do. In fact, I’ll bet you twenty quid that you get to a hundred,
no problem at all. Your telegram from the Queen is guaranteed.’ Did they still do the telegrams? Carlyle wondered. He hoped so. Harry was as much a Royalist as he himself was a Republican,
and if the thought of a ‘Well done’ message from Buckingham Palace couldn’t cheer him up, nothing would.

Somehow, Harry managed to slip an even more downbeat expression on his battered mug. ‘It doesn’t just turn up, you know.’

‘What?’