‘Oh, I’m here working,’ she smiled.
‘Ah, okay.’
‘Just a bit of pocket-money really. And something to do. It gets me out and about and stops me being terminally anti-social.’
‘I see.’
‘So,’ she said pleasantly, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘First of all, please accept my condolences about your former husband.’
Rachel placed her hands in her lap, intertwining the fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled awkwardly. ‘But I have to say that I haven’t really been able to feel anything about Roger’s death.’
This guy really was Mr Popular
, Carlyle noted. ‘Why is that?’ he asked gently.
‘The marriage . . . well, it seems like it was decades, hundreds of years ago – another lifetime, in fact.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘I’m twenty-six years old. We married when I was twenty-two and I was twenty-three when I walked out. I haven’t seen him since. The divorce was finalized three days after my twenty-fourth birthday.’ She gazed vacantly into the middle distance. ‘It turned out he had been sleeping with other students all the time we were married.’
‘Professor Leyne didn’t seem to stay married for very long,’ Carlyle commented.
Rachel shrugged. ‘I think his second marriage lasted for a decade or so. I know they had kids. She must have been good at looking the other way.’
‘So he was a serial philanderer?’
She laughed. ‘He was a serial everything . . . Roger thought that everything and everyone that crossed his path had somehow been put on this earth for his benefit.’
‘How did you two meet?’
She sighed so deeply that Carlyle felt a wave of sadness wash over him. ‘I was one of his students. He taught me ethics.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
‘Not an unfamiliar story.’
‘No,’ said Carlyle, not wishing to pry into the prurient details, ‘I suppose not. The question is, why would anyone want to kill him?’
Sticking her elbows on the table, she leaned forward. ‘Surely,’ she said primly, ‘the question is
who
killed him? And then
why
?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Presumably,’ Rachel grinned mischievously, ‘you have discovered by now that lots of people may have
wanted
to kill him. I quite often thought about it myself, when we were together. My inclination would have been to have given him a quick shove down the stairs and hope he ended up with a broken neck.’ She took in the rather bemused look on Carlyle’s face. ‘What are the chances of getting away with that?’
Carlyle shrugged vaguely. Unbidden, his brain summoned up the memory of yet another abused child. This one was called Josie Parrish. It had been a case six or maybe seven years before. Five-year-old Josie had died from head injuries that Carlyle was convinced had been inflicted on her by her stepfather. Both the stepfather and the mother insisted that the child had accidentally fallen. The investigation had dragged on for months before finally coming to court. At the trial, pathologists squabbled publicly over whether Josie had been killed by an ‘accelerated impact’ as a result of being pushed. When the parents had walked out of the Old Bailey, having been acquitted of child cruelty and manslaughter charges, it was one of the worst days of Carlyle’s professional life. ‘It can be hard to prove,’ he admitted.
There was a sparkle in her brown eyes now. ‘Just a harmless little fantasy I used to have from time to time.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle wondered if Helen ever had similar thoughts about him; surely not?
‘That’s not a crime, is it?’ she asked, and when the inspector shook his head: ‘Just as well. But, to go back to the
precise
question, I don’t know why someone finally decided to shoot him, or who that someone was, but I do have some ideas.’
Carlyle sat back in his chair and opened his arms wide. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, ‘let’s hear them.’
Daintily sipping his green tea, the inspector yawned as he watched the television news. A spokesman for the Archdiocese of Birmingham was complaining about the ‘draconian’ security plans for the Pope’s visit. Alcohol, barbecues, gazebos and musical instruments were all banned, along with bicycles, whistles, candles and animals.
Gazebos?
Carlyle wondered.
These guys really know how to have a good time
.
Helen wandered in from the kitchen and sat down beside him.
Carlyle gestured at the screen. ‘Have you seen this?’
‘Yeah,’ she grinned, ‘it’s hilarious.’
‘Do you think the Popemobile will be going past here?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ she said. ‘The crowds will be a real pain.’
‘Apparently you have to have a “pilgrim pass” to get into one of his gigs.’
‘You’re kidding!’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘That’s what it says.’
‘Different world,’ Helen murmured.
‘Each to their own.’ Carlyle muted the TV and took another sip of his tea. ‘People can do what they like, as long as they respect the law.’
Helen stretched out on the sofa and placed her head in his lap. ‘So, how is the plan to arrest His Holiness for crimes against humanity going?’
‘It’s not, as far as I know.’
‘It was always a cheap publicity stunt, anyway.’
‘Absolutely. But finding one of the prime movers in the campaign face down in his swimming pool with two bullets in his chest has given people other things to worry about.’
‘Maybe the Pope did it?’
Carlyle laughed. ‘I very much doubt that the Pope has ever heard of Roger Leyne.’
‘No,’ Helen agreed. ‘Anyway, I suppose that murder would be a bit over the top.’
‘Yeah. Abusing little boys is more their thing.’
Helen yawned. ‘So, why do you think that Roger Leyne was shot?’
Carlyle stroked the top of her head, happy to be talking about work rather than . . . other things. On the TV news, they had moved on to a story about flooding in Pakistan – people with
real
problems. ‘That,’ he said quietly, ‘is a very good question. No one seems to have liked the bloke, but equally, no one’s claiming to have hated him enough to have actually killed him.’ He recounted his conversation with Rachel Gilbert and her admission that she’d daydreamed about pushing her husband down the stairs.
Helen thought about that for a minute. ‘I would have thought fantasies about killing your spouse are fairly common.’
Carlyle looked down at her. ‘Have you ever thought about pushing
me
down the stairs?’
A look of mock surprise fell across Helen’s face. ‘Oh no!’ she grinned.
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘I’d never do anything like that. My preference would be to brain you with the frying pan.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ Carlyle said sourly. ‘Hardly an inspired choice.’
‘It would do for me.’
‘It would be much harder to get away with that,
my dear
.’
‘Who says I would want to get away with it?’ Helen pushed herself up, giving him a kiss on the cheek as she slipped off the sofa. ‘If I actually did it, I would want everyone to know that it was me.’
Not knowing quite what to make of that, he watched her sashay into the kitchen.
Five minutes later, she returned with a cup of steaming rooibos tea. ‘So what does wife number three think lies behind the slaying of her ex-husband?’ she asked, carefully lowering herself back down onto the sofa.
‘Well,’ Carlyle switched off the television, ‘she says Leyne was fond of recreational drugs, which would tally with the coke that we found in his system. She also says he was a bit of a gambler.’
‘Horses?’
‘No, cards. Apparently he liked poker.’
‘Would that have got him killed?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe – if he fell in with the wrong people and had money problems. We’ll have to check it out. I thought I might talk to Dom about it.’ Dom was Dominic Silver, policeman turned drug dealer and longtime family friend. Theirs was a relationship that went back thirty years, to Hendon Police Training College in North London. Once Dom had left the force and changed sides, as it were, the two men had eventually established a workable if often uneasy relationship.
‘Shit!’ A look of horror swept across Helen’s face. ‘I forgot to tell you. I heard the other day – Marina died.’ Marina was the youngest child of Dom and his partner, Eva Hollander. A year before, she had been diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Cockayne Syndrome. It was so rare that barely twenty other kids in the country had it. Carlyle and Dom had talked it over many times. But with no cure and no treatment, there was nothing that they, or anyone else, could do. The disease had been a death sentence from day one.
‘Fuck,’ Carlyle grimaced. ‘How old was she?’
‘Six, I think.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I put a call in to Eva,’ Helen said, ‘but she hasn’t got back to me.’
‘I’ll try and get hold of Dom tomorrow,’ Carlyle sighed, knowing that it would be a tortured conversation. Dom might want to talk about it, but he certainly didn’t. In situations such as this, Carlyle felt overwhelmed by a sense of uselessness and the futility of words. How could you do or say anything that would give a bereaved parent any comfort whatsoever?
TWENTY-NINE
Ignoring his mug of green tea, the inspector sat at a window table in the Box Café flicking through the pages of the morning edition of
The Times
. On the Home News pages, he scanned a story by the Crime Editor about what had been dubbed the ‘spy in the bag’ case. The death of an MI6 man found padlocked inside a sports holdall remained unexplained. The police were appealing for any witnesses.
Good luck with that
, Carlyle thought as the waitress appeared at his shoulder and placed his bill on the table.
After some protracted fumbling in his various jacket pockets, he pulled out a couple of mobile phones and placed them on top of the newspaper. Sitting next to his official issue BlackBerry Pearl, the Alcatel OT-206 Candybar handset was his current private, pay-as-you-go phone. Carlyle liked to buy a new one every three to four months. He didn’t flash it around and gave the number out to very few people. The contacts list contained less than thirty numbers. None of this guaranteed complete secrecy, but it gave him some comfort that no one was checking his calls as a matter of routine. Pulling up Dominic Silver’s number, he let his thumb hover over the button for several seconds before hitting ‘call’. Willing it to go to voicemail, he rehearsed his message.
Dom picked up on the sixth ring. ‘John. How’s it going?’
Carlyle could hear the strain of recent events in his voice. ‘Mate,’ he said, with feeling, ‘Helen told me about Marina. We’re really sorry.’
‘Thank you. I’ll let Eva know. Appreciate the call.’ The awkward pause was punctuated by the sound of voices in the background. ‘Look, sorry, but some folk have just arrived. I’ve got to go.’
‘If there’s anything we can do,’ Carlyle stammered, forcing the words out despite the fact that they sounded lamer than anything he’d ever heard in his whole life.
‘Thank you,’ Dom repeated. ‘I’ll let you know. I think the funeral is going to be small, just family.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’ll be in touch later, all right?’
‘Sure. Speak soon.’ The call ended and Carlyle realized that he had been holding his breath. Exhaling, he watched the BlackBerry start vibrating with an incoming call. Happy for the distraction, he quickly picked it up with his free hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Carlyle?’ asked a voice he didn’t recognize.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Brian Sutherland, Crime Editor at
The Times
.’
The inspector felt himself tense. Dealing with journalists was part of the job but they made him uncomfortable. ‘I’ve just been reading your story in this morning’s paper.’
Sutherland seemed thrown for a moment. ‘What? Oh yes, of course. Very strange carry-on. Not one of yours?’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle. ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Lucky you,’ the journalist laughed.
‘Quite.’
‘Anyway,’ Sutherland said briskly, ‘that wasn’t why I was calling. I am writing a story for tomorrow about Father McGowan of St Boniface’s Roman Catholic Church and the suit that has been launched against you, in connection with your alleged assault against him.’ Sutherland paused, waiting to see what immediate reaction might be forthcoming. When Carlyle said nothing, he continued: ‘I just wanted to get your response to the allegations. This is your chance to put your side of the story.’
Looking down at the BlackBerry, Carlyle hit the end button. Almost immediately, the handset started vibrating in his hand. On the screen it simply said ‘call’ but he knew it would be Sutherland chasing him for an unguarded reaction. Letting it go to voicemail, he got to his feet and shuffled over to the counter to pay his bill. Then, with the phone still demanding his attention, he headed for the station.
Turning into Agar Street, he almost walked straight into Abigail Slater. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ he mumbled, in no mood for any fake pleasantries.
‘How are preparations going for your hearing?’ Slater asked, ignoring his question.
‘I have nothing to worry about on that score,’ Carlyle replied defensively. ‘Not that it matters now.’
‘Oh?’ Her face was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well,’ said Carlyle, just about holding on to his temper, ‘now that you’ve leaked the story to the media, I’m sure that the matter will be done and dusted before we get anywhere near a formal hearing.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Slater smirked. ‘I wouldn’t say that at all.’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned away from him and jogged up the front steps of the station.
‘Bitch,’ Carlyle hissed under his breath.
‘What?’ From nowhere, Roche appeared at his shoulder. In her hand was an outsized latte and a packet of cigarettes.
‘Nothing.’
‘Was that McGowan’s lawyer?’ Roche asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘What did she have to say for herself?’
‘Nothing really.’ Carlyle told her about his call from the Crime Editor of
The Times
.
Roche sucked greedily on her coffee. ‘Did he mention me?’