The Met, according to Sutherland, declined to comment. Happily, Carlyle’s name was not mentioned.
Finishing his coffee, Carlyle went over to the counter and picked out an iced doughnut to go with a second coffee. Returning to his table, he checked his calls. He had four messages. There was a curt
Call me
text from Dugdale and a voicemail from Roche explaining that she would be out for most of the morning. Carlyle drummed his fingers on the table in annoyance; he had wanted her to chase up some of the lines of enquiry on the Leyne investigation. Roche was getting into the habit of never being around when he needed her – something that annoyed Carlyle immensely. He was feeling increasingly out of synch with his sergeant, and wondered if her mooted move to SO15 might not be best all round.
The second voicemail message was from the Headmaster’s office at Alice’s school. ‘
Inspector Carlyle
,
this is Judith Atkinson from Dr Myers
’
office . . .
’ Carlyle’s heart sank. What on earth had happened now? If Alice had gotten into more trouble, there would be hell to pay. And why hadn’t Helen told him about it? ‘
Dr Myers wanted me to thank you for the recent talk you gave at the school. The girls found it very stimulating. He was wondering if you might be able to come in and give us another one.
’
What? Relieved, Carlyle laughed out loud, prompting Myron to give him a bemused look. ‘Stimulating’? Whatever next? He replayed the message, a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘You have got to be kidding,’ he said aloud. Alice was going to love this.
The final message was from Katrin Lagerbäck. ‘
I think we are on
,’ she said. ‘
Call me this afternoon
.’
Blimey
, Carlyle thought,
that was quick
. His mood was further improved by Myron placing the doughnut in front of him. Dropping the phone back into his pocket, he took a large bite, before returning to his newspaper and the all-important sports pages.
Taking its name from one of the popular saints of the day, St Boniface’s Church was built in 1290. The oldest Catholic church in England, it was one of only two remaining buildings in London dating back to the reign of Edward I. It had survived the Great Fire of London and the Blitz – despite a bomb tearing a six-foot hole in the roof – and was still much used for baptisms, weddings and funerals more than seven hundred years after being built. But at this time of the day, it was his and his alone. Scanning the sheet of paper in his hand, Francis McGowan wondered how much the Holy Father knew about his church.
I am very much looking forward to my visit to the United Kingdom and I send heartfelt greetings to all the people of Great Britain. I am aware that a vast amount of work has gone into the preparations for the visit, not only by the Catholic community but by the government, the local authorities in London, the communications media and the security services, and I want to say how much I appreciate the efforts that have been made to ensure that the various events planned will be truly joyful celebrations. Above all, I thank the countless people who have been praying for the success of the visit and for a great outpouring of God’s grace upon the Church and the people of your nation. While I regret that there are many places and people I shall not have the opportunity to visit, I want you to know that you are all remembered in my prayers. God bless the people of the United Kingdom!’
Francis McGowan carefully folded his copy of the Pope’s letter to the people of Britain and placed it in his pocket. Switching on the PA system, he let the sound of the choir’s ‘Ave verum corpus’ fill the church. Turning the sound down to a modest level, he moved slowly towards the main doors. It was already almost twenty minutes past the due opening time, but it was rare for anyone to seek the solace of St Boniface’s at this time of the morning. And those that did were used to waiting patiently and suffering delays in silence.
Unlocking the door, he stepped outside and sniffed the cold morning air. As he had anticipated, there was no one waiting and he decided to have a swift cigarette before getting started on the business of the day. Lighting up a Benson & Hedges King Size, he took a hearty drag, glancing up at the church noticeboard as he did so. Next to a newsletter covering various aspects of the church restoration programme was a poster advertising the Catholic Children’s Society Parish Family Day on the coming Saturday.
I should probably give that a miss
, McGowan thought. Finishing his cigarette, he tossed the stub down a nearby drain and headed back inside. As he did so, the phone in his pocket started ringing, to the tune of ‘
Salve Regina
’. Sighing, he answered it. ‘This is Father McGowan.’
‘Father?’ The voice was young and nervous. ‘It’s me.’
Oh sweet Jesus
. McGowan closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Simon?’
‘No, Father, it’s Eddie – Edward Wood.’
McGowan felt a wave of relief wash over him. Concentrating hard, he tried to put a face to the boy’s name.
‘Father?’
‘Ah, yes, Edward.’ A thought struck him. ‘How did you get this phone number?’ he asked gently.
‘I’m a friend of Simon’s. We came to your drop-in centre. He gave it to me.’
‘I see.’ McGowan felt his relief begin to recede. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I have been looking for him. I wondered if you might be able to help me.’
McGowan stuck another cigarette between his lips. ‘I can try,’ he said dreamily. ‘Why don’t you come and see me? We can talk it over.’
Chief Superintendent Nicholas Tett looked at Roche and scowled. A tall man with pinched features and short curly hair that appeared dyed, he looked like a banker in a uniform rather than a copper. Taking a sip from the cup of coffee that he had been cradling for the last twenty minutes and which by now would be stone cold, he returned his gaze to a spot high on the wall of Dugdale’s office. Since saying ‘hello’ at the start of the meeting, Tett had not spoken a single word. He was clearly out of the loop regarding his former boss’s agenda vis-à-vis Carlyle and struggled to muster a level of interest in the conversation. If this was what the top team in SO15 was like, Roche was beginning to wonder if she might not be better off staying at Charing Cross.
Dugdale checked his watch and smiled. ‘So,’ he said, glancing at Tett, ‘I think we’re all on the same page.’
The Chief Superintendent hasn’t even opened the book
, Roche thought bitterly. She nodded.
Tett smiled vacuously. ‘Always.’
‘Good.’ Dugdale struggled to his feet and gestured towards the door. ‘I’ll see you at the hearing.’
‘Yes.’ With some effort, Roche stopped herself from breaking into a jog as she headed for the door.
It was one of those days when no one was answering their phone. The inspector had called Katrin Lagerbäck, as instructed, only to get her voicemail. It was a similar story with Sally Jones, the second wife of Roger Leyne. Sighing, he left another message and wondered what he should do with the rest of his afternoon. After a moment’s thought, he called Trevor Cole. ‘Third time unlucky,’ he mumbled to himself as a robotic voice told him, once again, that he should leave a message. Quickly ending the call, he sifted through various bits of paper on his desk until he found Cole’s office number. It took him three attempts to dial it correctly and then he was passed between various secretaries before finally finding himself talking to Cole’s PA.
‘Mr Cole is on holiday this week,’ the woman said chirpily, as if this made her life a happier one. ‘Do you want to leave him a message?’
‘Do you know where he went?’ Carlyle asked.
The woman’s tone turned frostier. ‘I’m not sure we would disclose that kind of information, sir. Would you like me to take a message for Mr Cole?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Carlyle. ‘It can wait.’ Ending the call, he tossed the handset onto his desk, on top of a copy of Roger Leyne’s bank records. Rubbing his eyes, he wondered if there was more that he could be doing on that front. The professor’s bank statements made very interesting reading, showing that he had withdrawn almost fifty thousand pounds over the last year and was seriously in debt. But, unless he could work out what had happened to the cash, the inspector knew that he wasn’t going to get very far.
He was contemplating heading out for something to eat when his mobile started ringing and Helen’s number popped up on the screen. Lifting it off the desk, he immediately said ‘Hi.’
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he yawned, ‘a bit of a boring day, not making much progress. You?’
‘Hectic. Work is crazy – but it’s good to be busy.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Carlyle said gently. They were due to get the results of the BRCA2 cancer gene test in less than a week and the thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. The different scenarios played out in his head endlessly. The hospital; the doctor. Good news; bad news. The relief; the fear. It was all bollocks. Work was a blessed relief.
‘Anyway,’ said Helen, ‘are you going to Fulham tonight?’
Shit
, thought Carlyle. He’d forgotten about his promise to take Alice to see his mother. ‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said Helen. ‘In that case I’ll work a bit later.’
‘Don’t overdo it.’
‘I won’t. Now, the other thing is that
my
mother has agreed to come up for the weekend.’ Carlyle’s mother-in-law had dumped Helen’s father (now deceased) years ago, about a week after Helen had left school. She now lived in Brighton, which was the usual destination for their family holidays. As Alice got older, Helen’s mother would occasionally come up to Town to babysit, allowing Carlyle and Helen to spend some time in her flat.
‘Great.’
‘So we can go to Brighton for a bit of time to ourselves.’
‘Yes. That will be good.’ He was looking forward to it, but nervous too.
‘But you have to make sure work doesn’t cause a problem.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Carlyle, ‘I’m not due to be working. And I won’t let anything get in the way.’
‘Make sure you don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle.
‘Lots of love.’
Glancing around the office, he lowered his voice. ‘You too.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Ahead of a trip across Town to see his mother, Carlyle decided he needed a workout to build up his reserves of physical and mental energy. The Jubilee Hall Gym, next to the Transport Museum in the south-east corner of Covent Garden’s piazza, halfway between the station and the flat in Winter Garden House, was where Helen did her yoga and Alice had a weekly karate class. Carlyle himself tried to do some exercise now and again, although his efforts had become increasingly sporadic in recent years.
Looking across the largely empty floor, Carlyle stepped onto a Life Fitness cross-trainer and switched on his Sony Walkman MP3 player, flicking through the random selection of tracks until he found Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and started off on a modest hill programme. Fighting against the machine, he took a minute or so to get into a decent rhythm before turning his attention to the TV screen on the wall in front of him. One of the news channels was running and, helped by the subtitles, he was amused to see that the reporter was doing a piece from Britain’s only ‘gay mass’ at the Church of Our Lady of the Assumption and St Gregory in Soho. ‘
Anybody who is trying to cast a judgement on the people who come forward for communion
,’ said a priest, ‘
really ought to learn to hold their tongue.
’
Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, Carlyle’s thoughts turned to Father McGowan and the upcoming disciplinary hearing. He belatedly realized that the hearing was the day before Helen’s results were due. ‘
Next week
,’ he said to himself grimly, ‘
is gonna be a big week for you, Johnny boy. A big fucking week, indeed
.’
An hour later, showered and slightly more relaxed, Carlyle walked out of the changing rooms, ready to face his mother.
Almost.
Wandering into the gym’s café, he ordered a latte and a plate of scrambled eggs and mushrooms on toast from the tired-looking girl in a Bruce Lee T-shirt behind the counter. Dropping his Adidas holdall on the floor next to a display for bodybuilding supplements, he took a seat at a table under a poster advertising Russian Military Fitness sessions –
Train the Red Army way
,
with genuine Spetsnaz instructors!
– and checked out a very attractive woman in tight shorts and a vest working out on a punchbag. Catching him staring, she gave Carlyle a hard glare and started kicking the bag in a way that suggested she would be happy to give him some similar treatment. Embarrassed, he turned his attention to his mobile and checked his messages. The first was from Katrin Lagerbäck, informing him that she was heading off early for the weekend and would call him when she got back. Carlyle tried calling her back anyway but only got her voicemail.
The second message was more of a surprise. ‘
Inspector
,
this is Rose Scripps. Long time no speak. I hope you are well. Give me a call. It would be good to catch up. I
’
m still at CEOP. I think you might be able to help me with one of our investigations.
’ Shamelessly, Carlyle let his gaze slip back to the woman at the punch bag; she was working up quite a sweat.
‘Here you go.’ The girl placed his coffee on the table. ‘The eggs are just coming.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle took a sip of his drink and made a face. It was cooler than he liked but he couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss. He thought about Rose Scripps, a child protection social worker for the NSPCC, the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, who had been seconded to the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Victim ID Team. CEOP was the police unit responsible for chasing down many of the three thousand people a year prosecuted for committing sex offences against children, including rape, assault and grooming. Over the years, Carlyle couldn’t really say that he had been inundated with colleagues that he liked or admired – but Rose was definitely one of them. They had worked together a couple of years before on a nasty people-trafficking case, and he held her in high esteem.