‘Where are you?’ As ever, Alison Roche sounded all business.
‘I’m just about to walk into the station.’
‘Well, you’d better head up here to Somers Town instead. Carla Dyer took a dive off the third-floor landing last night.’
‘Interesting.’ Carlyle made a face across the table at Rose. ‘Suicide?’
‘Nah,’ said Roche. ‘Looks like someone attacked her in her flat and then threw her off.’
‘A sad loss for our great city.’
‘Are you going to come up here?’ she asked sharply.
‘Of course,’ he sighed. ‘Give me about half an hour.’ Ending the call, he told Rose, ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’
‘Problem?’
‘Just some chav who’s taken a dive off a block of flats.’
‘Nice.’
‘One of my other investigations,’ Carlyle said. ‘Not the end of the world.’ He signalled to Myron for the bill. ‘Thanks for coming to see me.’
‘I think we can nail this bastard,’ Rose said earnestly.
Carlyle patted her on the arm. ‘I think we
will
nail this bastard.’ Getting up, he walked over to the counter, dug a tenner out of his pocket and handed it over to the café-owner.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ said Rose.
‘My pleasure.’
‘It’s a shame about Il Buffone, but this place is nice.’
Carlyle took his change and dropped a pound coin into the tips bowl. ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
‘Say hi to Marcello for me.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll let you know when we have the McGowan meeting set up. It should be some time next week.’
‘Good,’ said Carlyle, hoping that when the time came, he would be able to make it. ‘I’m definitely up for that.’
The chorus of R Kelly’s ‘I believe I Can Fly’ had started playing in his head and Carlyle found it impossible to completely stifle a laugh.
Standing a few feet away, Roche looked at him disdainfully. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing.’ Carlyle peered at the chalk outline already fading on the concrete in the middle of the deserted courtyard. ‘RIP Carla,’ he said quietly, trying and failing to summon up an ounce of sympathy for the dead woman. ‘Where have they taken her?’
‘She’s gone to St Pancras Mortuary.’ Roche pointed up at the third-floor balcony. ‘She broke her neck – among other things – as a result of the fall. As I said, it looks like she was beaten up inside the flat and then pushed over the wall. The forensics crew are still up there, but they haven’t found anything interesting so far.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, given you went through it just the other day.’
Roche shook her head. ‘Maybe we should have taken the poor cow back into custody, after all.’
Carlyle grunted. As far as he was concerned, Carla Dyer’s death was neither here nor there. What
was
of interest was the fact that someone had found the ‘poor cow’ worth killing.
‘No witnesses, of course,’ Roche sighed.
‘Of course.’
‘Some of the neighbours reckon they heard some shouting, but that’s not exactly unusual in a place like this.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Having had more than his fair share of anti-social neighbours over the years, Carlyle knew exactly what she meant. He gestured at the various cameras looking down on them. ‘What about the CCTV?’
‘None of them covers the spot in front of Dyer’s flat. Even if they had, none of the cameras on the estate have been working for over a year.’
‘Fucking CCTV,’ grumbled Carlyle. ‘What is the point of having all this fucking surveillance if it never works?’
Immune to his moaning, Roche informed him, ‘We’ve checked some of the others nearby, and there are some images of a guy walking away from the estate about the time Carla was killed. He was wearing a baseball cap though, so there’s not much to go on. We think he went to King’s Cross, but we’re not sure.’
Stands to reason
, Carlyle thought,
given that we’re dealing with such a careful bastard
. Pulling out his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the number he needed and pressed the call button. When, as expected, the voicemail kicked in, he said simply and clearly: ‘This is Carlyle. You have to hold off on what we were discussing. Call me as soon as you can. Thanks.’ Ending the call, he slipped the phone back in his pocket and stared down at Roche, who was looking at him suspiciously.
‘What was all that about?’
‘Nothing,’ he said firmly. ‘Look, what I want you to do is get Colin Dyer to identify his mother’s body.’ Clearly not happy at being fobbed off, Roche gave him the briefest of nods. ‘Make the whole thing as unpleasant as possible,’ he continued. ‘Lay it on with a trowel about how his mum died a horrible, agonizing death, et cetera, et cetera. Wind him up good and proper, and see if he’s got anything else he wants to tell us.’
‘I can do that,’ she said, brightening a little.
‘I’m going to be out of Town for the weekend. I might be hard to get hold of, but keep me informed of any developments.’
‘Will do.’
‘Good,’ said Carlyle, as he turned towards the exit to the street. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’
There was one final thing that Carlyle had to do before heading off to Victoria to catch a train to the coast. Thanks to the joys of the number 27 bus, it took him more than an hour to get over to the Queen and Artichoke pub near his father’s shabby bedsit in Westbourne Green. As promised, his father was sitting at a table in the corner, a pint of Grolsch in front of him, while contemplating the sports pages of the
Daily Mirror
.
For a man who had gone through a full-scale marital crisis well into his seventies, Alexander Carlyle appeared to be in rather good shape. Short and wiry, he was cleanshaven, with his white hair neatly trimmed and a sharp intelligence in his eyes. Wearing jeans and a navy jacket over an open-neck, button-down grey shirt and a black V-neck jumper, he looked younger than his years.
Carlyle forced a grin on his face as he approached. ‘Hi, Dad.’ He nodded at the half-empty glass. ‘Can I get you another?’
‘Just a half, thank you,’ said Alexander with a swift nod, barely looking up from his paper.
Carlyle went to the bar and returned with the half-pint and a single Jameson for himself. ‘Here we go.’ Placing the glasses on the table, he took a seat opposite his father.
‘Thanks.’ Alexander folded the paper and placed it on the bench beside him. Pouring the half into his pint glass, he took a mouthful. ‘Aahh!’
Carlyle took a sip of his whiskey and wished he’d gone for a double. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘how are things?’
‘Oh, you know . . . the usual.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Carlyle felt a familiar frustration bubble through his guts. For a long time, he had been very supportive of his dad. It was true that his father had played away. But, as far as Carlyle could tell, it had been a one-off, decades ago, that should have had no impact on the family’s current life. As the split became more permanent, his father’s unwillingness to fight for what was the defining relationship in his life left his son feeling deflated. Increasingly, he felt that the old fella was just too ready to embrace victimhood.
‘How’s the family?’
‘Good, good.’ Carlyle took another sip of his drink. ‘Alice and I saw Mum yesterday.’
The old man looked warily at him over his pint. ‘Oh yes?’
‘She’s dumped Ken.’ Carlyle didn’t know if that was true, but it sounded better. He took a deep breath. ‘I think you should go and talk to her.’
Alexander picked up his paper and reopened it at the television pages. He glowered at his son with a mixture of anger and hurt. ‘And
I
think you should mind your own damn business.’
THIRTY-SIX
Sitting in the otherwise deserted Yellowave café on Brighton beach, Carlyle looked out across the flat water in search of the horizon. Somewhere out in the Channel, the pale grey sky merged into the pale grey sea. Featureless, colourless, it fitted with his mood perfectly. After a couple of days away from London, it was time to go home. The trip had been great – dinner at Food for Friends, a late showing of
Five Easy Pieces
at the Duke of York’s Picturehouse and long walks on the beach. Now he wondered how many more times like this they would have. Helen would get her test results in three days. Whatever the outcome, Carlyle was more conscious than ever that time was limited. He felt nervous as hell about it.
Sensing his unease, Helen took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Worried about next week?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he smiled weakly. ‘It would be good to get on with it.’
Putting down her coffee cup, she gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
Carlyle watched a dog take a crap on the beach and wander off with a satisfied look on its face while its owner struggled to remove the mess from the shingle. ‘Yes.’
‘Anyway,’ Helen continued, ‘we know that we can deal with whatever comes our way.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s like we’ve always said – it’s not worth worrying about it until we know what’s going on. Even if it is the wrong result, I’m not going to make a meal of it.’
That’s my girl
, thought Carlyle, a lump rapidly forming in his throat.
‘They offered me counselling, but I said “no thanks”.’
Carlyle watched the dog-owner drop his plastic bag full of shit into a nearby bin. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ she said softly. ‘Medical advice is one thing. A bunch of strangers telling me what I should feel like is quite another.’
‘Fair point,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘We’re very lucky.’
It was a familiar refrain. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Yes, we are.’
‘I’ve been speaking a lot to our people in the Congo in the last couple of weeks,’ Helen said, ‘and when you hear about what families have to go through there – no houses, no clean water, no sanitation, the threat of cholera, diarrhoea and malaria – it really puts things in perspective. Once we get next week out of the way, I was thinking about going out there to take a look for myself.’
Jesus
, thought Carlyle.
Cholera? Diarrhoea? Malaria?
‘If that’s what you want to do.’
‘I do,’ she said firmly. ‘And maybe you and Alice should come too.’
Whoa, tiger!
Carlyle sucked in a deep breath. ‘I don’t know about that. Isn’t she a bit young?’
‘Yeah,’ Helen smiled. ‘Maybe. And it would be a bit hardcore. But I want us to take her on a trip somewhere soon. I think it would be a good wake-up call for her.’
‘Does she need one?’ Carlyle asked. Alice’s problems at school were, he thought, largely sorted.
‘Everybody needs one,’ Helen said. ‘Alice leads a relatively sheltered life . . .’
‘Sheltered? In the middle of Central London?’
‘Her world is home, school, friends. That’s fair enough, she’s still only a child, after all, but she could do with seeing a bit more of the world.’ Helen grinned. ‘So could you, for that matter.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Carlyle mumbled. He glanced at his watch. ‘We need to get going if we want to catch our train.’
‘Okey dokey.’ Helen got to her feet. ‘I’m just off to the loo.’
As she headed towards the back of the café, Carlyle took a copy of the local paper from the rack above his head and read the front-page headline:
POLICE TO SHED A THOUSAND JOBS
. The story was depressingly familiar, with the Sussex force looking to save more than fifty million pounds. The Chief Constable was quoted as saying: ‘
There are some very tough decisions that have had to be made in order to achieve necessary savings
,
and further difficult choices are still to come. Job cuts are inevitable for both police officers and staff
,
but we
’
re working hard to ensure that improving the way we police is our driving principle
,
not desperate cost-cutting.
’
‘Good luck with that, sunshine,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself, as he turned to the inside pages.
On page four, his attention was drawn to a story proclaiming that Brighton and Hove had been named ‘Britain’s drugs death capital’ for the second year in a row, with almost one drug-related fatality a week being reported.
Nice
, he thought.
That
’
s something for the tourist people to work with.
Below the article was a single paragraph, part of the News in Brief section:
A boy who had been drinking on the Palace Pier, before jumping into the sea and drowning, has been identified, police reports said. The body of Simon Murphy, 12, of London, washed up on Brighton beach two weeks ago. The grisly discovery was made by a man walking his dog. Police said there did not appear to be any suspicious circumstances. They stated that they would not make any further comment until the boy’s next-of-kin had been informed. Council chiefs today expressed their sadness over the death – the first on Brighton’s seafront this year – and stressed the importance of sea safety. Chris Sidwell, Brighton Council’s Head of Quality Standards, said: ‘It is always so upsetting when someone loses their life in the sea. My thoughts are with the family and friends of this young man.’
How many Simon Murphys could there be? Well, how many drunk, suicidal twelve-year-old Simon Murphys? Carlyle reread the story and punched the air in triumph. ‘Thank You, God!’ Ignoring the funny look from the girl behind the counter, he carefully tore the story out of the paper and reached for his mobile.
St Pancras Mortuary was a grim-looking place, located in a hidden part of London only a short walk from the Eurostar Terminus. Buttoning up her jacket against the cold, Roche wished that she’d dressed more appropriately for her visit. Skipping breakfast might have been a good idea as well. Carlyle had told her to make it as horrible as possible, but she wasn’t sure how you could make looking at a dead body more unpleasant than it already was. Roche wasn’t squeamish like the inspector, but still, there were plenty of other things that she’d rather be doing than this. And she couldn’t even begin to imagine how terrible it must be to have to identify a family member. Even a recidivist scumbag like Colin Dyer managed to elicit a twinge of sympathy from the sergeant under the circumstances.