‘I suppose.’
‘Anyway, they wiped Leyne out. When he wouldn’t come up with any more cash, Julian went round to threaten him, things got out of hand, yada, yada, yada . . .’
‘Where did he get the gun?’ Carlyle asked.
‘That, he’s not saying. But we’ve already got a match on the bullets that killed Leyne. Game, set and match.’
‘His choice,’ Carlyle grumbled. The Crown Prosecution Service could try and winkle that information out of him, to be taken into consideration at the time of sentencing, but that wasn’t their problem. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Roche’s head. ‘Shit! Time for Dugdale’s kangaroo court.’ He dropped the report on Roche’s desk. ‘You haven’t had a date for your hearing yet, have you?’
Roche shook her head. ‘Nope. My union rep says the longer they wait, the better my chances.’
That’s handy
, Carlyle thought suspiciously.
‘Maybe they want to see how yours goes first.’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going.’
‘Okay,’ said Roche, finishing her coffee. ‘I’ll see you up there.’
The disciplinary hearing was held in a large meeting room on the top floor of the Charing Cross station with a view across Trafalgar Square. Carlyle arrived five minutes before it was due to begin, to find Superintendent Rebecca Buck sitting on the far side of a long table, her back to Nelson’s Column, busily scribbling notes on her set of papers. Next to her, with a large chocolate doughnut in his hand, was Ambrose Watson.
Taking a seat opposite the portly investigator, Carlyle gave him a cheery nod. ‘Morning, Ambrose.’
Ambrose nodded sheepishly. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ Buck half-looked up from her papers and grunted. Ambrose quickly took a large bite out of the doughnut to avoid having to say anything else.
Wishing he’d brought in a coffee, Carlyle drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the room. Behind him, the door opened. A moment later, Carlyle’s Union rep, Geoff, appeared, looking like he’d just got out of bed, which he probably had. At least he had made the effort to put on a suit and tie, which made him look slightly more like a grown-up. After shaking the inspector’s hand, he placed a Tesco plastic bag on the table, pulling out a sheaf of papers.
Jesus
, Carlyle thought,
thank God I don’t actually need you here
. He made a vow that if Geoff opened his mouth in the actual hearing, he would get a swift and violent kick under the table.
By the appointed hour, the room was quite full, the atmosphere professionally grim. At the far end of the table, a stenographer had taken up position to record the minutes. Roche and Simpson had taken seats behind him, around the wall, as had Abigail Slater, looking at her most demure in a grey trouser suit, with minimal make-up. As far as Carlyle could see, the only person missing was Dugdale.
Doubtless struggling in with his usual hangover
, Carlyle thought sourly, as he played with his BlackBerry.
‘Use of electronic equipment in this room is not permitted,’ Buck said snidely.
Carlyle gave her a blank look. ‘Have we started? I thought we were still waiting for your chairman.’
Superintendent Buck glanced at her watch and sighed. ‘I am sure he will be here in a moment.’
‘I will go and see if I can find out where he is,’ Ambrose mumbled, wiping the doughnut crumbs from his shirt as he stood up. Lumbering round the table, he fled the room.
‘I’ve tried his mobile,’ Roche piped up. ‘It’s going to voicemail.’
‘He’s only a few minutes late,’ Buck snapped. ‘I’m sure that he is on his way.’
‘If he doesn’t turn up,’ Geoff said cheerily, ‘the hearing will have to be rescheduled.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ Buck retorted, looking up at Ambrose as he reappeared.
Ambrose shook his head. ‘Can’t get hold of him.’
‘We’ll give him half an hour,’ said Geoff, putting as much authority into his voice as he could manage.
Carlyle went back to surfing the net. He had just finished reading a story about the latest government peer accused of tax dodging when a mobile phone started ringing behind him.
‘Commander Simpson . . . yes, I see. Where? Okay, I will be right there.’ Ending her call, Simpson got to her feet and stepped forward to the desk, to address Buck and Ambrose Watson. ‘I am afraid that Commander Dugdale will not be coming this morning,’ she said, placing a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder, ‘so this hearing will need to be rescheduled.’ Not waiting for a response, she turned to Carlyle. ‘Inspector, I need you and Sergeant Roche to come with me now, please.’
Five minutes later, the three of them were squashed into the back seat of a police BMW, moving slowly through the semi-gridlocked London traffic.
Stopped at a red light, the driver turned to face Simpson. ‘I’ll get us on to the Embankment and go along the river.’
‘Fine,’ the Commander nodded. ‘Do the best you can. We’re not in that much of a hurry.’
‘Where are we going?’ Roche asked.
‘Docklands,’ said Simpson. Before she could elucidate, her phone started ringing. While she answered it, the inspector stared out of the window at the barely moving city, letting his mind go blank as he did so.
Having taken off from City airport moments before, the British Airways jet sailed steadily past the window on its way to God knows where. On the thirtieth floor of the Norman Beresford Tebbit Tower in West India Quay, Carlyle watched it head south and wondered how long it would be before he could get back to ground level. Not a great one for heights, he looked down across Canary Wharf, Margaret Thatcher’s Gotham, and shuddered. Moving back from the floor-to-ceiling windows, he retraced his steps across the carpet of the sixty-five-foot reception/dining room and hovered outside the nearest of the four bedrooms. Inside, the forensics guys were still busy doing their thing.
‘You would have thought that they would have cut him down by now,’ said Roche, not quite managing to keep the amusement from her voice.
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle glanced back inside the room at the body of Gavin Dugdale and winced. The Commander had been tied with what looked like electrical flex to a ten-foot wooden cross, in the shape of an X, which stood against the back wall. Dugdale’s head was slumped against his left shoulder and there were traces of vomit around his mouth. The smell of different bodily fluids hung in the air and the area around the body looked like it had been hurriedly cleaned up. The rest of the room was strewn with various rubber accessories of different shapes and sizes.
‘Fat, naked and dead is not a good look,’ Roche murmured.
‘Not really,’ Carlyle agreed, disconcerted by the fact that he didn’t feel happier at Dugdale’s demise. Even though he was relieved to see the back of him, it was a terribly undignified way to go.
Roche’s smirk somehow made him feel worse as she gloated. ‘I guess his Press Officer won’t be trying to spin this one.’
‘No. Where is she?’
Roche nodded in the direction of the next bedroom. ‘She’s still next door. The forensics boys want her pink PVC underwear, so she’s getting changed before they take her away for questioning.’
‘Judith Mahon,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Met Press Officer by day, Mistress Nikita by night.’
‘Who’d have thought it?’ Roche laughed. ‘Such a mousey girl and she turns out to be the self-styled “most perverted dominatrix” in London. You should check out her website.’
‘No, thanks,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘I think I’ll leave that to you.’
Roche pulled out her BlackBerry and read from the screen. ‘It says here that she charges two hundred and fifty pounds an hour to inflict “extreme pain, humiliation and torture” on clients.’
‘I wonder if Dugdale got a mate’s rate?’
‘Maybe. Anyway, Mistress Nikita claims to be very good with CP – that’s Corporal Punishment to you – and an expert on bondage with ropes, leather, rubber and clingfilm.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Clingfilm?’
‘Yeah,’ said Roche, affecting an insouciant tone. ‘There’s a vacuum machine in one of the other bedrooms for wrapping clients up in airtight clingfilm.’
He thought about this for a moment. ‘Why?’
Roche shrugged. ‘Fuck knows.’ She returned to reading from the screen. ‘ “Beware, I am not a softie. I’m sadistic, intelligent and perverse. I’m a sadist of the worst kind. I have lots of tools to help me be creative to make each session one you will never forget”.’
‘On reflection,’ Carlyle remarked, ‘sounds like it might be worth a try.’
Roche dropped the BlackBerry back into her bag. ‘At the end of the day, it’s just a job, isn’t it? A way to make a living.’
‘It’s good to have something to fall back on,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘particularly at times like this.’
Simpson appeared from down the hallway. ‘I’m glad you two find this amusing.’ However, her stern words were undermined by the smile dancing around her lips.
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Funny old world.’
‘They were taking part in a torture session, apparently,’ said Simpson evenly, as if it were the most common thing in the world, ‘with another dominatrix who did a runner when our man pegged out.’
‘They did at least call 999,’ Roche interjected.
‘We think he may have choked on a rubber ball,’ Simpson continued, ‘or died after taking nitrous oxide.’
And when Carlyle looked mystified, Roche cheerily informed him: ‘It’s used as an anaesthetic to make sex sessions last longer.’
Carlyle felt his buttocks involuntarily tighten. ‘Nice.’
‘He was found wearing a leather “gimp” mask with a ball on a chain around his neck,’ Simpson said. ‘That was taken off when the ambulance crew tried to resuscitate him. Anyway, we’ll have to wait for the results of the post-mortem examination to know precisely what caused his death.’
‘Will the, erm, ladies be charged with anything?’ Carlyle asked.
‘That,’ said Simpson, ‘will ultimately be a matter for the CPS. If they’ve got any sense, they’ll not pursue it, but you never know.’
‘I wonder if his wife knew about his penchant for S&M?’ said Roche.
Simpson, herself well aware of the vagaries of married life, gave a sad smile. ‘Mrs Dugdale lives at the family home in Surrey; Gavin spent most of his time in London. I think they had been living separate lives for quite some time.’
‘Maybe,’ Roche replied, ‘but this is still gonna be a hell of a shock.’
Simpson gave her a
shit happens
shrug. ‘I think we need to take a look at how this will impact on your various ongoing investigations,’ she said.
‘Does this mean you’re coming back?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Looks like it.’ Simpson didn’t sound too happy at the prospect. ‘I’ve already been told by the higher-ups that that is the plan. I was due to go back to Canada at the weekend, but that’s now on hold.’
‘Great,’ said Carlyle happily. He quickly ran her through where they were on their different cases.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Roche when he’d finished. Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she headed for the door. ‘Time for lunch.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Carlyle objected as he followed her out, unable to imagine his appetite returning for quite some time.
FORTY-FOUR
Francis McGowan lit up a Dorchester Superking and started puffing vigorously.
Taking a step away from the smoke, Abigail Slater shot him an irritated look. ‘I didn’t know that you smoked.’
‘I have many vices,’ said the priest grimly.
Slater took a seat in one of the pews, shivering against the cold. ‘Are you even allowed to smoke in here?’
McGowan shrugged and took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘I can’t believe they didn’t sack that policeman,’ he said bitterly.
‘Don’t fret,’ Slater told him. ‘The hearing was postponed because one of the panel didn’t turn up. They’ll reschedule it in another week or two.’
‘I could be in jail by then.’
Most probably
, thought Slater. ‘Possibly. But there’s no point in worrying about that right now.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’ After taking a final drag, McGowan tossed the butt onto the flagstone floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Bending down, he picked up the remains of the cigarette and placed it carefully in the pocket of his trousers. ‘They’ll put me in with the kiddie-fiddlers.’
Slater yawned. ‘You should have thought about that before you paid a fifteen-year-old boy to give you oral sex. I am sure we will be able to get this all sorted,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was still interested in her client. ‘The policeman will be discredited and we will get the charges against you dropped.’
‘But how?’ McGowan wailed. The door to the church opened and a gaunt and tired-looking young woman appeared. Nodding nervously at McGowan and Slater, she hurried past. McGowan waited for her to light a candle and begin her prayers before turning back to Slater. ‘Even if you do,’ he breathed, ‘Wagner says they will kick me out of here.’
‘What?’
‘The Monsignor has told me that it is time to move on.’ McGowan gave her a pained look. ‘It is not right.’
Slater half-suppressed a snort of laughter. The capacity of some people for self-delusion never ceased to amaze.
‘I have been here almost twenty years,’ the priest continued, his voice rising. ‘This is my home. I am too old to go anywhere else.’
‘The Monsignor has to look at the interests of everyone.’
‘But it is just not right!’ McGowan repeated, going red in the face. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his cigarettes again and fumbled with the packet before pulling one out and sticking it in his mouth. ‘You must speak to him.’
Slater looked at him expressionlessly.
‘You must!’ McGowan hissed, still searching for his lighter. A look of desperation – or was it low cunning? – appeared in his eyes. ‘Otherwise,’ he croaked, ‘who knows what I might have to say to the police?’
‘Okay,’ Slater sighed, struggling to believe that the devious old sod was trying to strong-arm her. ‘I will see what I can do.’
The inspector reluctantly followed Roche to a Costa Coffee on Canary Wharf’s North Colonnade, cradling a double espresso while his sergeant tucked into an oversized ham and egg bloomer awash in tomato sauce.