‘All in all, that’s a bit of a result,’ said Roche, swallowing the last of her sandwich and wiping the corners of her mouth to remove stray traces of ketchup.
‘The sandwich?’ Carlyle asked obtusely.
‘No,’ Roche said primly, taking a mouthful of her latte. ‘Dugdale’s Jesus impersonation.’
‘I think it was more like St Andrew,’ Carlyle corrected her, thinking of the Patron Saint of Scotland, crucified on an X-shaped cross, or saltire, as he deemed himself unworthy to be crucified on the same type of cross as the Son of God.
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Whatever. His timing was perfect.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Bit of a sad way to go.’
‘I can think of a lot worse,’ Roche protested.
‘Yes, but even so.’
Roche frowned. ‘But you hated the bastard.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘But I don’t need to hate him any more – do I?’
‘Doesn’t sound like you,’ Roche grunted.
Carlyle rubbed a hand over his face. ‘There’s a saying that if you sit by the side of the river long enough, you’ll see the bodies of your enemies floating by.’
Roche almost choked on her coffee. ‘How very . . .
philosophical
of you,’ she said.
‘I’ve found it a very helpful thought down the years,’ Carlyle explained, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘They float away and you forget about them. It’s better than revenge. The inevitability of the process makes it very soothing.’
‘If you say so, Chief.’ Roche grinned. ‘The question is: what will it mean for your disciplinary hearing?’
‘Simpson will sort it out.’
Roche looked at him carefully. ‘You two are quite close, aren’t you?’
Suddenly Carlyle felt quite defensive. ‘I wouldn’t say
close
,’ he replied, ‘but we’ve worked together a long time.’
‘She seems to put up with a lot of your crap.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘She’s a smart officer, just like you.’
Roche stared into her empty latte glass. ‘Now who’s taking the piss?’
Carlyle finished his espresso, placing the demitasse back on its saucer.
‘Anyway,’ said Roche slowly, still not looking up, ‘Dugdale did do one thing before heading off to the great sex dungeon in the sky.’
‘Yeah?’ Carlyle asked, knowing what was coming next.
Finally looking up, Roche gave him an apologetic smile. ‘My move to SO15 has been confirmed.’
‘Congratulations.’ Leaning forward, Carlyle patted her on the arm. ‘Well done. I know that’s what you wanted.’
‘My start date is still to be confirmed, but I should be moving in something like six weeks.’
‘Okay.’
‘You’re not pissed off?’ She sounded a little miffed that he was taking it so calmly.
‘Nah. You told me it was on the cards. It’s good. I’m happy for you.’
‘Thanks.’
The awkward silence was broken by Carlyle’s mobile, which started vibrating in his pocket. Grabbing the handset, he opened the text message that had just arrived in his inbox.
I know you
’
ve been trying to get hold of me. Am at the usual spot.
Carlyle reread the message and laughed. ‘That’s ballsy,’ he said to himself.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Got to run. Something’s come up. I’ll see you back at the station.’
Crossing her arms, Abigail Slater scanned the room, letting her gaze glide over the blank face of Eddie Wood and the slightly more reptilian features of Monsignor Joseph Wagner. This was a meeting she knew that she didn’t want to be in. Annoyed at herself for being in the room, she toyed with the idea of just getting up and walking out. But she felt crippled by an unusual indecision, mixed with morbid curiosity.
Looking at Slater, Wagner cleared his throat. ‘Edward . . .’
‘Eddie,’ the boy corrected him, sucking greedily on a can of Sprite as he leaned backwards on his chair.
‘Eddie. I know that this has been a difficult time.’
Eddie shrugged, as if ‘difficult’ was simply his lot.
‘And I know that the way the police have abused your trust must make it very hard for you to engage with reputable figures of authority.’
Eddie gave him an uncomprehending look.
This is not going to work
, Slater thought, relaxing a little.
Wagner took a deep breath and ploughed on. ‘But we are entering a very important time.’
Slowly, Eddie sat back upright. ‘How much?’ he said, scowling.
Wagner frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Eddie came up with his best attempt at a smile. ‘You want me to withdraw my statement and bugger off, don’t you?’
‘Father McGowan,’ Wagner said quietly, ‘will be retiring soon. It is surely best for all concerned that we deal with this matter with the minimum of fuss. You should take time to think things through before deciding whether or not to go public with any lurid claims.’
Eddie let out a loud burp. ‘How much?’
Wagner took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. ‘I am authorized to offer you five thousand—’
‘Ten!’ Eddie shouted gleefully.
Exasperated, Wagner looked at Slater. The lawyer gave him a wry smile. ‘It looks, Monsignor,’ she said, ‘as if you have a negotiation on your hands.’
Jumping to his feet, Eddie reached across the desk and grabbed the envelope. ‘Five now, five this time next week. I’ll lie low until then, and if you come up with the rest of the cash, I’ll go and tell Plod that I’m withdrawing my statement.’ Stuffing the envelope into the front pocket of his jeans, he offered Wagner a hand. ‘Deal?’
Ignoring the hand, the Monsignor signalled his assent with the curtest of nods.
‘Good.’ Eddie slouched his way towards the door. ‘Ten grand – sweet!’ He winked at Wagner. ‘Keep up your end and I might even throw in a free blowjob.’
As Eddie disappeared into the night, Wagner shook his head. ‘What kind of a child is that? With the morals of the gutter . . .’
Slater was already on her feet, about to make her exit. ‘That’s the kind of child that you’re doing deals with,’ she said contemptuously, ‘to protect yourself from the truth.’
‘The world,’ Wagner smiled sadly, ‘is a complicated place.’
‘Yes,’ said Slater, ‘I suppose it is.’ At the door, the lawyer remembered her promise to McGowan to raise the issue of his proposed banishment from London. Pausing, she half-turned back towards Wagner.
‘Is there anything else?’ the Monsignor asked.
Slater thought about it for a heartbeat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve got everything covered.’
Standing by Regent’s Canal, Carlyle nodded at the lone angler sitting on the towpath. Eating a cheese sandwich, the man eyed him suspiciously and didn’t return the greeting. Realizing that he’d been sent on a wild-goose chase, the inspector stood pawing the stone while a pair of cyclists wobbled past. Undecided as to his next move, he watched a Capital Waterbus open-topped narrowboat pull up to a nearby stop on its journey west towards Little Venice. There were a grand total of four passengers on board, and it was only when the boat had come to a stop that he realized that one of them was gesturing at him, telling him to get on. He was an old guy, sitting alone at the back, wearing a quilted Barbour jacket and a West Ham baseball cap pulled down low. Frowning, the inspector hesitated. When, exasperated, the man pushed up the peak of his cap to reveal his face, Carlyle finally recognized him.
Digging a fiver out of his pocket, he handed his fare over to the boat’s skipper and scrambled on board. Buttoning his jacket up against the cold, Carlyle made for the rear of the boat. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said, belatedly wondering if he should have arranged for some back-up.
‘That would have been a bit rude, wouldn’t it?’ Trevor Cole pulled his hand far enough out of the pocket of his jacket for Carlyle to be able to clearly see the grip of his semi-automatic. He gestured at the bench in front of him. ‘Sit there.’
Carlyle sat down, immediately feeling the barrel of the gun pushed firmly into the small of his back. ‘Put that away,’ he said as casually as he could manage. ‘Otherwise you’ll just cause panic.’
‘Okay.’
Carlyle felt the pressure on his spine lift. ‘Thanks.’
‘Keep your eyes front and don’t turn around. We’re just gonna have a little chat. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to behave yourself.’
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘No.’
Cole breathed into his ear as the boat resumed its journey: ‘Now, first things first. Give me your phone, please.’
After the slightest hesitation, Carlyle reached into his jacket, pulled out his private handset and handed it over. Cole looked at the cheap, pay-as-you-go phone with dismay. ‘You would have thought the police could afford something better than that,’ he quipped.
Shrugging, Carlyle said nothing.
‘Ah, well, at least it won’t cost so much to replace.’ Casually leaning across the side of the boat, Cole let the handset fall into the scummy water.
Carlyle shifted in his seat. He wondered what his chances were of reaching back and punching Cole’s lights out before he could get off a round. Reluctant to risk getting his nuts – or anything else – shot off, he settled for a question instead. ‘Is that the gun you used to shoot Kristin Lagerbäck with?’
‘Come on, Inspector,’ Cole scoffed. ‘This isn’t a Q&A session.’
What is it then?
Carlyle wondered. He looked around. They would be approaching Camden soon. More people would be getting on the boat. He had to try and get this nutter off the water and into custody without causing a fuss. ‘So what are we doing here?’
‘Another question,’ Cole sighed. ‘But I’ll indulge you. Let’s put it this way. I think you’re a good guy. You deserve to be told what happened.’
But I know what happened
, Carlyle thought.
You just want to show off
.
‘When I get off this boat,’ Cole continued, ‘that’ll be it. I’m off. No more London. I’ll enjoy a quiet retirement far away. Gotha Insurance will pay out on the shortfall and everyone will move on.’
‘Apart from the three people who died,’ Carlyle mused.
‘The girl from the store – well, that was an accident; not my fault. Carla deserved it – she was always a pain in the arse. Why my brother ever married her, I’ll never know. And as for that idiot boy of hers . . .’
‘He rolled over on you, by the way,’ Carlyle lied.
‘That doesn’t surprise me. No backbone at all. The same goes for his idiot friend for that matter.’
Not going to disagree with you on that one
, Carlyle thought.
‘But,’ Cole continued, ‘as you would expect, I factored that into my planning. If I’d been relying on Colin to keep his mouth shut, I would have deserved to get caught.’ As the boat approached the stop at Camden Lock, Carlyle saw a small knot of half-a-dozen tourists waiting to get on. Following his line of vision, Cole gave him a sympathetic pat on the back with his free hand. ‘Just sit tight, Inspector. This is not your stop. And, remember, don’t try anything funny. “Canal-boat slaughter” wouldn’t look too good on your CV, would it?’
Despite everything, Carlyle chuckled. ‘No. I suppose not.’
Leaning forward, Cole grinned happily. ‘You are a very pragmatic man, Inspector. That is why I thought we should have this meeting. I knew that you would take it all in good spirit and not try anything silly.’
FORTY-FIVE
Camden Lock was its usual dirty, tourist-infested self. Carlyle watched the new passengers clamber on board and waited for them to set off again. The boat was quite full now, with a couple sitting next to him chatting away happily in Spanish and a woman with a young boy of maybe six or seven in a row on the other side of the aisle. His window of opportunity, if it had ever existed, had gone.
Turning his head slightly towards Cole, he lowered his voice until it was barely audible over the spluttering engine. ‘I can hardly take three murders in good spirit.’
‘I explained the first two,’ said Cole huffily. ‘Miss Lagerbäck was, I admit, more gratuitous. I suppose I should have walked away, but she was always such an irritating cow, I just felt like it. Did you see that picture she had in her office? What a total narcissist.’
Great arse though
. ‘And the jewels?’
‘They were all pre-sold long before Colin and Damian went anywhere near St James’s. That’s the thing about my line of work – you have to know all the villains.’
Carlyle folded his arms. ‘Same for me.’
‘Exactly,’ said Cole, with the cheery air of a bloke enjoying his first good man-to-man chat in ages. ‘You didn’t do me any favours by recovering so much of the stuff. But my needs are modest and I’ve got more than enough to see me through the rest of my days.’
A thought struck Carlyle. ‘What about Mrs Cole?’
Cole grinned. ‘She’s under the floorboards in the kitchen, at home.’
‘What?’
The insurance man’s grin grew wider. ‘Only joking! Only joking! Mrs C and I got a divorce – ooh, must be more than twenty years ago now. Last I heard, she’d moved to Norwich.’
Poor woman
, thought Carlyle, genuinely horrified at the thought of anyone having to live beyond Zone One of the tube map. Up ahead, the huge aviary cages of London Zoo appeared on either side of the canal. Cole tapped Carlyle’s foot with the toe of his shoe. ‘This is your stop,’ he said. ‘I’ll be staying on. Don’t make a fuss and I won’t have to shoot anyone by accident.’
‘Understood,’ said Carlyle.
‘Good,’ Cole said cosily. ‘I’m glad we had this little chat. Aren’t you?’
Carlyle grunted. ‘Sure.’
‘I wanted to be able to give you closure.’
Maybe it’s a cry for help
, Carlyle thought.
Maybe he wants me to throw him in the canal so he can get caught on a shopping trolley and drown
.
‘Here.’ Cole reached over the inspector’s shoulder and pressed something into his hand.
Carlyle looked down at what looked like a little bug jewel. ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a small gift for you – a memento of our little adventure – an eighteen-carat gold, diamond and ruby bee brooch. That would set you back the best part of nine grand, retail price. Mrs Carlyle will love it.’