Happily
, thought Carlyle as he pocketed the brooch,
my wife isn
’
t that kind of woman.
The boat pulled up at the Zoo stop and people started getting off. Cole shooed him away. ‘Now off you go, before I start shooting.’
‘Eh?’ Carlyle hesitated and immediately felt the barrel of the gun against his spine once again.
‘Go on,’ Cole hissed. ‘And don’t even think about trying to get help. You really don’t want to piss me off. There are still women and children on this boat.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Getting to his feet, the inspector joined the queue of passengers disembarking, shuffling along the length of the boat and stepping onto the concrete jetty. A path led up a small wooded incline, leading to the zoo. Checking that Cole hadn’t followed him, he jogged up the path, jumping behind the first big tree he could find. Pleased with himself for carrying two phones, he pulled out his BlackBerry and found Roche’s number. Hitting call, he heard it ring twice before he dropped off the network. ‘Shit!’ Realizing that he only had one bar of signal, he sprinted up the hill and tried again. This time, the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Fuck!’ Ignoring the dirty look of a woman passing with her kids, he ended the call and hit the number for the desk at the station.
He listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity. ‘C’mon! C’mon!’
Finally, someone picked up. ‘Charing Cross police station,’ said a weary voice.
‘Who’s that?’ Carlyle demanded.
There was a pause. ‘What?’
‘This is Carlyle,’ he said angrily, struggling to keep his frustration in check. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Oh, okay, Inspector. This is Butler.’
‘Butler,’ Carlyle sighed. Sergeant Robert Butler was a Brummie who had been stationed at Charing Cross for a little over six months. It was a fate that seemed to bemuse and dismay him in equal measure, as if he had landed in London by accident and couldn’t manage to find his way home. Even by the standards of the Metropolitan Police, he was somewhat thick. Telling himself to speak clearly and s-l-o-w-l-y, Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Listen carefully. We have a very serious situation. This is what I need you to do . . .’
Putting the phone down on the sergeant, Carlyle wondered what
his
next step should be. As he did so, his phone went off in his hand. When he saw it was Simpson, he answered. ‘We’ve got a big problem,’ he said immediately. Before she could say anything, he quickly outlined the situation. As he did so, he saw another narrowboat approaching the jetty.
‘I’ll get straight over there,’ said Simpson.
‘See you there.’ Skipping back down the hill, the inspector jumped onto the jetty as the bright red boat, with
Bert’s Boat Trips
emblazoned on the side, pulled up. Happily, there was no one else waiting to embark. Carlyle counted six passengers, plus the skipper, or whatever he was called, already on board. Pulling out his warrant card, he leaped on board.
The boatman, a middle-aged guy in a green jumper and Breton cap, waved at him furiously with one hand while keeping the other on the tiller. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Police!’ Carlyle shouted, waving the warrant card above his head. ‘Everybody off! Now!’
A couple of passengers who were getting off anyway quickly shuffled onto the jetty. The remaining group, four women who appeared to be together, sat there like lemons.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carlyle, trying not to sound too short, ‘but I need the rest of you to get off as well, please.’
‘What’s going on?’ the skipper demanded, still controlling the tiller.
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’ll explain in a moment, sir,’ he said, trying, and failing, to muster a smile. ‘First, I need to get these people off the boat.’
‘But we’ve paid to go all the way,’ a woman protested.
Carlyle grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but this is a police matter.’ He shoved his ID in front of her face. ‘We are very grateful for your cooperation. I am sure we can sort out a refund later.’
‘This is outrageous,’ the woman harrumphed, taking to the role of ringleader like a hippo to water.
Carlyle changed tack, trying the obsequious approach. ‘I’m very sorry. It is an emergency.’
The woman couldn’t have looked any more irritated if someone had just taken her lunch away from her. With much huffing and puffing, she got to her feet. ‘C’mon, girls,’ she said with a weary shake of her head. ‘If the
policeman
says we need to get off, we’d better get off.’
‘Don’t want to get arrested, do we?’ one of her friends said.
Fatso glared at Carlyle. ‘No, we wouldn’t want that at all.’
Ushering them off, Carlyle moved to the back of the boat.
‘You’d better have a good explanation for this,’ complained the skipper.
‘You’re not gonna believe it,’ said Carlyle with a wry grin. ‘Get me to Maida Vale, full steam ahead, and I’ll explain on the way.’
Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle stood next to the skipper as they chugged along in ‘hot pursuit’ of Trevor Cole. ‘How fast does this thing go?’ he asked over the spluttering engine.
‘Top speed?’ the skipper asked. ‘Maybe twelve miles an hour.’
Great
, thought Carlyle, tapping his foot nervously against the deck.
That’s just fucking great
.
Twelve miles an hour proved to be somewhat ambitious. In the event, it took them just over fifteen minutes to reach the end of the line. As they approached the Maida Vale stop, Carlyle studied the scene of confusion and felt a chill run through his guts. The jetty had been sealed off, and heavily armed police were holding everyone on the Capital Waterbus boat. He could see at least two passengers half out of their seats filming the scene on their mobile phones. For all he knew, the whole fucking thing could be going out live on Sky News. But, try as he might, he couldn’t make out Trevor Cole and his West Ham United baseball cap. He signalled to the
Bert
’s skipper to pull up and let him off as far away from the other craft as possible. To say that the situation needed careful handling was a bit of an understatement. Another fiasco was the last thing he needed right now.
Jumping onto the wooden jetty, Carlyle skirted round the cordon until he found a burly sergeant with a spectacular handlebar moustache who seemed to be overseeing the operation. Flipping out his ID, he introduced himself.
The sergeant pointed to a slim blonde woman standing by the boat with her back to them. ‘DI Kent is in charge,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heading off towards the woman. Hands on hips, Kent was wearing jeans and a leather biker jacket. He was just contemplating her arse when she turned towards him, a grim smile on her face.
‘Carlyle?’ She offered him a firm handshake, ‘I’m DI Kent. It looks like your guy is not on board. The skipper says he jumped off just after they left the Zoo. We’ve sent some people over there to take a look.’
‘Shit!’
‘A preliminary search of the boat has found no weapons,’ Kent continued. ‘We will, of course, take statements from all of the passengers, but no one seems to have seen a man with a gun.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘We need to make sure that all airports and ports are alerted about this guy. I am sure he will try to leave the country as soon as possible.’
‘Already done.’ Carole Simpson appeared at his shoulder and introduced herself to Kent. ‘All the necessary authorities have been alerted. I’m sure we will have Mr Cole in custody in short order.’
Carlyle wasn’t sure about that at all, but he kept his peace.
‘So,’ said Simpson, smiling at Kent, ‘I am sure you can handle things here. I need Inspector Carlyle to come with me.’
Clearly not happy at being left to clean up someone else’s mess, Kent said stiffly, ‘Of course. Thank you, Commander.’
‘Good,’ said Simpson. Taking Carlyle by the arm, she wheeled the inspector around and led him off the jetty at a brisk pace.
Sitting in the back of Simpson’s staff BMW, Carlyle turned to his boss. ‘Thanks for getting me out of that.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ Simpson said wryly. ‘A key part of the job description.’
Carlyle stared out of the window. It had started to rain and London was at its grim, grey worst. ‘The guy had a gun. I don’t know what else I could have done.’
‘The question is more why you went for a rendezvous with a suspected murderer on your own,’ Simpson observed, ‘
without
any back-up.’
‘Mm.’
‘But,’ the Commander sighed, ‘we won’t go there.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No need for thanks. It’s nice to come back and know that some things never change.’
‘How do you mean?’
Simpson laughed. ‘I come back from Canada and Inspector John Carlyle is still pushing back the boundaries of modern policing.’
He gave her a quizzical look.
‘Who else can say they’ve ever had a barge-chase?’
Carlyle grinned. ‘I think you’ll find that they were, in fact, narrowboats.’
‘Either way,’ chuckled Simpson, ‘it was quite an achievement, even by your standards.’
Carlyle laughed along with her.
‘I had a call from Superintendent Buck this morning,’ said Simpson, moving the conversation on. ‘Your hearing is now going to take place the week after next.’
‘Conveniently after the Pope has been and gone.’
Simpson shook her head. ‘I know you have a very high opinion of yourself, John, but I don’t think you were ever going to have much impact on a state visit by His Holiness.’
‘Maybe not,’ Carlyle conceded.
‘Anyway,’ Simpson continued, ‘it is totally in the IIC’s hands, now that Dugdale has shuffled off his mortal coil. I presume that means it will be Buck’s show. Hopefully, Ambrose will still be in attendance.’
Carlyle coughed. ‘Do I have anything to worry about?’
Simpson looked at him carefully. ‘Not if you didn’t beat up your suspect, no.’
FORTY-SIX
Purring with delight, Christian Holyrod fell back onto the bed and gazed up at the ceiling. The Royal Suite of the Savoy was very much to his taste. One of the great London landmarks, a hundred-million-pound restoration of the Edwardian and Art Deco hotel provided him with an oasis of elegance and glamour that was truly worthy of his new paramour. Unzipping his trousers, he pulled out his flaccid penis and began masturbating lazily.
A look of disgust flashed across Abigail Slater’s face. ‘You never stop, do you? Put that bloody thing away!’
Holyrod forced himself upright. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, dick still in hand.
‘I want a drink.’
‘Fine.’ If Holyrod felt rather miffed by her attitude, it didn’t seem to bother his cock, which was now almost good to go. He gestured towards the mini-bar. ‘Help yourself. But I’ve only got half an hour.’
Turning away from him, Slater grabbed a couple of miniatures of Smirnoff Black and dumped the contents into a 50ml glass. Throwing back her head, she downed the contents in a single gulp.
‘Feel better now?’ Holyrod asked hopefully.
Looking at him in the mirror on the wall above the mini-bar, she shook her head. ‘I just don’t feel in the mood.’
Holyrod began to soften. ‘What?’ he said, a hint of desperation entering his voice. ‘Not even a quick blowjob?’
With no more vodka on hand, Slater started on the Gordon’s. ‘You didn’t sort out the policeman,’ she said abruptly.
‘For God’s sake!’ Holyrod threw himself back onto the bed in exasperation. ‘I’m the fucking Mayor!’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t go round interfering with police investigations just because . . . because . . .’
‘Because I’m a good shag?’ said Slater angrily, attacking the gin with gusto.
‘Hah!’ Holyrod laughed. ‘I’ve had better,’ he said meanly, immediately regretting the lie.
‘Fuck you!’ Slater screamed, hurling the now empty glass at his head. Taking evasive action, he fell off the bed just as the tumbler smashed against the headboard.
Lying on the carpet, he listened to her storm out of the suite. ‘That went well,’ he said to himself, as the door clicked shut. Slowly, he got to his feet. Tucking himself back into his trousers, he opened the minibar to see what was left to drink.
Tomorrow is the day
, Carlyle thought nervously, as he gazed at Helen sitting on the sofa, concentrating on her Sudoku puzzle.
Either we get the all clear, breathe a sigh of relief and get on with our lives or . . . not
.
If it turned out that Helen didn’t have the faulty BRCA2 gene, Carlyle knew that, for him at least, the whole thing would be ancient history in a matter of days.
On the other hand, if she did have it, he would plough on trying to fight the problem head on.
But what if they fought and lost?
Looking up from the paper, Helen caught him staring. ‘Stop spying on me,’ she ordered. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’
‘N-no, of course not,’ he stammered, embarrassed. He pointed at her empty mug on the coffee table. ‘Want some more tea?’
She shook her head. ‘For God’s sake, John! Just leave me in peace. Go to bed . . . or go and find something to do.’
Without another word, he padded into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, he checked out the back cover of the latest Commissario Brunetti novel, which he had been saving for a moment when he could give it the attention that it deserved. The prospect of a couple of hours in Venice before bed filled him with some kind of happiness, and he managed a half-smile as he placed the book on the worktop and pulled a bag of green tea from the box on top of the microwave. Dropping the bag into a chipped Fulham FC mug, a Christmas present from his daughter several years earlier, he added boiling water. Just as he was removing the bag, his phone started ringing. Tossing the bag into the sink, he pulled the handset out of his pocket.
‘Carlyle.’
‘John, it’s Rose Scripps.’ The background traffic noise told him that she was out on the street.
‘Hi.’
‘Apologies for calling you so late.’
‘No problem.’ Carlyle took a sip of his scalding tea and winced. ‘What can I do for you?’