Ducking through the back streets at a brisk pace, it took them less than five minutes to make it back to the station. Walking through the entrance lobby, Carlyle caught the eye of Desk Sergeant Kevin Price who was taking a break from reading the
Sun
in order to survey his domain. Price’s grim expression suggested that the problem in B3 was growing.
‘Trouble?’ Carlyle asked.
Price nodded. ‘Francis McGowan’s lawyer, a woman called Abigail Slater.’
Oh, bloody hell.
Carlyle made a face. ‘I know her. At least, I know
of
her. Ambulance-chaser de luxe.’
‘She’s already asked for a doctor for her client and informed me that she will be making a formal complaint.’
Big surprise.
‘Have you got one?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Weber.’
‘Okay.’ That, at least, was a sliver of good news. Carlyle had known Dr Thomas Weber for three or four years. He was a stereotypical efficient German, with more than his fair share of good sense. At the very least, he would do nothing to make the situation worse. ‘When he gets here, tell him to wait till we call him down.’
Price looked doubtfully at Carlyle but nodded.
Appearing at his shoulder, Roche ushered him past the desk and down the corridor leading to the basement. ‘Let me deal with this,’ she said, once Price was out of earshot.
Stopping at the top of the stairs, Carlyle looked at her, surprised.
‘I’ll handle Slater,’ she said, a gentle insistence in her voice. ‘You go upstairs and get going on your report.’
Carlyle started to protest, then thought better of it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s no problem,’ she said, slipping down the stairs and out of sight.
Sitting next to Father Francis McGowan, Abigail Slater cut an imperious figure. Even sitting down, it was clear that she was an unusually tall woman. At well over six foot, she towered over her client. Thin, but not too thin, in a well-cut black suit and pearl-white blouse buttoned at the neck, her hard grey eyes locked on Roche as the sergeant entered the interview room. Sipping from a small bottle of Evian, Slater suspiciously watched the policewoman take a seat at the table. Slouched in his seat, looking half-asleep, McGowan failed to acknowledge her arrival.
‘Where is Inspector Carlyle?’ the lawyer asked, replacing the cap on the plastic bottle. ‘We have been waiting . . .’ she glanced at an expensive-looking watch, ‘a ridiculously long time.’
‘The inspector,’ said Roche primly, not offering her hand, ‘is attending to other matters. I am his colleague, Alison Roche. I will be conducting this part of the interview.’
Taking a business card from the pocket of her jacket, Slater passed it across the table.
Roche picked up the card.
Abigail Slater, Director, Catholic Legal Network
. ‘What’s the Catholic Legal Network?’
‘I am Father McGowan’s legal representative,’ Slater replied. She pointed at the priest. ‘As you can see, my client has been viciously assaulted.’
Roche looked at McGowan’s face. Happily, apart from some red marks on his neck, there was no sign of any bruising. She kept her expression studiously neutral and said nothing.
‘I have asked for a doctor.’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘And I want the tape of the interview,’ Slater pointed at the remains of the security camera hanging from the wall, ‘before your colleague went berserk and smashed the equipment.’ Biting her lip, she tried to suppress a smirk. ‘As you must be aware, this will signal the immediate end of his career in the police force.’ She tapped the file of papers on the desk in front of her with a ruby-red nail. ‘Criminal charges will undoubtedly follow.’
Roche took a deep breath and told herself to remain calm. ‘The camera has been out of service for several weeks now,’ she said evenly. ‘Your allegations are extremely serious. They will, of course, be investigated thoroughly.’
Slater nodded, waiting politely for the ‘
but
’.
Roche, knowing that she was not going to disappoint, allowed herself the smallest of smiles. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I have been present when your client has been interviewed and I can confirm that he has been properly treated at all times.’
Rousing himself, McGowan started to protest but the lawyer put a firm hand on his arm. ‘Has he now?’ she said softly.
‘Yes, he has.’
‘I hope you’re sure about that, Sergeant. Or maybe the inspector won’t be the only one facing charges.’
‘I would remind you,’ Roche said sternly, ‘that we are investigating the case of a young boy who has gone missing – a young boy who, along with several others, has made some extremely grave allegations against your client.’
‘Petty gossip,’ the lawyer said dismissively. ‘Across the whole world, there is hardly a priest left who hasn’t been accused of something. These days, we are just an easy target.’
Roche pulled her up. ‘We?’
‘The Church.’
‘Ah.’ Roche nodded, happy to move the conversation away from Carlyle.
‘The Church gets the blame for everything.’ Slater waved a careless hand in the air. ‘Invariably, it’s just people jumping on the bandwagon, trying to make some easy money.’
Roche looked at McGowan and then back to his lawyer. ‘Your client, however, has a criminal record.’
‘Which is unfortunate,’ the lawyer conceded, ‘but that was all a long time ago. It is a matter of historical interest only.’
‘I see.’
‘It does not,’ Slater said angrily, ‘justify this ongoing campaign of police harassment, culminating in his arrest last night and today’s outrageous behaviour by your colleague.’
‘Father McGowan is refusing to assist with our enquiries,’ Roche said stiffly. ‘What does he have to hide?’
‘He is not in a position to help,’ said Slater, ignoring the complaint. ‘He knows nothing.’
Roche pocketed the lawyer’s business card and got to her feet. ‘I will send Dr Weber down when he arrives,’ she said, pulling open the door. ‘After he has examined your client, you are free to go. We will be in touch.’
The warning shot went off less than a foot from her head. When the ringing stopped, Paula realized that she was deaf in her left ear. Through the haze of an appalling headache, she watched people fleeing down the street from the advancing gunmen. They were heading south, moving steadily towards Piccadilly. Paula thought that she could hear the police sirens getting closer, but she wasn’t sure. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down an empty alleyway. At the bottom was a cobbled courtyard, just off Avery Row. At the far end was a slightly wider exit, leading on to what Paula knew was Grosvenor Street. In the courtyard was a black London taxi cab and a navy Vespa 125 cc scooter.
The white guy pulled open the back of the taxi and poked her inside, jumping in behind her and closing the door. ‘Act normal, bitch,’ he ordered.
Paula glanced in the rearview mirror to see the black guy hand the plastic bag full of jewellery to a third guy in a crash helmet, who stuck it in the helmet box on the back of the scooter.
‘Hey!’ Sticking his gun into the waistband of his trousers, the white guy reached across the seat and gave her a slap around the back of the head. ‘The less you see, the less trouble you’re in.’
Paula obediently lowered her gaze.
‘That’s more like it.’
Keeping her eyes on the floor, Paula listened to the scooter move carefully out of the courtyard and into heavy traffic. Once she could no longer make out the sound of the scooter’s engine above the general hum of traffic noise, she lifted her eyes. Despite the ringing in her ears, she could clearly hear the police and ambulance sirens now. They seemed to be coming from all directions.
The net’s closing in
, Paula thought. She suddenly realized that might not be a good thing and felt her stomach do a somersault. Once again, she squeezed her legs together and hoped that her bladder would not give out.
‘Just look fucking normal.’ The white guy tried to smile, but all Paula could see was the tension etched across his face.
‘Let’s go.’ Jumping behind the wheel, the black guy reached under the seat and pulled out a Chelsea baseball cap. Ramming it down on his head, the brim over his eyes, he started the ignition. There was a loud click as the passenger doors were locked. Switching off the ‘For Hire’ sign, he carefully steered the cab out of the courtyard.
FIVE
On the third floor the inspector sat at his desk and reread the email from his union, the Police Federation. Reading it for a third time, he shook his head in frustration.
‘Wankers!’ he said aloud. Ignoring the disapproving glance of a passing WPC, he hit the print button. After about five seconds, a printer called ‘Vigilance’ on the far side of the floor wheezed into action. With a groan, he pushed himself out of his chair and went to collect the two sheets of A4 that it had started to spew out.
As he returned to his desk, he saw Roche appearing out of the lift. Folding one copy of the email, he dropped it in the pocket of his jacket, which was hung on the back of his chair. The other he handed to his sergeant as she approached him.
‘What’s this?’ Roche asked, taking the piece of paper.
‘It’s a memo from the Federation,’ Carlyle said flatly, ‘about voluntary redundancies.’ It had been more than three months since the Commissioner, a political appointee unpopular with many officers, had announced that the Met would have to make sizeable job cuts in the wake of the never-ending financial crisis that was affecting the whole of the public sector. Since then, everyone had been waiting for information about numbers and, more importantly, what that might mean for their own job.
Roche screwed up her face. ‘This won’t affect us, will it?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Roche looked blankly at the paper in her hand. ‘Jesus.’
Carlyle tried to offer what reassurance he could. ‘I haven’t really been through anything like this before,’ he said, ‘but I think it’s very unlikely that you have got much to worry about.’
She looked at him doubtfully.
‘Your career is clearly on an upward path,’ he continued. ‘They will definitely want to keep you.’
‘What about you?’
That’s a different equation altogether
, he thought dolefully. ‘Basically,’ he said, pointing at the email, ‘the Federation are saying, if you get anything from HR, do nothing without talking to them first.’
Roche folded the sheet of A4 and folded it again before stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Thanks.’
‘It’s nothing. The important thing is not to worry about it. Just be aware of what the Federation are saying.’
‘Makes sense,’ she nodded, flopping into a nearby chair.
‘So,’ said Carlyle, as he sat back down at his desk, ‘McGowan’s lawyer. What’s she like?’
Roche stuck a hand into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out Abigail Slater’s business card. ‘She comes across as your bog standard corporate bitch,’ she said, reaching forward and tossing the card onto Carlyle’s desk.
Picking up the card, Carlyle laughed. ‘Alpha female, you mean?’
‘Whatever.’ Roche sighed. ‘They’re ten a penny these days. All they do is show that, given the chance, women can be just as rubbish as men.’
Carlyle chuckled. ‘You liked her then?’
Roche shot him a frosty look. ‘She and the priest certainly made an odd couple. I need to see what I can find out about the Catholic Legal Network but, basically, she just seems like your average smug lawyer with God on her side.’
‘And McGowan?’
‘Father McGowan,’ Roche glanced around the room and lowered her voice, ‘looks like he’s in reasonable shape, given you tried to beat the crap out of him not so long ago.’
‘I didn’t beat the crap out of him.’ Carlyle wagged an admonishing finger at his sergeant. ‘It was just a bit of role play to help him forget about the circumstances of his arrest.’
‘Whatever,’ Roche said, yawning. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Weber will be able to write it up the right way and then basically it will be a case of our word against his.’
‘Two upstanding police officers versus a bent priest.’
‘Exactly,’ Roche said. ‘I think it’ll be fine.’
The phone on Carlyle’s desk started ringing. The inspector hesitated. On the one hand, he wanted to go home. This would be the first time he’d managed to have dinner with his wife and daughter in almost a week. On the other hand, getting one over on the pervert priest had given him a smidgeon of job satisfaction for the first time in a while. He picked up the phone on the sixth ring.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Inspector, it’s Kevin Price downstairs.’
‘Yes?’ Carlyle’s bonhomie, which rarely if ever extended to the front desk, evaporated. He looked at Roche warily.
‘We’ve reports of shots fired at a jewellery store on New Bond Street,’ said the desk sergeant matter-of-factly. ‘Uniforms have left already.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘I’ve got Roche here with me – we’re on our way.’
The black cab gently nosed into the heavy rush-hour traffic on Grosvenor Street, heading west in the direction of Hyde Park. Paula held her breath as she watched a police Range Rover, siren blazing, racing towards them, forcing its way down the gap in the middle of the two-lane road as drivers pulled over to either kerb. As it sped past, she was just in time to see it turn into New Bond Street before she let out a whimper.
‘Result!’ The driver smacked a triumphant palm against the steering wheel.
Sitting next to her in the back, the white guy patted her thigh. ‘Don’t worry love,’ he leered. ‘It’s almost over.’
SIX
Bond Street was named after Sir Thomas Bond, a follower of King Charles II. Old Bond Street was laid out in 1686 and was extended towards Oxford Street to the north in 1721, when it became New Bond Street. Once a street of private homes for the gentry of Georgian London, it had long since been home to a range of luxury retailers and art dealers. Specializing in ‘the accessories of gracious living’, St James’s Diamonds had occupied the nineteenth-century stucco townhouse at number 122 since 1971. Now the place looked like a battle zone. Stepping carefully through the shattered glass on the pavement, Carlyle glanced up at the small Royal coat-of-arms above the door. Squinting, he made out the legend below the crest:
By Royal Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Buying and selling the loveliest jewellery for over two hundred years.
With a nod, the inspector flashed his warrant card at the uniform by the door and stepped inside.