Never Apologise, Never Explain (19 page)

‘Which, presumably,’ Carlyle mused, ‘was tiny.’

‘Yeah.’ Dominic laughed. ‘What actually killed him was the hundred-foot fall off the top of his building.’

‘What an outstanding effort,’ Carlyle said, then: ‘How did you come by the video?’

‘Lots of people have it now,’ said Dominic. ‘Jerome’s acquaintances were unusually co-operative with the police. No one wanted to be accused of killing him.’

‘That’s understandable.’ When the video clip ended, Carlyle idly hit the play button and watched the final moments of Jerome Sullivan unfold again from the beginning. If you didn’t know what had happened, you wouldn’t have been able to say if the video was real or fake.

‘They’ll be wanting something to drink,’ Dominic said suddenly, nodding at the kids, who were running back towards them.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed. But that thought was quickly pushed aside as something else popped into his mind. He halted the Sullivan video once again and went back to the start. Letting it run for about five or six seconds, he paused at the point where one of the other men on the roof stuck his hands in the air in mock surrender. Squinting, he brought the phone closer to his face, until it was only about four inches from his nose. The quality of the image was poor, but, if you knew who you were looking at, you could make out the man’s face.

‘Dominic,’ he asked, ‘what’s Michael Hagger doing in this video?’

TWENTY

Suffer the little children, thought Carlyle, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

A-fucking-men to that.

Helen was been incandescent at having another Sunday interrupted. She had booked a yoga workshop for that afternoon and Carlyle had been supposed to take Alice to the zoo. But he had insisted, trying to explain to her that he was
obliged
to deal with this one. He had promised Amelia Jacobs that he would speak to Michael Hagger, to stop things getting out of control. But he hadn’t. And they had.

Jake had been picked up from nursery by his father almost a fortnight ago. Neither of them had been seen since. Except for Michael Hagger’s appearance in the video clip, which Carlyle now had stored on his phone. That afternoon he had spent some time in Kentish Town, trying to track Hagger down. Zero success. Now he had to go and face the music.

Sam Laidlaw lived less than five minutes’ walk away from Carlyle’s flat. Walking through Covent Garden, Carlyle counted nine A4-sized MISSING posters in shop windows or tied to lamp posts. The flyer had a blurred digital image of a frowning Jake Hagger, above a text that offered a £2,000 reward for information about the boy’s whereabouts. Carlyle had no idea who had put up the money, but he was fairly sure that it would never be claimed. Already, the posters had a grubby and forlorn look about them. Jake was a fairly nondescript kid, whose most memorable characteristic was that his mother was a hooker and his father an all-round, general purpose scumbag. He was most definitely not the kind of pretty, middle-class kid with articulate, professional parents who could drum up a large supply of media interest and public sympathy. His time in the media spotlight had been brief and perfunctory. Within a few hours, he was usurped in the news agenda by a mentally ill man who had climbed into the lion enclosure at London Zoo.

To the extent that it was doing anything at all, the police investigation was busy chasing dead ends. In any child disappearance case, 99 per cent of members of the public who came up with ‘information’ were simply time-wasters – psychics, visionaries, dreamers, nutters or ‘well-wishers’ who simply wanted to wallow in other people’s misery. Even these wretches had shown only a minimal interest in the disappearance of Jake Hagger. As far as the inspector was aware, there had been no decent leads at all. Sidestepping the tourists, and keeping out of the sun, Carlyle knew that those posters wouldn’t last another week.

Two minutes after arriving at Phoenix House, he found himself back on the same orange leather sofa that he had sat on during his last visit. This time it was dirtier, with even more stains and a new collection of cigarette burns on one arm. Sam Laidlaw sat in an armchair opposite him, staring doggedly at the carpet. Carlyle looked for improved signs of life but Laidlaw still looked like a zombie. Aside from the odd sniffle, she made no sound.

Amelia Jacobs was considerably more presentable. Dressed in black jeans and a grey, long-sleeved T-shirt, she paced the floor between them. Carlyle said nothing while Amelia gave him a hard stare, looking him up and down as if he was some John who couldn’t get it up. Finally she asked: ‘Did you ever talk to Michael?’

‘I did try.’ Carlyle leaned forward and gave her some proper eye contact. ‘I couldn’t find him.’ Not that I tried very hard, he thought. ‘Did you know a guy called Jerome Sullivan?’

Laidlaw made no sign of even hearing his question.

Jacobs frowned. ‘No. Why? Has he got something to do with this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle replied, ‘but I know Michael has been hanging out with him recently.’

‘He must be a right scumbag then,’ Amelia snapped. ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’

‘He’s dead,’ Carlyle said casually.

‘Great! So what are you going to do about it
now
?’ Amelia’s question was a reasonable one. If nothing else, he admired her determination. She seemed to be the only person who really cared about the kid. Even if Jake came back, he would go straight into the care of Camden Children’s Social Services. His mother had blown her last chance. It would be a miracle – or, rather, a scandal – if she ever got her kid back. Amelia knew all this already, but she would still not give up.

Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s not my case.’

‘The other guy,’ Amelia snorted, ‘doesn’t give a toss.’

‘Cutler?’

‘Yeah. A copper in search of a freebie, if I ever saw one.’

‘I spoke to him about the case the other evening.’

She looked doubtful. ‘And?’

‘And they are on top of everything,’ said Carlyle, parrying the query as best he could.

‘Right.’ Amelia looked as if she wanted to give him a slap. He couldn’t blame her.

‘I’m sure that they,’ Carlyle corrected himself, ‘that
we
will find him.’ The reality was that he wasn’t sure at all.

Amelia Jacobs balled her fists, her face locked into a brittle stare. ‘Someone has got to show some interest in this little boy.’

Giving up on the eye contact, Carlyle stared at his shoes.

‘Otherwise, it’s like the poor little sod never even existed.’

‘Yes.’

‘That bastard can’t have just vanished.’

‘No.’

‘It’s been weeks now . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

Carlyle stared harder at the floor. ‘I know.’ He did know. He could shut his eyes and paint a very clear picture in his head. But that didn’t mean he could do anything about it.

Waking the next morning, Carlyle watched Helen pad out of the bedroom to make a cup of green tea. Declining her offer of coffee, he got up, stretched and headed into the bathroom. After getting dressed, he decided on one last effort at conciliation. The TV was still playing, but Alice’s fifteen minutes were up and it was time for school. He wandered into the kitchen, where Helen stood gazing aimlessly out of the window at the London skyline, sipping her tea.

‘Why don’t I take Alice to school this morning?’ Carlyle suggested.

Helen turned to face him. ‘No need.’ She reached for the kettle and poured more hot water in her mug.

He looked at her carefully. This had to be a test. He needed to show more willing. ‘I don’t mind,’ he continued carefully. ‘It’ll give you a bit of extra time before work.’

Helen sipped her tea demurely. ‘Actually, I spoke to Alice about it yesterday, while you were out making your enquiries.’ A small smirk crossed her mouth. ‘She’s going on her own.’

‘What?’ A sense of panic flashed through Carlyle’s brain. How could his daughter be travelling across London on her own at her age? There were so many dangers; all those nutters and perverts, watching and waiting for an opportunity to prey on the innocent. Not to mention all the crazy white-van men itching to knock down any careless pedestrians. What the hell was Helen thinking about?

His wife watched these emotions flash across his face and fought to stop her grin getting wider. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

‘Fine?’

‘Yes. Alice, as if you hadn’t noticed, is a very sensible child. Anyway, she has to do it.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘She does?’

‘Yes. The term is almost finished. After the summer she’ll have to go on her own.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the school. We got a letter about it, remember?’

Carlyle grunted. He remembered various letters, but none in particular.

‘The school,’ Helen dropped her mug in the sink, ‘insists that all kids Alice’s age have to be able to go to school on their own. The Headmaster says it’s part of the process of becoming more independent as they grow up.’

‘Becoming more independent?’ Carlyle sniffed, not liking the sound of that one little bit.

‘Exactly.’ Helen put a hand on his arm. ‘You can’t remain a paranoid parent forever.’

Oh can’t I? Carlyle wondered. Just watch me.

Helen squeezed his arm gently. ‘She’s got to start sometime.’

‘I know, I know.’ Carlyle pressed his thumbs to his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. He really needed something to eat. Breakfast, however, would not solve his problem. Far worse than the dangers of the big, bad city (most of which, he knew, were just down to media hype and invention) was the realisation that the golden years were coming to an end. His daughter was leaving him behind.

Almost on cue, there was a call from the hall. ‘I’m off!’

Helen skipped out of the kitchen and gave Alice a hug. Carlyle sheepishly followed. He smiled at his daughter and tried to ignore the spasm of discomfort in his guts. ‘Go carefully.’

‘Yes, Dad!’

He looked her up and down. She looked younger in her uniform than she did in jeans and a T-shirt. He bit down on his fear once more. ‘Will you get the bus?’

Alice pulled on her jacket. ‘I’ve got plenty of time, so I might walk. I could pick up Sarah on the way.’

Carlyle looked at Helen.

‘One of her classmates,’ his wife explained. ‘She lives in Hatton Garden.’

Carlyle turned back to his daughter. ‘But you’ve got your Oyster card with you?’ he asked.

She sighed theatrically. ‘
Yes.
’

‘And your mobile?’

Another sigh, even more dramatic this time. ‘Yes. And I’ll text Mum when I get there.’

Carlyle glanced again at Helen, who nodded in confirmation.

‘And you’ll text me?’ he asked his wife.

‘Yes, on your work mobile. That way, you might just manage to pick up my message.’ Helen had never been overly impressed by her husband’s insistence on having two phones. In addition to his work-issue handset, Carlyle always carried his own cheap, pay-as-you-go mobile. Currently, it was a Sony Ericsson J132, which had cost him just a fiver at the Carphone Warehouse on Long Acre. He had bought it a couple of weeks earlier and would change it again in a couple of months. Meanwhile, very few people had the number to his personal phone, or even knew that he had one. Carlyle saw this as an attempt to keep at least some of his communications private in an increasingly trackable world. It was so private, in fact, that he had been known to go for days, even weeks, without remembering to check it.

‘Okay.’ He grabbed his daughter and gave her a tight hug, before she squirmed away. ‘Have a great day at school.’

‘I will.’ Alice kissed her mum on the cheek and bounced through the front door. ‘See you later.’ Ignoring the lift, she disappeared round the corner towards the stairs.

Carlyle listened to her footsteps on the stairs until they faded to nothing. He turned and noticed Helen’s eyes welling up. ‘I know,’ he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close. ‘I know, fucking hell.’

TWENTY-ONE

Sitting in the front seat of the BMW, Rosanna Snowdon cursed the late-night traffic. She was hoping that the congestion would ease, so she could manage to make it home before she had to throw up. The bottle of supermarket Rioja after taping the latest edition of
London Crime
– on top of the two double vodkas she had taken to relax before recording her show – had not been a good idea. She had vowed to go easy on the booze, but that plan had gone out the window after her boss’s boss had started hitting on her for the umpteenth time. Alcohol was a key part of her coping strategy when it came to fighting off the unwanted attentions of fat, menopausal television executives, something of which Rosanna had plenty of previous experience.

There was a long BBC tradition of management ‘mentoring’ the talent. It was something that she had always robustly resisted, even if sometimes her would-be suitors put up quite a struggle. Ian Dale, the Managing Editor of Factual Programming (London), had been chasing his ‘little star’ for almost a year now. If Rosanna was not really in a position to tell him to get lost, she did nothing to give him any encouragement either. Now he had offered to drive her home. That should have been a major red flag, but she was pissed and tired and couldn’t be bothered to wait for a taxi, which could take ages at this time of night. It was already almost midnight and she had to be back in the studio by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. Anyway, pissed or not, she was confident that she could handle Dale. If all else failed, she had her ace card, his wife Erica’s mobile number, prudently acquired from Dale’s secretary when it became apparent that he was going to be an ongoing nuisance. The number was programmed into her own phone. If he got out of order, she could just call up Mrs Dale, hand her husband the phone and invite him to explain himself.

Finally the Beemer made it through the last set of traffic-lights and turned into Gladstone Terrace. In front of her mansion block, Dale pulled into a bay marked
Motorcycles Only
and put the car into neutral. Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ started playing on the radio. Rosanna didn’t know if she would make it inside in time; if not she could make use of the bushes either side of the front door. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought ruefully.