Never Apologise, Never Explain (22 page)

The list had arrived, as promised, from the Ambassador’s office the day after the actual event. A couple of days after that, Carlyle had stuck it in his jacket pocket and basically forgotten about it. Now, for want of anything better to do, he began scanning the rows of names and organisations, none of which meant anything to him. After a short while, his eyes glazed over. Putting the list back in his pocket, he just sat there, staring into the darkened windows of the empty flats opposite.

After a while, his thoughts turned to Rosanna Snowdon. She had asked for his help: had he let her down? He really had no idea. Had he got her killed? Surely not. The bastard who killed her was the bastard who killed her. He had long ago realised that he was not the kind of guy who tried on other people’s guilt for size.

He was spared any extended reflection by the phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. He frowned, convinced that he had switched it off, before realising that the one ringing was his private phone. Muttering to himself, he checked the incoming number – Dominic Silver.

‘Hello?’ he barked.

‘So you do actually know how to answer your phone,’ Dominic chuckled.

‘I thought you were supposed to be busy,’ Carlyle said, remembering the man’s last message.

‘I was . . . I am, but you sounded harassed.’

‘I am.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Dominic, exuding unreasonable reasonableness. ‘So how can I help?’

Carlyle took a moment to remember the problem in question. ‘Michael Hagger.’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said breezily, ‘what about him?’

‘He came to see me.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Dominic’s tone remained determinedly cheery, but Carlyle could now detect an underlying wariness. ‘Did he bring the boy?’

‘No, but he said that Jake was okay.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Hagger also said that he would be returning him soon.’

Dominic said nothing to that.

‘And he
also
said,’ Carlyle continued, ‘that I was to tell
you
to back off.’

Dominic laughed. ‘And what did you say?’

‘What could I say?’ Carlyle shot back, with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘I didn’t have a bloody clue what he was talking about.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘How should I know?’ Carlyle snapped.

‘You let him go?’

‘Dominic, what was I supposed to do? We don’t know where the kid is or even why he’s being held,’ Carlyle pointed out, glossing over the fact that Hagger could have easily decked him if he had been silly enough to try and arrest him.

‘Ever the pragmatist,’ Silver joked. ‘Let’s hope that no one finds out how you let London’s Most Wanted walk away from you.’

‘Hardly,’ Carlyle muttered.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘No, but you can see how it could look.’

Carlyle felt a stab of anger. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, no,’ Dominic said quickly. ‘Of course not.’

Carlyle grunted.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Dominic continued. ‘All I’m suggesting is, don’t go round telling anyone.’

‘As if.’

‘Good.’

‘So,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what
is
going on here?’ There was a pause and the inspector could almost hear the hum of his mate’s brain as he edited the information that he was about to share.

Finally, Dominic spoke. ‘As you know, Hagger sometimes worked for Jerome Sullivan.’

‘Who?’

‘You know – the bloke on that video I showed you; the genius who shot himself and fell off the roof of his own building. The clip on the mobile phone where you spotted Hagger in the background?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle, not liking where this was going.

‘Well, it seems that Hagger and Jerome’s other idiot mate, Eric Christian, have been trying to keep the show on the road since the demise of their glorious leader. But they’re clearly not up to it. One of my . . . associates has asked me to sort it out.’

‘
Asked
you?’

‘Instructed me.’

Carlyle sighed. Normally, he didn’t like knowing too much about the mechanics of Dominic Silver’s profession, but here he needed to know what he was getting wrapped up in. ‘I didn’t think you did that sort of thing,’ he remarked.

‘I don’t,’ Dominic said. ‘All I’m trying to do is facilitate a satisfactory resolution for the mess.’

‘Including Jake?’

‘Including Jake.’

Carlyle shifted uneasily on his perch. ‘Will it involve more people falling off buildings?’

‘Let’s hope not,’ was the best Dominic could manage.

‘So where does the kid fit into all of this?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Hagger put him up as collateral for a debt owed by Jerome.’

‘Collateral?’ Carlyle snorted. ‘How much can the boy be worth?’

There was another pause. ‘Quite a bit, if you know the wrong sort of people.’

Carlyle felt his stomach turn. ‘How much?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who holds the debt?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Speculate.’

‘No, I won’t. Not at this stage.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happens if Hagger doesn’t come up with the money?’

‘The kid gets auctioned off,’ said Dominic matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious.

‘C’mon,’ Carlyle whined, ‘don’t give me this bollocks.’

‘I’m not giving you any bollocks,’ Dominic retorted. ‘I’m just telling you how it is. Don’t shoot the fucking messenger. I’m only trying to help you here.’

‘Jesus,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘What are you doing, getting involved in this type of shit?’

‘I’m trying to sort it out,’ Dominic said testily.

Carlyle coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it out over the side of the fire escape and into the alley below. His mouth was dry and he felt terrible. What type of degenerate scumbag would sell their own kid? Never mind Dominic: how did
he
manage to get involved in these type of situations?

‘John, I’ve got to go . . .’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle pulled himself together. ‘All I want is the boy. Whatever you need to do to get him back, I will do my best to make sure that any official fallout gets dealt with.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Dominic said.

‘Just fucking get him back,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Unhurt and unmolested.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing happens to Jake, even if I have to pay for him out of my own pocket.’

‘You’d better.’

‘What sort of a man do you think I am?’

You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Carlyle thought. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t, because I have no idea. Look, just sit tight – this thing will get resolved soon.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle said resentfully.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch. I’ll make sure you get the tip-off, rather than that idiot Cutler.’

With that gentle reminder to Carlyle that he wasn’t the only policeman in town, the line went dead. The inspector put the phone back in his pocket and scratched his ear. Stepping back to the window, he tried to lift it open again, but it was stuck. Cursing, he gave the frame a push with both hands, but with no success. Peering inside, he could see that the latch must have re-engaged itself after he had stepped outside. His initial thought was to break the glass, then he realised he could just walk on down the fire escape and out on to the street. He thought about that for the moment. Even if the window had been locked when they found Agatha Mills – and he would have to check that with Bassett – someone could still have left the flat and exited the building this same way. Maybe they could have got in this way too. With the possibilities bouncing round in his brain, Carlyle carefully made his way down to the alley below.

Reaching the bottom of the fire escape, Carlyle opened a metal gate and stepped out into a short passageway filled with waste bins and bags of rubbish, which led out on to Great Russell Street. Noting the familiar stench of rotting food and urine, he lengthened his stride and held his breath. He was about ten feet from the street itself when a large black sack in front of him started moving. Assuming that it was disturbed by a rat, Carlyle kept moving. However, his further progress was impeded when the mound of rubbish stood up in front of him, yawned and let out an enormous belch. Unable to hold his breath any longer, Carlyle was forced to inhale an eye-watering mix of curry, eggs and Special Brew. Taking a step backwards, he watched the tramp shake himself fully awake. The guy was dressed for winter, with at least three layers of clothing under a heavy black woollen overcoat. He wore a pair of grey slacks that looked as if they had not been cleaned during this century, and some fairly expensive-looking but heavily worn tan shoes. A blue Chelsea beanie hat rounded off the ensemble nicely.

Belatedly realising that he was not home alone, the man looked Carlyle up and down. He spent a few moments trying to work out what to make of the policeman, his eyes widening all the while, as if he had never seen another human being before. Finally, his mouth opened. A couple of seconds later, some words crawled out.

‘Got any money?’

It look Carlyle another moment to realise who he had standing in front of him, larger than life and ten times as smelly. ‘Dog?’ he said, puzzled. ‘I thought you were dead.’

Walter Poonoosamy thought about that for a moment, as he looked around the alley. ‘Maybe I am,’ he sniffed.

Stepping away from the pile of rubbish from which he had emerged, Dog continued to block Carlyle’s exit from the alley. If anything, the smell was getting worse, and the inspector was keen to be getting on his way. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, with as much fake bonhomie as he could manage, ‘it’s good to see you are still with us. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you at the station some time soon.’

The tramp grunted and looked down at the mess from which he had emerged. Tentatively, he began poking at one of the bags with his foot, in case there was some tasty morsel that he had missed. Taking this as his cue to leave, Carlyle eased his way past, heading for the bustle and the glare of the street beyond.

‘Excuse us, please?’

No sooner had the inspector emerged on to the street, than a couple of Chinese tourists thrust a street map in his face and asked him very politely – and in the kind of perfect English that no one in England had used for as long as he could remember – for directions to the British Museum. Resisting the temptation to send them in totally the wrong direction, he pointed at the massive building just across the road and forced himself to smile. With a cheery ‘Thank you’, the pair stepped off the pavement and almost walked straight into the path of an oversized tour bus. Once they had finally made it safely across the road, Carlyle watched them negotiate the pavement artists and the hot-dog sellers and safely reach the museum gates. Turning away, he decided to head for home.

He had barely gone twenty yards, however, when an idea popped into his head. Turning round, he retraced his steps back towards the alley. When he arrived, the tramp was still there, sitting serenely on a mound of rubbish sacks, as if surveying his kingdom. In his hand was an anonymous-looking bottle from which he carefully sipped a brownish liquid.

The tramp gave no indication of noticing the policeman’s return. Trying once again to ignore the smell, Carlyle stepped towards him. ‘Dog,’ he asked, when he thought he might finally have gained the tramp’s attention, ‘do you come here often?’

Walter didn’t even look up, but took his lips far enough from the bottle to mumble, ‘Sometimes.’

‘At night?’

Nodding, Dog stuck his lips back on the bottle and sucked out the remaining dregs.

‘Were you here a couple of weeks ago?’ Carlyle persisted.

Dog scratched himself behind his left ear, like a man trying to come to terms with the concept of time. Finding it too much though, he gave Carlyle a look of infinite weariness. ‘Dunno.’

‘The last few times you were here,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘did you see anyone else?’

Dog did another excellent impersonation of a man thinking for a long time. ‘No,’ he said finally.

Damn! Carlyle thought. ‘No one?’

Another pause.

‘Just the man with the beard.’

‘The man with the beard?’

Dog tossed the bottle over his shoulder and stood up. He looked at Carlyle. ‘You don’t have to repeat everything I say,’ he grumbled. Reaching into an inside pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out what looked like a slice of beef. Tilting his head back, he dropped the morsel into his mouth. Resisting the urge to gag, Carlyle waited for the man to chew his food, swallow and then let out a satisfied burp. He willed himself to show some patience. After all, he had caught Dog on one of his more lucid days – maybe coming back from the dead had helped sharpen up his thought processes – and knew that he should now be prepared to wait it out.

Finally, Dog wiped his hand on his belly. ‘Came down the stairs back there, just like you. I asked him for some money. He said somethin’ foreign.’

‘In Spanish?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Mebbe.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Had a beard,’ said Dog, his eyes returning to the piles of rubbish; his mind doubtless wondering where he was most likely to find something else to drink.

‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, realising that the wino’s mind was beginning to wander and that he wasn’t going to get anything else from him right now. ‘Thanks.’ He fished a ten-pound note out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Dog. ‘Here, get yourself some Diamond White or something.’

Mention of the demon drink instantly got Dog’s attention, but he eyed the money suspiciously. ‘Will it work?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle, ‘if you drink enough of it.’

‘No,’ said Dog, still not accepting the banknote. ‘The money, will it work? They wouldn’t take the other one.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Carlyle, instinctively asking the wrong question.

‘The bloke in the newsagent’s,’ Dog said, as if that was obvious. ‘He said my money was no good.’

‘What money?’

Dog started rooting around in his pockets. ‘The money the man with the beard gave me.’