‘Two hundred grand.’ Myron appeared at the table, coffee in one hand, strudel in the other. He shook his head. ‘A bloody week!’ In slow motion, he placed the latte onto the table, still managing to spill a good portion of the murky brown liquid into the saucer. ‘After tax!’
Shocked by the Ukrainian’s sudden outburst, Carlyle grabbed the plate containing the cake before he dropped it. It was a generous slice of strudel by any measure and he didn’t want to lose it. Or, more to the point, he didn’t want to have to embarrass himself by picking
it off the floor and then eating it. ‘I know,’ he said, once the plate had been carefully placed on the table, ‘it’s a complete joke. How can any footballer be worth that?’
For a few moments, both men contemplated the absurdity of the situation.
‘How can anyone be worth that?’ Myron wondered sadly.
‘Quite,’ said Carlyle. Closing the paper, he folded it in half and handed it back to Myron, signalling that the time for talking was over. Using the teaspoon from his saucer, he began a steady, determined assault on his cake.
Once the strudel was a happy memory, Carlyle’s thoughts turned to his ‘to do’ list for the day. He still had to interview the stripper who had assaulted PC Lea and wasn’t looking forward to it. Off the job, strippers were usually dull and unappealing creatures and quite mouthy with it. This one, having refused to plead guilty to a charge of aggravated assault, was bound to be a pain in the arse. Still, it had to be done. Finishing his coffee, he had almost worked himself up to going to work when his mobile went off.
He looked at the screen. No number came up, but as it was his ‘private’ phone, it could only be one of a small number of potential callers. The Nokia 2330 was one of the cheapest pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash and he topped it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. He didn’t flash it around and gave the number out to very few people. Even then, he changed both the phone and the sim card every three or four months. He knew well enough that this didn’t guarantee complete secrecy, but it meant that no one was checking his calls as a matter of routine. It gave him some privacy, and for that the hassle and cost was worth it.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector?’
Recognizing the voice immediately, Carlyle smiled. ‘How are you, William?’
‘Fine, I’m fine.’ Over the years, William Wallace had been one of his more useful contacts.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve got something for you.’
Carlyle’s smile grew wider. ‘Okay . . .’
‘But you have to come to me.’
‘Where?’
Wallace gave him an address in East London.
‘Hold on,’ said Carlyle, gesturing to Myron for a pen and a piece of paper. The café-owner quickly obliged. ‘Give that to me again.’ This time he scribbled down the address. ‘Thanks. I’ll be there in about an hour.’ Ending the call, he fished a handful of change out of his pocket and paid his bill. Then, happy to have an excuse for not going directly back to the station, he headed out into the damp, grey day.
‘Clichy-sous-Bois is the most notorious suburb in Paris.’
‘Mm. Looks a bit like Tower Hamlets to me.’
‘The government couldn’t care less.’
‘They tend not to, in my experience.’
‘That’s right!’ Warming to his theme, Tuco Martinez waved in the direction of the tower blocks in the distance. ‘Poor housing, chronic poverty and rampant unemployment, we have it all. Rioting and looting are the local pastimes. Life here is supposed to be nasty, brutish and short. If I didn’t conform to the stereotype of the vengeful crime boss, the little bastards would eat me alive. But that’s not the whole story. We do a lot for the people around here.’
Ah yes, the pusher turned social champion
. The world was full of drug dealers who saw themselves as Robin Hood-type figures. It was not an unfamiliar line in bullshit, but one Dominic Silver had always tried to avoid himself. The fact was he sold illegal drugs, pure and simple, and didn’t feel the need to dress it up with any undergraduate sociology spiel.
His story was an unusual one, but not especially earth-shattering. Having trained as a junior officer, Silver had quit the Metropolitan Police after the brutal Miners’ Strike of the early 1980s. Over the following decades, he had built up a multi-million-pound business, becoming something of a legend in police circles in the process. The son of a policeman, the nephew of a policeman, he was the archetypal good boy turned bad, but with an honesty and a style that gleaned a little goodwill from even the most hard-nosed copper. Now, even
after more than thirty years, there was still a little part of Dom that was ‘one of us’ in the eyes of many officers of a certain age.
At his peak, during the course of the first decade of the new century, he had reached maybe the third or fourth tier of narcotics entrepreneurs in the capital. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable, avoiding the problems facing those above and below him. His operation was turning over millions of pounds each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and newer entries in
Who
’s
Who
, rather than City barrow boys or benefit losers. He even had a couple of corporate clients, who bought on account.
It was a good gig. In an industry crying out for quality management, Dom stood out. If there were dozens of mid-level dealers in London, there was only one Dom. Independent. Cautious. Discreet.
Sensible
.
Above all, Dominic Silver was a family man. He’d been with his common-law wife, Eva Hollander, for more than twenty-five years. They had four kids; a fifth, Marina, had been diagnosed with Type I Cockayne Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder characterized by an appearance of premature ageing, which led to her death at just six years old.
The combination of family trauma and the ongoing financial crisis had hit Dom and his business interests hard. Business school had shown him how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. A couple of years ago, drugs probably accounted for less than 40 per cent of Dom’s income. But a series of unfortunate investments had slashed his net worth from almost £50 million to less than £20 million. That sum would be enough for most people, but not for Dom. The amount of money in the bank was his way of keeping score – and this was a game that wasn’t going to finish until he had won. Despite Eva’s objections, he decided to return, full-time, to the day job. Even the drug-dealing business wasn’t as lucrative as it had been in previous years, but it still paid the bills. So it was time to forge new partnerships; partnerships with people like Tuco Martinez.
‘This place,’ said Tuco, waking Dom from his reverie, ‘is only twelve kilometres from the centre of Paris.’
Dom shrugged.
‘But there are people here who have never been there in their lives. They have never seen the Eiffel Tower, for real, or the Arc de Triomphe or anything else. There is only one bus out of here – it goes to the airport for the people who work as cleaners at Charles de Gaulle – and no Metro. And the politicians!’ He let out a snort of derision. ‘They wring their hands but do nothing.’
‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said Silver, pushing his chair back from the table. ‘Politicians are less than useless.’
Tuco nodded sadly.
‘Now,’ said Dom, getting to his feet, ‘back to business. We have some things to sort out before I leave Paris.’
Chief Inspector Cass Wadham eyed the warrant card and the Glock 26 on the desk in front of her before looking up at Roche.
‘The IIC report has concluded that you can return to full active service,’ she said, clearly not impressed by the decision.
Clasping her hands together, Roche nodded but said nothing, resisting the temptation to reach across the table and grab her things.
‘You will, of course,’ the Chief Inspector continued, ‘have to carry on seeing Dr Wolf. There will be regular assessments and additional weapons training. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
Wadham looked her up and down. ‘Personally, I question whether it’s too early. However, given the recent personnel cuts and the high rates of absenteeism we are currently experiencing . . .’
Well
, thought Roche,
thank you for the vote of confidence
. Getting to her feet, she waited patiently for Wadham to hand over the weapon and her ID. Then she turned on her heel and left without another word.
‘They may take our lives,’ Carlyle cackled, ‘but they’ll never take our freeeeeDOM!’
William Wallace shook his head. ‘Inspector,’ he laughed, ‘how many times have I told you? You need to find a new joke.’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ He took a mouthful of Jameson’s whiskey and swallowed greedily. ‘I should know better. But you’ve got to admit it’s a strange name.’
Sir
William Wallace was a thirteenth-century Scottish knight, made famous in popular culture for his portrayal by Mel Gibson in the film
Braveheart. Mr
William Wallace, sitting across the table from Carlyle in the Reliance pub on Old Street, was a thirty-something albino Yardie, originally from the Rose Town west Kingston ghetto in Jamaica.
‘If it makes things easier for you,’ Wallace said, ‘you can call me Will.’ A good two inches over six foot tall, he was whippet thin with high cheekbones, pale grey eyes and a tightly cropped bleached-blond afro. After more than a decade in London, he sounded like most of the city’s other eight million inhabitants, an undefined native with an undefined accent.
Wallace had known Carlyle for most of his time in London. Framed for a murder he didn’t commit, Carlyle had championed his case, saving him from both incarceration and extradition by going in front of the judge and presenting evidence that his fellow officers had somehow ‘lost’. Wallace walked. The killer was never caught. Several colleagues – not to mention the victim’s family – would never forgive Carlyle. Wallace, however, managed to find his way onto the straight and narrow, developing a career in the music industry, first as a studio engineer, then as a producer. He was now the co-owner of the Rose Town studio in Shoreditch, along with a discreet business angel, who had invested in the project as a favour to Carlyle. The inspector, pleased if rather bemused to have found himself in the role of successful social worker, had not sought anything in return. But Wallace, it seemed, felt obliged to provide the odd piece of information that came his way.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle extended a hand and they shook.
Wallace took a slug from his bottle of Peroni. ‘My parents had no idea about the name and I’ve never watched that Mel Gibson film.’
‘Neither have I.’ As a second-generation Scot, Carlyle was conscious of, if not particularly interested in, his roots. There was a lingering anti-Englishness that came with the territory, but first, last and always, he was a Londoner. London was where his parents had escaped to when there were no opportunities for personal development in post-war Glasgow. London was where he had been born; it was where he had lived all his life. It had given him everything and he was suitably grateful. ‘You know that he was killed near here?’
Wallace frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Your namesake. The Scottish terrorist. When the English caught him he was brought down to London, tried—’
‘Found guilty.’
‘Of course. This is 1305 we’re talking about, after all. Wallace was stripped naked and dragged through the city at the heels of a horse to Smithfield. He was strangled by hanging but released while he was still alive. Then he was eviscerated, and his bowels were burned in front of his face. Then he was beheaded, castrated, and cut into quarters.’
Wallace finished his beer and shivered. ‘Nice.’
‘His head was placed on a pike on London Bridge. Then they took the body parts on tour. His limbs were out on show in Stirling, Berwick, Newcastle and Aberdeen.’ Carlyle finished his drink and signalled that he was going back to the bar for another round. On his return, he handed Wallace his Peroni and took another mouthful of whiskey, vowing that this one would be the last. He took a relaxed view of drinking on duty but he never overdid it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘thanks for the call. What did you want to talk about?’
Wallace took a sip of beer. ‘It’s about that guy.’
Carlyle emptied his glass. He had a nice buzz going and felt the pleasing warmth of the Jameson’s on the back of his throat. ‘What guy?’
‘The guy who escaped from St Pancras, after the shoot-out.’
Carlyle sat up and leaned across the table. ‘The French guy?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Yeah – him. I know where he is.’
‘What am I going to do about my boy?’ Playing with his wine glass, Tuco kept his gaze on the table.
Not my problem
. ‘Where is he now?’ Silver asked.
‘He’s staying at a safe house in London.’ Tuco looked up. ‘I want you to get him back to Paris.’
‘That,’ Dominic sighed, ‘is not going to be easy. After what happened at the Eurostar terminal . . .’
Tuco held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. It was not handled well.’
‘That’s some understatement,’ Dom said bluntly. ‘People have died. The police in London will not just let that go.’
‘He should have been more careful.’
‘Yes,’ Dom agreed, ‘he should.’ Idiots like Alain Costello really pissed him off. On the other hand, it was the very fact that they were idiots that gave him a considerable competitive advantage. There was no way he was going to put himself at risk by getting involved. The boy would have to fend for himself. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Thank you,’ Tuco said, reaching across the table and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I knew that I could depend on you. This will cement our working relationship.’
Or kill it before it has begun
, Dom mused.
‘How reliable is the information?’
‘It’s reliable enough. It’s a very good source. And he has actually seen the guy. The location is the home of a known drug dealer.’
There was a pause. ‘Why are you telling me?’ Alison Roche asked finally.
You know why
. ‘I thought that you’d want to know.’