It was beyond a miracle that Swann’s name had, so far, been kept away from the case. Whether you loathed them or detested them, British journalists were normally relentless in their pursuit of stories like this. Tabloid hacks in particular had shown time and time again that they were far better at tracking down both people and information than the police themselves. And the inspector had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that every paper on the news-stand would have been called by someone at Charing Cross wanting to sell them some gossip about Swann’s alleged involvement.
The only explanation Carlyle could come up with was that Clifford Blitz was one hell of an operator. Doubtless, he was trading favours and making threats like they were going out of fashion to protect Swann, helped by the fact that an army of £1,000-an-hour lawyers would be trying to bludgeon every hack in town into submission. The inspector felt a grudging admiration for Blitz; very few people were able to play this kind of game with any measure of success. It was almost impossible to beat the press at their own game.
Flicking through the paper, he came to the story on page six just as Myron appeared at the next table and began clearing it away. He was staring at the inspector.
‘What?’ Carlyle snapped.
‘You’ve got glasses.’ Myron wiped his hands on a tea towel with a picture of Buckingham Palace on it that was hanging over his shoulder. ‘Makes you look . . . different.’ Without waiting for a reply, he retreated behind the counter to take payment from a customer waiting by the till.
Shit
, Carlyle thought,
I don’t even remember that I’m wearing the bloody things now. Surely a sign that I’m getting more decrepit in both mind and body
. A pang of self-pity was quickly replaced by the realization that there was sod all he could do about it.
Zatoichi was situated at the northern end of Beak Street. As he walked in, a creature in a black vest with orange hair scowled at him from behind the bar. On balance, Carlyle decided that it was probably female.
With a sigh, she gestured across the empty room. ‘We’re closed.’ To his plebeian ear, the accent sounded South African, or maybe Australian.
He took another couple of steps towards the bar. ‘I’m here to see Mr Silver.’
If mention of the boss’s name had any effect, it didn’t show. ‘Are you the cop?’
Carlyle felt anger flare in his chest.
For fuck’s sake, Dominic, why not tell everyone who I am?
He nodded.
The girl gestured to a set of stairs at the end of the bar. ‘He’s in the office, second floor.’
Jogging up the stairs, Carlyle found himself seriously winded by the time he reached the blue door marked
PRIVATE: STAFF ONLY
. As he walked into the room, Dominic Silver looked up from behind his desk and grinned.
‘Nice specs,’ he noted, pushing his own, rimless frames further up his nose. He was wearing an ancient Kurt Cobain T-shirt, which made him look like a fifty-year-old student.
‘I know, I know,’ said Carlyle grumpily. ‘They make me look “different”.’
‘They make you look old.’
Gesturing over his shoulder, Carlyle quickly changed the subject. ‘Where did you get Lisbeth Salander?’ he asked, giving a name-check to Stieg Larsson’s anti-heroine.
‘Michela?’ Dom laughed. ‘She might be borderline autistic, but I don’t think she’s very good with computers or guns.’
‘You don’t do customer service then?’ Parking himself in the low leather chair in front of the desk, Carlyle looked round the office. The bar, in various incarnations, had been part of Dom’s portfolio of businesses for many years now and the inspector had been here several times before. The room had, however, been redecorated since his last visit, in a bright, minimalist style. To Carlyle’s untrained eye, the furniture looked like it came from IKEA but he knew that it was more likely to have been purchased at some top-end West End retailer like Heal’s or the Avram store. To his left, a large window gave a view down Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus; on the opposite wall, above a tattered brown leather sofa, hung a massive screen print of
The Island
, one of Stephen Walter’s series of idiosyncratic maps of London, full of humour and autobiographical detail. Carlyle wasn’t a great one for art, but he knew that he could find infinite pleasure exploring Walter’s work, in the unlikely event that he could ever afford to put one on
his
wall. He searched unsuccessfully for Charing Cross, somewhere in the centre of the dense forest of detail. This was one time when his spectacles wouldn’t help; the piece could only be properly viewed with the aid of the large Silverline magnifying glass sitting on the corner of Dom’s desk.
‘The customers love her,’ said Dom, bringing Carlyle back to more mundane matters. ‘Michela’s a great girl. You work in here, you have to be a bit robust, otherwise you wouldn’t last a single shift. Michela’s been here almost two years now.’ Both of them knew that was the best part of a lifetime in the transitory world of Soho. He gestured at an empty plastic drinks container on his desk. ‘Want a juice?’
Carlyle felt vaguely tempted. ‘What is it today?’
‘It’s an Organic Eggnog Super Smoothie.’
Carlyle made a face.
‘It’s from the juice bar next door,’ Silver told him. ‘It really is good stuff. I can get Michela to nip round and get you one.’
‘It’s okay.’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Okay.’ Sitting forward in his chair, Dom started drumming his fingers on the table. For a moment, Carlyle wondered if he might be partaking of his own product.
Then: ‘The matter in hand.’
‘Yes?’ Carlyle replied.
Dom stopped drumming as quickly as he had started. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he said, picking up a Mont Blanc fountain pen from the desk.
Oh, have you? Let’s hear it then
.
Silver unscrewed the cap and scribbled something down on the A5 pad on the desk in front of him. Tearing off the top sheet, he waved it in front of Carlyle, like a doctor bestowing a prescription.
Carlyle leaned over and accepted the offering. Sitting back down, he looked at the address Dom had given him. ‘Docklands?’
Dom nodded. ‘It’s a small office block. Get your people to check it out; top floor.’
‘My people?’
‘Someone you can trust.’
‘That narrows it down,’ Carlyle snorted.
Dom put the cap back on the pen and tossed it onto the table. ‘Someone who is reliable; who cannot be directly connected to you by an outsider.’
‘Mm.’
‘No one from Charing Cross.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle started going through a list of possible colleagues in his head. ‘What will they find when they get there?’
‘The place is currently being squatted by a bunch of students complaining about “locals” being priced out of the neighbourhood.’
‘Great.’ Carlyle could already imagine the pitched battle when the police went in.
Dom smiled weakly. ‘Free security. What they don’t know is that in the ceiling there is stashed some 40 kilos of coke. Not great stuff, but reasonably pure.’
‘Not yours, presumably.’
Dom sat back in his chair and brought his hands together, the tips of his fingers touching as he adopted a pose of earnest contemplation. ‘It’s supposed to be a joint venture but ultimately, the stuff belongs to the Samurai.’
‘Your business partner.’
‘My soon-to-be ex-business partner.’ Dom held up his hands in surrender. ‘I have already admitted my mistake in getting into bed with Tuco Martinez, so I think it is time we should all move on.’
Carlyle nodded graciously.
‘If Tuco loses this load,’ Dom continued, ‘it will seriously bugger up his operations. Throw in his problems with his moronic son and I think he’ll have to abandon his plans to expand in the UK.’
‘You think?’ Carlyle had intended to raise the issue of the three bullets in the envelope that had been handed to Alice, but now he decided to leave it. If they could run Tuco out of town, it would be problem solved.
Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Yeah. Alain Costello will get sent down for a good stretch but will probably get transferred back to a French prison fairly quickly . . .’
‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘And the vacuum created by the Special Intelligence Section and their Operation Eagle will make London a complicated place to operate in for a while, especially if you are struggling for product.’
‘How are people dealing with the market disruption?’ Carlyle asked casually.
‘As I said, it will be filled soon enough,’ Dom replied, ‘but inevitably there will be some blood spilled along the way.’
Carlyle shot him a questioning look.
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Okay.’ Carefully folding the sheet of paper into quarters, Carlyle got to his feet.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ Dom asked.
‘It can wait.’ Carlyle waved the square of paper at Dom before putting it in his trouser pocket. ‘Let’s sort this out first.’
Dom nodded. ‘They need to move today.’
‘Understood,’ Carlyle said briskly, heading for the door.
Carlyle had been sitting in the Vida Sana juice bar on Glasshouse Street, just round the corner from Silver’s office, for more than half an hour, still trying to decide what best to do with Dom’s tip-off, but without coming to any conclusion. Looking out of the window, he watched a pretty, hippy-looking girl and her grungy boyfriend stroll past. Deep in animated conversation, the boy took a long drag on a monster joint, holding in the smoke as he handed it to the girl. Apropos of nothing, The Clash popped into Carlyle’s head and started up a spirited rendition of ‘Julie’s Been Working for the Drugs Squad’. Smiling, Carlyle tossed his empty beaker of Cactus Detox (Organic cactus, pineapple, lime, banana, pineapple juice and 98 per cent fat-free probiotic yoghurt) into a nearby trash can.
‘Brilliant,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Problem sorted.’
Turning into Agar Street, Carlyle skipped up the steps of the station. He had barely reached the top when he was accosted by his sergeant.
‘He’s confessed!’ Umar cried. Carlyle made a point of looking theatrically towards the unsettled grey heavens.
‘Groom,’ Umar added, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘He signed a written confession a couple of hours ago.’
You could have called me
, Carlyle thought angrily.
‘I tried calling you,’ Umar continued. ‘Did you not get my message?’
Carlyle grunted. Doubtless the voicemail would turn up in a couple of days. ‘Presumably he acted on the advice of his sodding agent.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Umar gave him a funny look. ‘Anyway, he admitted he tried to force the girl into having sex with him and says he lost his temper when she refused. Things got a bit out of hand.’
‘Didn’t they just,’ said Carlyle, distinctly unconvinced.
‘According to Groom’s version of events,’ said Umar, picking up on his boss’s sceptical tone, ‘Swann tried to stop him, there was a fight and Sandy Carroll got accidentally smacked in the face.’
Trying not to get too angry, Carlyle said, ‘Do we have any forensic evidence?’
Umar shook his head. ‘Nothing we can use, apparently.’
Fuck. Two men, one body, how fucking hard could it be? Surely they could give him something? ‘I’ll call Susan Phillips.’
‘I’ve read through her preliminary report,’ Umar protested.
‘I’ll call her anyway. Groom, where is he now?’
‘They’ve moved him to Belmarsh.’
‘That’s just great,’ Carlyle complained. If he wanted to quiz the prisoner himself, a trip to Belmarsh, in the arse end of Greenwich, would take the best part of a day. Parking Groom in Brixton or Wormwood Scrubs or, indeed, just about any of London’s other jails, would have made his life a lot easier.
Umar shrugged. ‘Not my call, boss.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle sighed.
‘I’m off to get some kip,’ Umar mumbled. ‘I’ll be back later.’
‘Let’s speak later, then.’ Carlyle patted him on the arm. ‘And well done.’ He coughed to try and mask the obvious lack of conviction in his voice. ‘You’ve done a good job on this one.’
Umar nodded. ‘Thanks.’ Zipping up his jacket, he jogged down the steps.
Carlyle stood at the door of the station and watched Umar walk down the street until he reached the Strand and disappeared amongst the crowd. Pulling out his mobile, Carlyle called Susan Phillips’ work number. Tapping his foot impatiently against the edge of the top step, he listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity before her voicemail message finally kicked in.
‘Susan,’ he jumped in too quickly and was silenced by the beep. ‘Fuck . . . Susan, it’s John Carlyle. Give me a call.’
Heading inside, Carlyle tried to convince himself that he wasn’t really bothered by the lack of forensic evidence in the Sandy Carroll case. After all, he had never been the kind of copper who relied on the test tube and tweezer brigade to bail him out. Indeed, the fact that forensics remained so fashionable made him uncomfortable. He had a lot of time for diligent and expert colleagues like Susan Phillips and also for the Met’s Scientific Support Unit, which coordinated crime scene activities. But popular expectations of forensic science, especially crime scene investigation and DNA testing, were way too high. This put everyone under huge pressure to solve everything in the blink of an eye.
The word ‘forensic’, Carlyle was never slow to point out, came from the Latin
forensis
, meaning
before the forum
. Basically, back in Roman times, accuser and accused would make their case to the authorities. Whoever gave the best pitch would win and the facts rarely got a chance to speak for themselves.
The truth was that some cases just didn’t get solved. Those that
did were usually down to the basics – luck, confession, betrayal or, Carlyle’s own personal favourite, simple basic incompetence on the part of the criminal. Covering up a crime that was bad enough for anyone to bother to investigate seriously was a very difficult task. It required determination, stamina and considerable attention to detail. Most people didn’t think that far in advance. Or they couldn’t be bothered with the hard work required. The police, on the other hand, did it for a living. Carlyle knew who his money was on.