In the face of widespread hostility from her fellow officers, Carlyle had been mightily impressed by the Commander’s continued commitment to the job in the difficult years that followed. Always the type of man to trust his own judgement, Carlyle had ignored the
gossip and the backstabbing. He had been amazed and delighted to find in the humbled Simpson a true friend and colleague. Indeed, she had saved his bacon on more than one occasion when other bosses would have happily hung him out to dry. As a result of their rapprochement, he would be the last person in the Met to begrudge his boss another shot at domestic happiness. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘And how were the Laurent Perrier champagne and Russian Standard Vodka cocktails?’
‘John,’ she frowned, looking slightly worried now, ‘are you stalking me?’
Now it was his turn to feel embarrassed. ‘No, no,’ he said innocently. ‘It was Helen who pointed it out to me.’ The lie was smooth and simple. ‘She likes to keep up with how the other half live.’
Simpson moved away from him. ‘I very much doubt that,’ she said, in a voice not totally devoid of a sharp edge, ‘and if you continue baiting me, I might just take it up with your wife directly.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Carlyle, somewhat contritely, knowing that, not for the first time, he had pushed the joke too far. It was time to get back to the matter in hand. ‘Did you know,’ he pointed out, ‘that the number of lap-dancing clubs in Britain has grown more than tenfold in the last decade?’
Simpson gave him a look that said:
my, you are a repository of useless information
. ‘Is that so?’
‘Three hundred new lap-dancing clubs have opened; at the same time, more than a hundred and sixty police stations have closed.’
‘Is there a correlation?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle said. ‘But that’s the kind of country we’ve become: more strip clubs, betting shops and nightclubs; fewer cop shops, post offices and swimming pools.’
‘Fascinating,’ Simpson yawned.
‘Interesting factual information,’ Carlyle said, rather miffed.
‘Look at it this way, John,’ Simpson said. ‘Would you rather raid a strip club or a swimming pool?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘I was never really into swimming.’
Simpson sighed, ‘Shall we just get on with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got to get rid of most of this lot.’
‘Okay.’
Simpson looked around the room once again in the vain hope that some of the uniforms might have disappeared. ‘Christ! There are even bloody PCSOs here,’ she snorted, failing to keep her irritation in check.
Carlyle glanced at the trio of pimply boys in the corner under a poster that proclaimed the Met’s slogan:
Working together for a safer London
. As slogans went, it was not hugely inspiring; the inspector thought it was long overdue a change. His preference would be for something a bit more thought-provoking, along the lines of:
London
–
it’s bloody safe, so stop moaning and enjoy it
. It was not an idea he had shared with the PR department.
One of the pimply boys in the corner said something and the other two began sniggering. Carlyle tutted. ‘Where do we bloody get them from?’
‘You tell me,’ Simpson grumbled.
Police Community Support Officers, known as ‘plastic policemen’, were volunteers who were universally disliked by ‘proper’ officers. Always given the lowest and the grubbiest jobs, they had about as much chance of being allowed to take part in a stripper hunt as Carlyle had of making Chief Inspector.
After a short pause, Carlyle banged the empty mug on a nearby table. ‘Okay, you lot!’ he shouted, taking a couple of steps forward. ‘Listen up. I don’t need all of you tonight.’
A groan went up from the back.
Carlyle stared at the ceiling. ‘So,’ he said airily, ‘thank you all for coming. Your . . . enthusiasm is gratefully acknowledged,’ he allowed himself a cheesy grin, ‘and I hope that it can be sustained into some of this evening’s other duties.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the PCSOs slip out of the door, knowing that they would be the first to be dismissed. Turning his attention to a burly, middle-aged man at the front of the group, Carlyle took another step forward, lowering
his voice to a normal level. ‘Sergeant Bishop, choose half-a-dozen officers for this job and let the others go back upstairs.’ He nodded at Simpson. ‘Then the Commander will give us a briefing.’
Bishop shot him a look that said
thanks a lot
but restricted himself to a curt, ‘Yes, sir!’ before turning to sort the wheat from the chaff.
While they were waiting for Bishop to pick his team, Carlyle moved back to stand by Simpson’s shoulder. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘when am I getting
my
new sergeant?’
Simpson smiled. ‘It should be next week.’
‘Are you going to tell me who it is?’
Simpson’s smile widened. ‘In due course, Inspector.’
Don’t yank my chain
, Carlyle thought. ‘Why not now?’
‘No.’
Carlyle gave a disgusted shake of the head. ‘C’mon!’
‘No. It can be a surprise.’
‘I don’t do bloody surprises . . .’ he sulked.
‘That is the thing about you, John,’ Simpson said, adopting a tone of mock seriousness. ‘You have absolutely no patience.’
So what?
he thought.
Where’s the virtue in being patient?
‘That’s not true,’ he lied.
‘John,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t know anyone in the whole of the Met – in the whole of bloody London – with less patience than you.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle was not prepared to argue the point any further. He would find out who his new sidekick was soon enough.
‘Rest assured, you are getting someone good,’ said Simpson, leaning back on a table. ‘So try not to lose this one.’
‘I haven’t “lost” anyone yet,’ Carlyle protested.
Simpson gave him a curious sideways glance. ‘This will be your third sergeant in almost as many years.’
‘That’s hardly my fault, is it?’
Simpson raised her eyes to the heavens but said nothing.
‘Alison Roche left because she wanted to go to SO15,’ Carlyle said defensively. ‘And before that, Joe Szyszkowski was, as you well know, murdered.’
Realizing that she had hit a raw nerve, Simpson moved the conversation on. ‘How is Roche getting on?’
‘After the gunfight at the OK Corral, you mean? I think she’s all right. She’ll be the first to admit that she didn’t exactly cover herself in glory, but she’s gone back to work.’
‘Good for her,’ said Simpson with some feeling.
‘Didn’t throw a sickie,’ Carlyle added. Both of them knew that it would have been all too easy for Roche to claim that she was suffering from some form of stress-related illness and avoid returning to duty. If, as legend had it, American cops ate their guns, their British counterparts liked to hide under the duvet. Each day, up and down the country, thousands of police officers were either off or on severely reduced duties as a result of stress. Doubtless, many of them had a case but Carlyle, like Simpson, strongly suspected that many did not. Either way, the result was an annual bill to the taxpayer of something like a quarter of a billion pounds.
‘Maybe there is something useful in the Chief Medical Officer’s anti-stress DVDs after all,’ Simpson quipped.
‘Maybe,’ said Carlyle doubtfully.
‘And she’s seeing the shrink?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘It’s hardly optional. She’s still got IIC crawling all over her and she’ll have to take her lumps at the disciplinary hearing. Under the circumstances, you have to show willing in the psychobabble department. She’s seeing my friend Dr Wolf, so that will be a big help.’
‘And you?’ Simpson asked. ‘Are you still . . .’
‘I am continuing with my regular sessions,’ Carlyle said, keen to avoid his boss’s probing. His sessions with Wolf were now down to one a quarter. Carlyle had bracketed them in the same category as his trips to see the dental hygienist. Routine care and maintenance: just another box to tick in order to keep other people
happy and in work. ‘I’m sure that Roche will be fine. She is very robust.’
Taking the hint, Simpson changed the subject. ‘Any leads yet on the guys who were responsible for the attack at St Pancras?’
Carlyle let out a long sigh. ‘Nope.’
Simpson grimaced. ‘And the guy who was being transported back to La Santé?’
‘Alain Costello?’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. He’s still in the wind.’
‘Do you think he’s back in France?’
‘You would assume so.’ Over her shoulder, Carlyle saw Bishop signal that he had picked his team. Six constables and two WPCs, none of whom Carlyle knew particularly well, stood to attention while their disappointed colleagues slunk off.
‘Fine,’ said Simpson, stepping forward and addressing her audience. ‘Right! Thank you, everyone. Tonight we are going to be paying a visit to Everton’s Gentleman’s Club on Parker Street.’ The young men before her were grinning like Cheshire cats while the women restricted themselves to the occasional grim-faced nod. Simpson took a sheet of paper from her jacket pocket and unfolded it. Then she pulled a glasses case from her bag. Opening it, she took out a pair of Prada black metal full-rimmed spectacles and slipped them on.
Carlyle, who had never seen her wear specs before, tried not to stare.
Christ
, he groaned silently,
we’re all going blind
.
Clearing her throat, Simpson paused to ensure that she had everyone’s full attention. ‘This is part of a London-wide clamp-down on strip clubs and lap-dancing venues that has been organized under the auspices of the Home Office. Across the capital, more than a dozen locations are being targeted tonight, including three of Westminster’s twenty-seven establishments and two of the nine in Camden. It is important to remember that Everton’s is a legally licensed club. We are not trying to close it down. What we
are
looking for are people who are employed illegally. Everyone working there needs to provide a name, address, and a valid ID. Anyone without any valid documentation will be brought back here.’ Looking up
from the sheet of paper, she paused to scan the eager faces. ‘Is that understood?’
Carlyle idly wondered what would go wrong tonight. Something invariably did on these sort of outings.
‘I realize,’ Simpson continued, ‘that this is a rather exotic assignment.’ She smiled as a couple of the officers laughed. ‘No pun intended. But everyone has to be polite and professional.’ The laughter died down and, finally, even the male constables tried to look serious. ‘Also, remember, no walkie talkies tonight. Has everyone got their mobiles?’
Another chorus of moans went round the room and Carlyle recalled the memo that had come round the previous week, decreeing that officers should send texts on their own phones, rather than speak on their official police radios, in order to save money. It appeared that the Met was spending millions using a privately run emergency services communications network, with penalty costs of two pounds
a second
whenever it went over its agreed limit. On the other hand, you could send a thousand texts for just four pence. No wonder the bean counters wanted the change. It was amateurish but it made financial sense.
As the noise died down, one wag waved a battered-looking Nokia handset at the Commander. ‘Can I claim the cost of the texts back on expenses?’
‘Talk to HR,’ Simpson told him.
‘Good luck,’ Carlyle growled.
‘Finally,’ Simpson said, moving briskly on, ‘be advised that there will be a video crew accompanying you to film the raid.’
‘What?’ Standing behind the Commander, Carlyle bit his lip. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
Simpson, not wanting to get caught up in another pointless argument with her subordinate, stole a glance at her watch. ‘They are producing a video for the Mayor’s website about his campaign to clean up London.’
You could have told me
, Carlyle thought. ‘The Mayor’s website?’ he echoed. There was no love lost between Carlyle and the Mayor,
Christian Holyrod. Their paths had crossed several times before and the result was usually unhappiness for all concerned. Now, according to what he read in the papers, Holyrod was planning to cash in his chips and trade ‘public service’ for some lucrative private directorships. Carlyle hoped that meant the bastard would never be heard of again, at least by him. ‘Why does
he
care?’ he moaned. ‘It’s not like he’s running for re-election, thank God. He’ll be out of the job later this year.’
Simpson gave him an
as if I could give a monkey’s
shrug.
‘We’re policemen, for fuck’s sake,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘not some bloody multi-media . . . content provider.’ Was that how these type of people described themselves? He wasn’t sure but it would be close enough.
‘Look at it this way,’ Simpson said sweetly. ‘As long as you’re polite, don’t assault anyone or ogle the strippers too much, what have you got to worry about?’
Carlyle looked at the other male officers in the group. The enthusiasm was draining from their faces. They were all thinking the same thing:
why would we have volunteered for this if it wasn’t for the perks?
Simpson also knew what was floating through their brains. ‘Remember – keep it all above board tonight,’ she ordered as she began making her way towards the door. ‘Do not forget that this is the twenty-first century. That means twenty-first-century policing, twenty-first-century rules and, above all, twenty-first-century scrutiny. I want you all to bloody well behave out there.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s go. You heard what the Commander said. Be polite. No swearing. And,’ he snapped, ‘remember to fucking
smile
.’ Feeling put upon, he watched Simpson disappear down the corridor. ‘I hope you have a nice meal,’ he mumbled, unhappily, to himself.
Dinner had been worth waiting for. The roasted Muntjac deer, crushed celeriac, chestnuts, red cabbage and spiced chocolate jus had been delightful and she had also allowed herself the indulgence
of the Kentish strawberry and elderflower cheesecake, with black pepper crème fraîche.