‘You can help me,’ Carlyle insisted.
The man shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Inspector, but you are wrong.’
Carlyle glanced at Louisa, whose face was now a picture of helplessness. Time for a change of tack, he thought. He stuck out a hand. ‘Show me your papers.’
The two of them stared at him.
‘Your papers,’ Carlyle repeated.
‘But I told you,’ Louisa whined. ‘He is legal.’
Carlyle looked at her with contempt. ‘I could spend a lot of time and effort making sure.’
‘I am not a part of any of this . . . situation any more,’ Fadi said, his lower lip trembling slightly.
‘But you can help me,’ Carlyle said again. He had no idea whether that was correct or not, but then again, he didn’t have anything else to go on.
Fadi glanced at his wife and again lowered his head. ‘Maybe I could talk to some people.’
‘Good. Do it.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Do it quickly.’
Clearly nervous at the prospect of being left alone with his wife, Fadi jumped up. ‘Let me walk outside with you.’
Carlyle watched Arbillot’s face crumple into a mess of hurt and resignation as they left.
Outside, a chill wind swept along Berwick Street. While Fadi buttoned up his jacket against the cold, Carlyle pulled a business card out of his pocket. ‘Call me on this mobile number when you have something for me.’
Fadi took the card. As the policeman walked away, he shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. Picking a large red apple from one of the fruit and veg stalls standing in the street, he paid the stallholder and took a bite. His first inclination was to run, but he knew that was not a sensible option.
You have the right papers
, he told himself.
You have a right to be here
. Standing on the kerbside, deep in thought, he finished off the apple.
By the time he dropped the core in a waste-bin and began heading towards Oxford Street, he had something approaching a plan.
Sheila Sekulić shifted uneasily on the bed. Her piles were playing up and the pink plastic bikini that she was wearing only added to her discomfort. She wondered how much longer she could bear to spend in this squalid room above a cut-price video store in Soho. For the millionth time she told herself that once she went home to Adelaide, that would be it: no more travelling. Europe was a dump and England was a total shithole; she wouldn’t be coming back. Tossing a copy of yesterday’s
Daily Star
newspaper onto the floor, she sat up and checked the clock sitting on the bedside table. The session was almost up. She glanced over at the shabby man who was still standing by the window. Her heart had sunk when he walked through the door, but he’d turned out to be the perfect punter – not really interested in her at all. All he seemed to want to do was stand by the window and take pictures of something out in the street below. As far as she was concerned, he could do that all day, as long as he paid her. She coughed politely. ‘Your time’s almost up.’
The man grunted and continued gazing out of the window.
‘It’ll be seventy-five,’ she said optimistically, ‘if you want to stay another half-hour.’
Sid Lieberman watched Fadi Kashkesh toss the remains of his apple into a bin and then disappear up the road. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, dropping the Leica V-Lux 20 digital camera back into his pocket. ‘I’m done.’ He turned away from the window, feeling a stab of gratification as a look of disappointment swept across the whore’s face. ‘Nice to meet you, though,’ he smiled as he moved towards the stairs.
Reclining on the sofa, Carlyle looked on nervously as Helen flicked rapidly through a succession of television channels, searching for some suitable crap to watch. His wife was clearly not happy about something and he knew that meant he was in for a stern talking-to. From past experience, it would not be long before she explained to him what he’d done wrong. Over the years, he’d become philosophical about it; after all, it was always best just to get the unhappiness over with as quickly as possible.
In the absence of finding anything better, Helen settled on one of the news channels. A British woman had killed her two young children in a Spanish hotel, for reasons that were not immediately apparent. It was just the kind of story that Carlyle found infinitely depressing. More than that, he resented being confronted by other people’s tragedies in his own living room. He had to deal with more than enough of that kind of shit while he was at work.
Helen must have entertained a similar thought, because she quickly muted the sound. Finally turning to face Carlyle, she gave him a dirty look. ‘Why did you do it?’ she asked.
Carlyle tried his best to look innocent. ‘Do what?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, John Carlyle,’ she replied, tapping him on the arm with the remote. ‘Louisa Arbillot was in a terrible state when she got back to the office after your meeting.’
‘She seemed all right to me when I left,’ Carlyle lied.
‘I very much doubt that,’ Helen snapped. ‘The strain has been building for months, and now you’ve pushed her over the edge.’
‘Me?’ He stifled a laugh. ‘You were the one who put me on to her.’
‘I think that she’ll have to go on sick leave,’ Helen said, refusing to acknowledge any possible involvement on her own part. ‘Her doctor could be signing her off for months.’
‘What a pain,’ Carlyle said sympathetically. He knew what a problem that would cause Avalon. The charity’s modest finances could not cope with members of staff taking extended absences on full pay.
Scowling, Helen shook her head at him.
‘What can I do?’ he protested. ‘Other people’s marriages are their own business. I don’t work for Relate.’
‘You could have persuaded him to talk to her,’ she replied, folding her arms as she returned her gaze to the screen.
Carlyle shuffled along the sofa and slid his arm around his wife. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I could have done much to get Fadi talking to Louisa. Basically, I presume that it wasn’t much more than a marriage of convenience as far as he was concerned.’
‘I know, but for her . . .’
‘Wasn’t it a bit unprofessional of her, marrying a patient?’
‘Yes, probably,’ Helen agreed. ‘But who are we to judge?’
‘Quite. I suppose the poor woman deserves better. But realistically there’s nothing that I can do to help. Anyway, I had enough problems getting him to talk to me, never mind to her.’
‘Mm.’ Stretching out on the sofa, she rested her head on his lap. ‘Do you think he’ll be able to help your investigation?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘but it’s not like I’ve got a lot else to go on. I
have
to find some way into this thing. It’s the least that Joe deserves.’
Fabio Capello gave the inspector a hard stare as he entered Il Buffone. As previously agreed, AC Milan’s ’94 Champions League winning team had replaced Juve in the place of honour on the back wall of the café.
Well done
,
Roche
, Carlyle thought, as he greeted Marcello and ordered a double macchiato. Sliding into the back booth underneath Donadoni, Maldini and the rest, he shook hands with David Ronan nursing a mug of tea.
‘How are things with SO15?’ Carlyle asked, eyeing up the pretty girl in the next booth, who was shamelessly wolfing down a bacon roll.
Marcello appeared with his coffee. Placing it on the table, he saw Carlyle checking out the girl and smiled. ‘
Bella figura, sí?
’
Carlyle felt himself blush slightly. ‘Thank you, Marcello,’ he said, gesturing him away. He knocked back about half of the macchiato and looked at Ronan enquiringly. ‘Have you made any progress?’
‘Things are not great,’ Ronan told him. ‘Counter Terrorism Command has been given full authority to conduct its investigation, but no one seems able to tell MI6 to butt out.’
‘So it’s going swimmingly, then.’
‘There is nothing to suggest that any arrest is imminent,’ Ronan said stiffly. ‘It seems likely that the Mossad crew have long since left the country.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Carlyle. ‘If they haven’t completed their mission, they might possibly still be here.’ Quickly he brought Ronan up to speed with selected highlights regarding his own enquiries, filling him in on his meeting with Fadi Kashkesh but leaving out any mention of either Sol Abramyan or Dominic Silver.
‘Interesting,’ was Ronan’s only comment after Carlyle had finished.
‘Up to a point.’
Both men knew that they were up shit creek without a paddle. In a boat that was sinking slowly but surely into the muck.
‘Let’s keep talking,’ said Ronan, pulling some change out of his pocket.
‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, raising a hand. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get this.’
‘Thanks.’ Ronan slid out of the booth. ‘How’s Alison getting on, by the way?’
‘Alison’s doing great,’ Carlyle said. ‘Did she tell you about the skeleton that was dug up, just down the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve identified the body, so that’s a result,’ said Carlyle, happy to remind himself that there were still some things that could actually be resolved. He tapped the poster above his head. ‘And she sorted this for Marcello, so she’s basically considered one of the family already.’
At the mention of his name, Marcello popped up from behind the counter. ‘The inspector needs all the help he can get now,’ he joked, ‘so I hope she’s staying.’
‘I think that she will be,’ Carlyle said, ‘which is fine by me.’
‘That’s good to know,’ smiled Ronan. ‘I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it.’
Watching the detective inspector leave, Carlyle finished the last of his coffee. Looking across, he was disappointed to see that the girl in the next booth had now gone.
A lingering sense of unease sent Hilary Waxman down to the basement, in search of Sid Lieberman. For once, the military attaché was actually to be found in the gloomy, windowless closet that he called an office, sitting at his desk with a number of A5-sized black and white photographs spread out in front of him. Standing next to him was a guy wearing jeans and an Iron Maiden
Run for the Hills
T-shirt. The guy was extremely tall – maybe six foot five – and thin, with a shaven head and a tan that was in need of a top-up. Waxman had never set eyes on him before.
Standing in the open doorway, the Ambassador coughed politely. Both men looked up at her, but said nothing. After a moment’s hesitation, Lieberman gestured to the empty chair filling up almost all of the empty floorspace in front of his desk. He didn’t introduce the Iron Maiden fan and Waxman didn’t bother to ask. Taking a seat, she picked up one of the prints. The photo was of two men conversing on a busy street.
Lieberman nodded to the other man, who stared at Waxman and left the room.
‘The young guy in the picture is called Fadi Kashkesh. He’s a Palestinian activist living in London. I believe he has been providing logistical support for the Hamas cell we have been . . . liquidating.’
The word made Waxman shudder, but not wanting to show any emotion that Lieberman might interpret as weakness, she simply said, ‘And the other guy?’
‘He’s a London policeman,’ Lieberman said. ‘His name is Inspector John Carlyle. It was his partner that Goya accidentally shot outside the Ritz Hotel.’
Interesting use of the word ‘accidental’
, Waxman thought, but again she said nothing. Instead she asked: ‘So why has he hooked up with the Palestinian?’
‘I presume,’ Lieberman smirked, ‘that, like us, he is trying to find Goya.’
‘He is leading the investigation?’
‘No, he is not officially involved at all, but clearly he is an interested party. Also, from what I am told, he is not the kind of police officer who cares too much about trampling all over other people’s cases.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Waxman asked.
Lieberman looked blank, as if confused by her question. Realizing that she was not going to get an answer, Waxman tossed the print back onto his desk and stood up. ‘Just one thing,’ she said, edging towards the door.
Lieberman barely lifted his gaze. ‘Yes?’
‘No more dead policemen, okay? There are limits, even for you.’ Not waiting for an answer, she headed back upstairs.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Sid Lieberman muttered to himself, once she had gone, ‘but no promises.’
‘How does it feel to be back?’ Sol Abramyan smiled cautiously at Carlyle as he took a bite out of his miniature cucumber sandwich. The arms dealer was a tall, elegant-looking man of indeterminate age. Sitting across the table in an expensive-looking navy suit with a pale green shirt open at the neck, he finished the sandwich and carefully refilled his cup with some Earl Grey tea, which he preferred black. Looking him up and down, Carlyle was reminded of a more sinister version of the actor Stewart Granger, who starred in a version of
The Prisoner of Zenda
way back in the 1950s.
Carlyle slowly checked out the room, careful not to let his eyes linger on the two very large gentlemen sitting a couple of tables away. The duo looked more than a little out of place in the Palm Court of the Ritz; he presumed that they were Abramyan’s famed Somalian retainers. ‘It’s fine,’ he smiled.
The twinkle in Abramyan’s eye grew brighter. ‘I was wondering why you happened to be here in the first place?’ He glanced at the third man at their table, Dominic Silver, whose expression was neutrality personified, then back to Carlyle. ‘No offence, but I don’t see you as a regular.’
‘None taken.’ Carlyle was just about to explain when Edwin Nyc, the hotel’s Security Manager, appeared next to the table.
‘Mr Abramyan,’ Nyc gushed, over the din from the other tables. ‘It’s so nice to see you again.’
Abramyan nodded graciously, but made no effort to speak.
Dom gave Carlyle a questioning look and then took a nibble out of his pain au raisin.
‘Are you staying with us at the hotel, sir?’ Nyc continued.
Abramyan finally looked up. ‘Not today, Edwin,’ he replied. ‘I am only in London on a brief visit and I thought that it would be nice to enjoy just a little of your excellent hospitality.’