‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Grabbing Carlyle’s empty glass, Dom got to his feet. ‘Let me just nip to the bar and I’ll be right back with an answer. Same again?’
Feeling sick to his stomach, Carlyle merely nodded.
Dom handed Carlyle the double whiskey and sat down with a fresh bottle of beer. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ Carlyle repeated, without enthusiasm.
‘Remember the night you arrested Lottie?’
‘Yeah.’ That seemed a hell of a long time ago now, but even if he couldn’t remember her face, he could recall what the rest of her looked like, standing naked, backstage.
‘And remember I told you about Marina and Cockayne Syndrome.’
‘Yup,’ Carlyle said.
‘Well, since then, there have been more tests and the news isn’t getting any better. The other day, the child even asked me “When am I going to die, Dad?” ’ He shook his head. ‘Five years old. What kind of a fucking question is that?’
‘What did you say?’ Carlyle asked, wondering where Dom was going with this.
‘What
could
I say?’ Dom cleared his throat. ‘I told her that we loved her and we would look after her and that we wouldn’t lie to her, but that we didn’t know the answer to everything.’
‘How did she react to that?’
‘She went off to play with her dolls.’ Dom said in a low voice, ‘It drives me insane, worrying about what’s going on inside her head.’
‘It must be tough.’
‘That’s the understatement of this or any other fucking lifetime.’ Dom waved his beer bottle in the direction of Carlyle’s face. ‘But
you
are doubtless wondering what this has to do with your question.’
Carlyle shrugged.
‘It means that Marina is a brutal reminder to me of which way is up,’ Dom said forcefully. ‘Of what’s important.’
‘Certainly,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘Family is the most important thing. That’s true for you, just as it is for me. That’s why we have managed to work together so well over the years. Both of us have our priorities right. We do our jobs and we go home to our families. We do what we have to do in order to make sure, as far as we can, that they are safe and sound.’
‘Maybe so.’ Carlyle rubbed his temples. ‘However, that does not mean that you can operate outside of the law.’
‘John, just listen to yourself! You were standing next to me when I took down those crazies in Sol Abramyan’s house.’
‘There’s a difference between that and killing a copper, for fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle argued.
‘Hooper was bent.’
‘And Rollo, what was he? Just collateral damage?’
Dom raised his eyebrows.
Carlyle knocked back the rest of his whiskey. ‘I knew it, I fucking knew it. Have you gone crazy?’
Dom gave him a hard stare. ‘I was crazy enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you when that Browning was being waved in my face,’ he hissed. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’
‘Fuck . . . fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Dom reached over and gave Carlyle’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly, ‘it’ll be fine. After all, we’re in this together.’
Simpson’s office at Paddington Green still looked as if no one had occupied it for many months, if not years. There was not one thing – book, file, photo or piece of office stationery – to suggest that it was in use. Staring at the grime on the window, Carlyle did a mental inventory of his current workload: there were a couple of expensive car thefts from a garage in Drury Lane; a home invasion in Bloomsbury; and a couple of cases of ID theft – all in all, nothing very exciting. That made for a nice change. Roche, now happily ensconced in Charing Cross for the foreseeable future, could take the lead in most if not all of them. Meanwhile, he himself could enjoy some downtime, get home at a reasonable hour every evening and put the horrors of recent weeks behind him. Maybe he could even persuade his mother-in-law to come up to London and look after Alice, allowing Carlyle and Helen a couple of days by the sea.
Carlyle smiled at the prospect of having a more ‘normal’ existence. That would be fine, for a while. But he knew perfectly well that, after a fortnight or maybe a month at the most, he would need to find something to occupy both his brain and his time. Otherwise he would start feeling restless and grumpy. Helen and Alice would start to find him annoying, and would be relieved to get him out from under their feet. Not for the first time, it struck him that he needed the bloody criminals to help keep him sane. Well, some of them, anyway. Did that make him a bit mad? Maybe it was something that he should be discussing with the shrink?
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Eh?’ Carlyle looked up at Simpson, who had suddenly materialized behind her desk.
‘You seemed deep in thought,’ she said, placing a mug of steaming coffee on the blotter in front of her, and then slipping into her seat.
‘I was just looking forward to things being a bit quieter for a while.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ she grinned.
‘I thought I might take Helen to Brighton.’ Immediately the words were out, he cursed himself. Being recently widowed, Simpson wouldn’t want to be hearing about his domestic plans.
If the remark caused her any upset, however, she didn’t show it. ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ she said warmly, taking a sip of coffee.
‘There’s nothing hugely pressing to deal with back at the station,’ he added, keen to get back onto matters of work, ‘and Sergeant Roche is very much on top of things.’
Simpson nodded. ‘I’m glad that it’s working out so well with her. It’s good that you have been able to deal with that aspect of the Joe situation so . . . professionally.’
‘It’s difficult to get the balance right,’ Carlyle explained. ‘You can’t go to pieces, but you don’t want to appear a heartless bastard either. I did try to reach out to Anita, but, well, you know what happened there.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson sighed, ‘you just have to leave it for now. At least, you were able to tell her that Joe’s killer had been . . . dealt with. Even if she doesn’t seem particularly grateful for that now, you have to hope that it will provide some succour in the future.’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe things will change over time.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘There is one thing, though.’
‘What?’
‘The case on Joe’s murder isn’t going to be officially closed.’ She quickly held up a hand before he could begin his protest. ‘The bodies of the Israelis were repatriated yesterday. The Foreign Office is not going to further annoy Tel Aviv by publicly naming one of its people as being the man responsible for shooting a policeman on a London street.’
Carlyle made a noise of disgust.
‘It’s better than the other way round,’ Simpson went on, ‘with a situation where the case was closed and the killer was still running around flipping us the finger.’
‘Fair point,’ Carlyle reflected.
‘I’m told that Lieberman, Ryan Goya and Maude Kleinman will be buried in a military ceremony with full honours.’
‘Maude Kleinman?’
‘That was the name on the ID they presented for the woman you knew as Sylvia Swain.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘All this cloak and dagger shit is just so wearisome.’
‘Did you speak to Ambrose Watson?’ Simpson asked, moving the conversation on.
‘Yeah. He told me that his various investigations are now closed, so I signed the necessary bits of paper.’
‘Ambrose is very fair.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ever mention a man called Dominic Silver?’
Carlyle looked her squarely in the eye. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’ Simpson paused, then went on: ‘You do understand just how terribly
problematic
your relationship with Mr Silver is, don’t you?’
‘I do not have a
relationship
with Silver,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
‘Don’t get all mealy-mouthed with me, John,’ Simpson shot back. ‘It just doesn’t suit you. What is he? A CI? I haven’t seen him on any list.’
Confidential informant?
Carlyle thought.
Hardly. The whole bloody world seems to know about me and Dom
. ‘Dom is not a CI,’ he said evenly. ‘I wouldn’t describe him as an informant at all.’
Simpson grimaced in exasperation. ‘So what would you describe him as?’
‘I would describe him as a former colleague who is still keen to help the police whenever the opportunity presents itself.’
‘Oh? So you wouldn’t describe him as a drug dealer who gets you to do some of his dirty work for him?’
That
’
s a pretty fair summary of our relationship
, Carlyle conceded. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t.’
Sitting up in her chair, Simpson gave him a long, hard look.
A terrible thought suddenly hit him. ‘Are you suggesting
I
killed Hooper?’
‘No, no,’ she said irritably. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘I don’t think even you could be that stupid.’
‘That’s good to know,’ he said humourlessly.
‘Look,’ she jabbed an angry finger at the space between them, ‘never forget how bloody lucky you were here. This whole thing became such a terrible nightmare that in the end no one wanted to touch it. Everything has been buried and any paperwork beyond the absolute bare minimum will be destroyed. Under a different set of circumstances, you could have been hauled over the coals. You could easily have got the sack – and ended up in jail.’
Carlyle held her gaze but said nothing.
‘If the Sam Hooper killing hadn’t got lost in this total mess – if he wasn’t just one body among so bloody many – the investigation into his death would doubtless have been a lot more detailed,’ she persisted.
‘Ambrose told me that Hooper was bent,’ Carlyle commented.
‘I still don’t think that is sufficient justification for someone executing him,’ Simpson said tartly.
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘It is a very, very serious crime indeed and I would expect anyone with information relating to his murder to come forward immediately, regardless of the status of the investigation.’
‘Absolutely.’
Simpson stared at him for several more moments. When Carlyle said nothing, she warned him, ‘If this comes back to haunt you, somewhere down the line, there’s nothing I can do to protect you. More to the point, there is nothing I would want to do to protect you.’
‘I will keep my eyes and ears open,’ Carlyle promised. ‘If I discover anything, I will let you know immediately.’
Simpson glared at him.
‘But,’ he went on, unable to resist the dig, ‘there are always grey areas. Things are never black and white, as you know from your own personal experience.’ The message was clear:
I supported you when your husband was arrested and people wanted to believe that you were his accomplice
,
so get off my fucking back now
.
For a heartbeat, it looked like Simpson was going to hurl her mug of coffee at him. Carlyle sat, unflinching, as he watched her slowly bring her anger under control.
‘I understand what you are saying, Inspector,’ she said finally.
Nodding, he got to his feet.
‘There’s one other thing . . .’
‘Oh?’ Slowly, he sat back down again. A sly grin appeared on Simpson’s face, making him brace himself.
‘You’ve been put forward for a Commendation.’ Simpson dropped her gaze to the desk. ‘I assume it will be a formality. You should get written confirmation in the next couple of weeks.’
Carlyle waited for her to restore eye-contact, daring her not to laugh. ‘Are you joking?’ he asked, trying to recall her ever having done so in the past.
Keeping a straight face, Simpson said, ‘No. The citation will read:
For bravery in attempting to apprehend armed criminals and showing unflinching courage in the line of duty
. Or something like that. You know the kind of thing.’
‘Unflinching courage.’ Carlyle smiled. ‘I like that.’
‘It relates to the incident at the Ritz.’
Carlyle had already garnered a number of Commendations during the course of his career. Another one was of little interest. ‘Do I get a pay rise?’ he asked cheekily.
This time Simpson did laugh. ‘Don’t push your luck. And don’t think that this in any way invalidates what I’ve said. IIC could have buried you after this business here. Having decided not to do that, you’re being made something of a hero.’
‘To better put a lid on the whole bloody thing,’ Carlyle mused.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Simpson said, ‘and I suggest, for once, you just act bloody grateful and go along with it.’
‘I think I will,’ Carlyle told her.
One important thing that Carlyle had learned from his sessions with Dr Wolf was that the coffee in the doctor’s office was truly dreadful. To get round this problem, he quickly developed a routine whereby, on the way to each session, he would drop into the Starbucks next to Wolf’s office. This morning, he sat happily drinking the last of his Venti Latte, wondering if the doctor, head bowed, was contemplating their earlier exchange or had simply fallen asleep. Draining his cup, he reached forward and dropped it in the bin at the side of the shrink’s desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wolf from his slumber. He looked up at Carlyle, who smiled blandly.
‘I was wondering,’ said the psychiatrist, ‘if we could maybe spend some time talking about your parents . . .’
Helen assumed her best smile as she handed a plate of snacks round the table. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ken Walton, happily dropping a couple of cucumber sandwiches onto his plate. ‘Lorna has told me so much about you all. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.’
Refusing to look at her son, Lorna Gordon nodded sagely as she sipped her peppermint tea.
Looking Walton up and down, the inspector wondered what his dad was doing right now – probably sitting in his shitty little bedsit, looking through the record collection he couldn’t play. Seated in the Palm Court with his mother and her new boyfriend, he felt a mixture of guilt and embarrassment. At least Helen had been pressganged into coming along, too. She had been in a foul mood since Avalon’s board had decided to pull out of Gaza, and Carlyle hoped that this little outing would help take her mind off work troubles for a short while.