Roche folded her arms and kept her expression blank. She didn’t want anything in her body language that might give the kid any kind of encouragement. ‘What’s up?’
‘We’ve been told to stand down,’ Steed explained, almost apologetically. ‘Apparently Forensics have finally finished their work inside the building. They’re just about to let the neighbours back into their flats.’
‘Better get out of the way then,’ Roche quipped, ‘before there’s a stampede.’ The building, as far as she could tell, was largely empty. The cheapest apartment went for somewhere north of £2.5 million, and the only people who could afford to buy them could equally afford not to live in them. They no doubt had multiple properties scattered around the globe and used their London bolt holes rarely, if at all.
‘A few of us,’ Steed continued, blushing properly now, ‘are gonna head down the pub after the shift for a few drinks and I was wondering-’
‘Thanks for the offer,’ Roche said curtly, pre-empting his question, ‘but all this standing about doing nothing has done me in. I need a hot bath and a good kip.’
‘Hm.’ Contemplating the prospect of Alison Roche soaking in the bath, Steed blushed a little more.
‘Anyway,’ the sergeant concluded, moving swiftly on, ‘if we’re done, I’m outta here. Thanks for letting me know.’ Slipping past the kid, she headed for the stairs. ‘See you later.’
FOUR
I need a coffee. Still feeling rather thick-headed from the night before, the inspector limped into the lobby of the Charing Cross police station with his sergeant, Umar Sligo, in tow. Carlyle reflected unhappily that he should have gone easier on the whiskey. That was the problem about having a drink with his father; you kept going back to the bar in order to break up the uncomfortable silences. The reality was that Alexander Carlyle wasn’t the only one getting on a bit. These days, the effects of even a modest amount of drinking would stay with the inspector well into the following day.
‘Home sweet home,’ Umar murmured. Another sleep-deprived night had taken the edge off his pretty-boy good looks, but to the inspector’s jaundiced eye, he still looked more like a male model than a policeman.
Shifting his weight from his sore foot, Carlyle grunted something suitably dismissive as he surveyed his domain. Given the early hour, the place was rather busier than he would have expected. At the front desk, a middle-aged man in a suit was arguing with the duty sergeant while a random selection of other customers waited their turn on the benches provided. Conducting a quick head-count, the inspector came up with a total of twenty-three people. As you would expect in this part of London, they were of all ages, shapes, sizes and ethnic origin. For a moment, he wondered what had brought them to his door, before shaking his head sadly. Twenty-three people, each with their own tale of woe, represented rather too much humanity for one policeman to contemplate before breakfast. ‘It’s like the number 15 bus,’ he said aloud.
Turning to face the inspector, Umar offered up one of his trademark blank looks. ‘Huh?’
Carlyle gestured towards the front desk, where the sergeant, an amiable North Londoner called Frank Stapleton, was trying to placate the increasingly upset businessman in front of him.
‘We’re the only station in London that still has an old-style front desk, with a sergeant who will interact – like a normal human being – with whoever drops in off the street. Everywhere else, it’s like walking into a call centre: Take a ticket and a customer-service operative will be with you shortly. After two hours, some intern working for a support-services company – nothing to do with the police at all – gets you to fill out a form and gives you a Crimestoppers number, so you can claim on your insurance.’ As he spoke, Carlyle could feel himself getting worked up by it all, but he wasn’t quite sure why. This had been the norm in police stations across the capital for years now – and it wasn’t like it was his problem. ‘You might as well be dealing with a computer. In some stations, you probably are already.’
‘Yeah.’ Umar nodded, not sure where this particular rant was going. He had been working with the inspector long enough to realize that his random moaning was not to be taken too seriously. Whatever had rattled his cage would normally be forgotten once he’d had his morning fix of both caffeine and sugar. ‘Want me to go to Carluccio’s?’ he asked, gesturing towards the door. There was a branch of the upmarket café just up the road and he knew it was close to the inspector’s heart.
Carlyle gave the proposal careful thought before deciding, ‘Nah. Here’s fine.’ Carluccio’s had far better coffee than the basement canteen in the station, and the cakes were to die for, but if he didn’t start rationing his visits, the place would bankrupt him.
‘Suit yourself.’ Glancing up at the clock behind the desk, Umar wished he was back in bed. He had always hated the early starts; now that his daughter Ella had arrived, they had become even harder to endure. Yawning, he thought about how his recent plan to quit the Met – and bin his alarm clock – had been stymied. Christina, Umar’s wife, had wanted to go back to work. For his part, Umar had been more than ready to embrace the role of house-husband. But the job market was tough and Christina had found nothing that could come close to matching his sergeant’s salary. So the status quo was maintained – hurrah for traditional family values – and here he was, stuck with the ever-complaining inspector at bastard o’clock.
Umar liked to think that Carlyle was pleased that he had stayed on. He knew that the reality was that the old sod simply took whatever happened in his stride. If he left, another sergeant would take his place. That was the thing about Inspector John Carlyle, he always moved on with a minimum of fuss.
‘It’s like the old Routemaster buses on the 15 through the centre of Town,’ Carlyle continued, oblivious to Umar’s lack of interest. ‘A bit of heritage for the benefit of the tourists. The only buses you can still jump on and off between stops, with a conductor. Far more fun than those crappy modern driver-operated ones.’
Umar gestured towards the desk sergeant, who was growing visibly exasperated with the unhappy suit. ‘I’m not sure I would call Stapleton a tourist attraction,’ he grinned.
‘No,’ Carlyle conceded, ‘but you know what I mean.’
Not really, old man. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘He exists to create the impression that we give a fuck about people and customer service, rather than just hiding behind our desks. We want the public to think that there are still some traditional standards left here and there.’
What the hell are you on about? Umar wondered.
‘Gentlemen.’ Seeing the two officers loitering by the door, Frank Stapleton beckoned them over to the desk.
Carlyle approached warily. ‘How’s it going, Frank?’ he asked, ignoring the customer.
‘This, er, gentleman,’ Stapleton said carefully, pointing at the suit with the chewed end of a blue biro, ‘could do with some assistance.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Carlyle took a quick step backwards so that Umar was to the fore.
The suit turned and looked at the sergeant expectantly.
‘Um, yes,’ Umar said reluctantly, ‘what is the problem?’
The man offered a hand. ‘Brian Yates.’ He was of medium height, maybe five foot eight, with thinning grey hair and a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. The wrinkles around his pale brown eyes were pronounced and he had the haunted look of a man who hadn’t slept much the night before. His creased suit and the absence of a tie added to the overall effect.