‘Who do you think complained?’ Umar asked.
‘I dunno.’
‘Not Elmhirst.’
‘No. She doesn’t seem to be the sort of person who would be too stressed about that kind of thing.’
‘Not at all,’ Umar agreed. ‘She’s definitely one of the lads.’
‘O-kay. How many other women did you, er – you know.’
‘Not that many, five or six maybe.’
Jesus. ‘Didn’t you think it was asking for trouble? You send pictures of your willy to half the bloody station, sure enough someone is gonna take offence.’
‘Come on,’ Umar protested, ‘half a dozen is hardly half the station.’
‘But still.’
‘It was just a bit of fun,’ the sergeant repeated, sounding like an eight year old who had just been caught pushing a lit firework through his neighbour’s letter box.
‘What does the Federation say?’ Carlyle asked.
The toast popped up. Dropping it onto a plate, Umar began smearing Lurpak across the first slice. ‘I haven’t spoken to them about it.’
‘No?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I would get on to the union asap, if I were you. The hearing’s not that far away.’
Adding a dollop of marmalade, Umar took a bite of toast, chewing rapidly before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m not going to contest the hearing,’ he said quietly.
‘But-’
The rest of the toast disappeared in three swift bites. ‘I emailed Simpson last night to inform her that I have decided to leave the Force.’
Not knowing what to say, Carlyle stared into his coffee.
‘Better to jump before I’m pushed.’
‘Well-’
‘And anyway,’ Umar said brightly, starting on his second slice of toast, ‘I’ve got a new job.’
‘Oh?’ Carlyle looked up from his mug. ‘House-husband?’
‘Not at all. A proper job,’ Umar grinned. ‘I’m going to be working for Harry Cummins.’
‘You are a very lucky boy. Amelia Elmhirst really saved your skin.’
‘That is a fairly superficial reading of the actual situation, as it, er, evolved in real time on the ground,’ said Carlyle, trying his best to smile through the grimace that had set, like concrete, on his visage. He was sitting outside a coffee shop on Garrick Street, the better to have a private conversation with the Commander about their little provincial adventure.
Carole Simpson allowed herself a chuckle. ‘The sergeant handled herself extremely well. Under different circumstances, she would be in line for a commendation.’
‘Under different circumstances,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘we wouldn’t have bloody been there in the first place.’
‘Now, now, John,’ she chided, ‘things worked out well enough. Herr Kortmann has given up his search for the terrorist Sylvia Tosches and gone home.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson continued. ‘He couldn’t get out of here quick enough, heading back to Germany as soon as a doctor had given him the all clear.’
‘And what about Popp?’
‘All been dealt with,’ Simpson said cheerily, meaning: don’t ask. ‘We have earned some brownie points with our German colleagues, now that one of their leading criminals has been caught.’
‘Marcus Popp was hardly big-time,’ Carlyle said.
‘You can be so negative,’ Simpson scolded. ‘I’ll have you know that he was number 2,356 on the Europol Most Wanted list.’
Decidedly unimpressed, Carlyle replied. ‘You’re probably higher on the Europol list than that. I certainly am.’
‘The point is,’ Simpson said primly, ‘that things could have turned out a lot worse.’
‘Yeah, I could have been shot in the head. Game over.’
‘There’s no need to be so melodramatic.’
‘Why not? I was the one chained to the ground.’
The Commander raised an amused eyebrow. ‘A moment ago you were claiming it was no big deal.’
‘You could have been burying me round about now. Coffin wrapped in the Union Jack, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole works.’
‘I’m not sure that you would merit a twenty-one-gun salute, Inspector.’
‘Bloody typical.’ He toyed with his empty coffee cup.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ the Commander persisted. ‘There’s really no need for you to be so ungracious.’
‘Me? Ungracious?’
‘Yes, you are. There are plenty of times when it seems like I spend half my working day trying to keep you out of trouble of one sort or another. I do that – willingly, for the most part – because I know that you have certain qualities that many modern law-enforcement officers lack.’
Carlyle felt himself begin to blush. ‘Don’t try and butter me up,’ he stammered.
‘Qualities,’ Simpson continued, ignoring his discomfort, ‘that young, up-and-coming officers like Elmhirst should be exposed to, if only for a short while, under controlled circumstances.’
‘Ha.’
‘Qualities,’ Simpson persisted, ‘that mean that when we are confronted with very tricky situations like Voisin Towers you are my go-to guy.’
Go-to guy. How very American. Blushing harder now, he kept his jaw clamped tightly shut.
‘Anyway, I knew that Amelia would back you up. That girl really is something special. She will go far.’
‘She can certainly shoot,’ Carlyle reluctantly conceded.
‘You should be grateful that Elmhirst had your back. Not everyone can be so confident about their colleagues.’
‘I suppose not.’ He gestured down the road, in the direction of the police station. ‘Where is she, by the way? I haven’t seen her around since the incident with Popp.’
Simpson eyed him over her cup of tea. ‘As of this morning, Sergeant Elmhirst is seconded to SO15.’
‘Oh? For how long?’
‘That remains to be seen. For six months, at least – probably nine. It will be an important part of her career development.’
‘So where does that leave me?’ Carlyle whined.
‘Well,’ Simpson took a sip of her tea, ‘given that Umar Sligo is headed out the door, you’re going to be on your own for a while.’
‘Great.’ The inspector watched as a familiar face came down the road. With a couple of oversized tourists sitting in the back of his rickshaw, the pimply driver with the prayer mat was sweating heavily as he pedalled towards Trafalgar Square. You poor sod, Carlyle thought. There’s got to be an easier way to make a living.
‘But not for too long.’
‘No?’ Carlyle turned back to look at his boss.
‘In return the Chief Inspector over there has agreed to let us have Alison Roche back.’
‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle tried not to seem too chuffed at this extremely positive development.
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you’d like that.’
‘It’s fine by me,’ was the most expansive response he could muster.
‘As it goes, the powers that be in Counter Terrorism seem quite happy to see the back of her,’ Simpson revealed. ‘From what I can gather, Sergeant Roche can be a bit of a troublemaker.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Asking difficult questions. Tilting at windmills. That sort of thing.’
‘Better to keep us troublemakers together, I suppose,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘Easier for the top brass to manage.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ the Commander grinned. Reaching under the table, she took a hold of the handle of the outsized hat box at her feet and stood up.
Carlyle remembered that Trooping the Colour was less than a week away. ‘Ready for the big day?’
‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ Simpson admitted.
The inspector thought about mentioning Bernie Gilmore and his interest in her £800 hat but thought better of it. The poor woman was under enough stress already. ‘Good luck. Break a leg.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ Simpson laughed. ‘You just see if you can behave yourself for the rest of the week.’
‘No problem, boss,’ he promised, beaming. ‘No problem at all.’