THIRTY-SEVEN
As he entered the station, Carlyle immediately clocked the headline on a newspaper lying on the front desk: PUNTER CALLS 999 OVER UGLY HOOKER.
‘Looks like Bernie caught up with Brian Yates, then.’
Underneath the headline was a picture of the hapless Yates trying to hide from a snapper dogging him by holding up a hand to the lens. It made for a good picture – Yates looked as guilty as sin.
The inspector felt a momentary pang of shame at having so casually thrown Yates to the wolves, even if it was to save Simpson from getting a public kicking over her expensive hat. Scanning the story, he saw that Sonia Coverdale had not been mentioned.
His sense of embarrassment evaporated as the desk sergeant appeared in front of him. ‘There’s a friend of yours downstairs. We’ve Seymour Erikssen in again.’
London’s crappest burglar. Carlyle shook his head. ‘I don’t know why they bother letting him out. What happened this time?’ As if he needed to ask.
‘Mr Erikssen was caught carrying a bag of gear out of a house on Rugby Street at one-fifteen this morning. iPads, laptops – the usual.’
‘Rugby Street.’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Up near Great Ormond Street,’ the sergeant explained. ‘The constable who came across him had to give chase all the way to the Piazza before he caught him.’
‘Blimey.’
‘The daft sod almost got run over by a night bus in the process. For such a scrawny old git, it seems that Seymour’s still got quite a turn of speed.’
‘Yeah. The silly bugger keeps on getting caught though, doesn’t he?’ the inspector said.
‘He must be entitled to his pension by now.’ The sergeant started to laugh.
‘If only he would call it a day and retire.’
‘Do me a favour.’ The sergeant took a sheet of paper from a printer behind the desk and handed it to Carlyle, ‘Take this downstairs, will you? Seymour just needs to sign it and then we’ll pack him off back home to the Scrubs.’
The inspector looked at the confession, which was little more than a list of addresses. ‘He’s copping to all this lot?’
The sergeant shrugged.
Carlyle waved the sheet of paper in dismay. ‘This must be just about every unsolved burglary this side of King’s Cross.’
‘Only about three-quarters of them,’ the sergeant said defensively.
‘Bloody Seymour.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Once we get him in here, he’ll sign anything.’
‘It helps with the clean-up rate,’ the sergeant countered. ‘Ticks a few boxes. Gets a few break-ins off the books and allows us to deal with other things. Plus, it allows Seymour to maintain his reputation as a hard-working criminal.’
‘Some reputation.’ Carlyle ran his eye down the list for a second time, looking for one address in particular. And there it was, third from the bottom: 46 Doughty Street. ‘Good old Seymour, taking one for the team.’ He placed the old lag’s confession back on the desk, ignoring the disgruntled look on the sergeant’s face. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled, ‘but you’ll have to take this down there yourself. I’m late for a meeting.’
* * *
Kendrick, the giant American Samoan bodyguard, lifted his head out of his bag of Monster Munch long enough to nod at the inspector as he breezed into Sammy Baldwin-Lee’s office. Inside, the Racetrack’s owner was in familiar pose, feet up on his desk, leafing through a copy of that morning’s Financial Times. ‘Listen to this,’ he said as the inspector dusted off a chair and sat down. ‘Apparently scientists have created an artificial brain.’
Carlyle gestured towards the man sitting on the ratty sofa in the corner playing on his iPhone. ‘Maybe they can give him one, then.’
Chase Race, engrossed in a game of Fruit Ninja, didn’t look up or acknowledge his presence in any way.
Chuckling, Sammy quoted from the newspaper article. ‘According to this, “human stem-cells have been turned into pea-sized mini-brains with a neural structure similar to the brain of a developing embryo”.’
‘You can’t believe what you read in the papers, Sammy.’
‘But it’s the FT,’ the nightclub-owner protested. ‘They at least try to get it right.’
Being more of a Daily Mirror man, Carlyle had no real view on the pink paper, one way or the other.
‘Anyway, it’s a more interesting story than this one.’ Holding up the paper, Sammy pointed at the headline on the next page: REN QI SHOW TRIAL DESCENDS INTO FARCE.
‘It’s all about power, corruption and lies,’ Carlyle observed tritely.
‘They reckon he’s going to get twenty years, at least. He might even get the death penalty.’ Letting the newspaper fall on to the desk, Sammy remarked sadly, ‘You lost me a serious investor there.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle spluttered. ‘How is that possibly my fault?’
‘He could have put millions into this place, millions. We could have signed Oscar 451 on a twelve-month residency.’
The inspector had no idea what the club-owner was talking about. ‘Never mind,’ he said cheerfully, ‘there are plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to raise a bean in your life.’ Sammy shot Carlyle a look of utter exasperation. ‘Have you ever tried to get a rich man to part with his money? It’s damn near impossible.’
Still focused on his game, Chase let out a cackle. ‘You tell him, man.’
‘Speaking of which,’ said Carlyle, keen to move the conversation along, ‘I have found a way of properly utilizing your excess funds, Mr Race.’
Dropping his iPhone on the sofa, the rapper finally looked up. ‘What?’
‘The money that you wanted to donate to the Avalon charity, in order to boost your reputation,’ Carlyle explained. ‘I’ve found a suitable home for it.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sitting in a busy Soho restaurant, Carlyle allowed himself to be distracted by the TV screen, which dominated the back wall. Less than a mile down the road, Trooping the Colour, the Queen’s Birthday Parade, was progressing smoothly. It suddenly struck him that Her Maj had to be at least ten years older than his father. Despite her advanced years the old girl seemed happy enough as she waved from the back of her phaeton. It was the best part of thirty years now since she had done the ceremony on horseback but, other than decamping to her carriage, she showed no real sign of her advancing years.
The benefits of a pampered lifestyle, the inspector mused.
Peering at the various horses trotting past the camera, he tried to pick out Simpson amidst the sea of uniforms. However, of the Commander he could find no sign. Let’s hope her damn hat’s stayed on, he thought.
Sitting next to him, Helen sent a sharp elbow into his ribs. ‘This is hardly the time to be watching telly,’ she nagged, ‘is it?’
‘No, sorry.’ Sitting up straight, Carlyle returned his attention to the table.
‘There was a guy I read about,’ Alice took a slurp of her Coke, ‘a musician. He was diagnosed with cancer too – of the pancreas, I think. And he decided not to get treatment – went on a farewell tour instead.’
‘Alice,’ Helen tutted, ‘for God’s sake.’
‘She’s got a point.’ Alexander Carlyle patted his granddaughter on the shoulder. ‘Why bother? I feel fine at the moment. They say I could have another eight or nine months like this. Every day now is a gift. Why go through the hassle of treatment?’ He looked at Carlyle and Helen. ‘It will make me feel terrible. And for what? Another month or two? Maybe not even that.’
Helen gave him a consoling squeeze of the hand. Carlyle simply stared at the large plate of garlic bread in the middle of the table.
Folding up the letter from the hospital, Alexander slipped it back inside his jacket pocket. ‘At least we know now. To be honest, I feel quite cheerful about it.’