Umar sat up in his chair. ‘It was just the angle,’ he said stiffly.
‘Whatever.’ She began walking away but stopped after a couple of paces and turned back to face him. ‘Look, Umar, I know it’s just supposed to be a joke. But some people might not be so . . . broad-minded as me.’
‘Mm.’ Umar squirmed in his seat as he contemplated Elmhirst being broad-minded.
‘Just be careful.’
‘What do you mean?’
Elmhirst smiled. ‘I know you’ve sent pics to some of the other girls. If someone were to make a complaint, you could be in big trouble.’
‘Fancy a drink tonight?’ he called after her as she finally walked away.
‘Sorry. I’m going to meet Si at Heathrow. Next time.’
‘Lucky bugger,’ Umar muttered under his breath. ‘And he’s such a total waste of space. Completely useless. I don’t know what she sees in him at all.’
Not your problem, is it? Carlyle took one last breath of Elmhirst’s scent as she disappeared. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Umar glumly, before returning his attention to the computer screen. ‘Nothing at all.’
The inspector couldn’t resist twisting the knife just a little. ‘She’s not responding to your charms, then, eh?’
‘Sod off,’ was all he got by way of reply.
SIX
Sitting in a Lebanese café on the Edgware Road, an occasional haunt over the years, Carlyle reluctantly put on his glasses, the better to inspect himself in the mirror that covered the entire wall opposite. Groaning inwardly, he noted every line on his sagging face and every additional grey hair on his head. It seemed that just as he had reconciled himself to uncomfortable middle age, he was exiting that stage of his life at some speed. At what time would he formally become old? Not for the first time, thoughts of retirement flitted through his head. The idea seemed as ridiculous as ever.
The grumpy old sod staring back at him seemed equally unimpressed with what he saw. The inspector had to resist the considerable temptation to flick him a few angry V-signs. At least he didn’t seem to be going bald. If nothing else, the Carlyle family genes should ensure he kept a full head of hair well into his advancing years. His father was testament to that. It wasn’t much of an inheritance but he supposed that it was better than nothing.
‘Inspector?’
Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the woman in front of him. Naomi Taylor was a small, fragile-looking woman, with short auburn hair and black rings under her eyes, which stood testimony to the stress she had been under, the last few days. If he had ever met her before now, Carlyle couldn’t recall it; she wasn’t the type of person you were likely to remember unless you had a particular reason to do so.
‘Susan said you might be able to help me.’
‘Yes.’ Bloody Phillips. From a radio behind the counter came the sounds of Daft Punk’s ‘Get Lucky’. The song was a current favourite of Alice’s and he liked to listen to her mooching around the flat singing the chorus to herself. It was well past time for his daughter to start developing her own tastes in music – she could only limit her interests to The Clash, The Jam and the rest of his old CD collection for so long. A question popped into his head. ‘Did you . . . I mean, do you have kids?’
Naomi nodded and her eyes filled with tears.
You moron. Surely you should be better at this by now. Grabbing a napkin from the table, he handed it over.
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, before blowing her nose with surprising force. ‘A girl. She’s with my mother.’
‘Yes.’
She waited patiently until it became obvious that he wasn’t going to say anything else. ‘Did you work with him?’ she asked finally.
‘Marvin? Er, yes, a few times.’ It was a complete lie. During Taylor’s time at Charing Cross, the two of them had barely spoken to each other. It was a period when Carlyle seemed to be landed with endless night shifts, and his interaction with the majority of his colleagues had been severely curtailed. Convinced that night shifts were very bad for your physical and mental health, the inspector had nothing but unhappy memories of that time. He had known the sergeant by sight but they were barely on nodding terms when they passed in the corridor or on Agar Street. ‘We covered a few cases together when Marvin was at my station. He was a good man, a valuable colleague . . . very dependable.’
Her eyes filled again and a large tear rolled down each cheek. Stifling a sob, she rocked forward until her face was barely two inches from the top of the table. Carlyle reached for another napkin. On the radio, ‘Get Lucky’ had been superseded by another cheery tune. This one he didn’t recognize. Time seemed to slow down and he was conscious that the other customers were looking at them, their own conversations put on hold while they tuned in to the human drama nearby. Clearly, a café had been the wrong choice of venue for this meeting. He offered her the napkin but she waved it away, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her jacket. Fair enough, Carlyle thought. This is not the time to be standing on ceremony.
‘They say . . .’ her voice quavered and she fought for a breath. Carlyle glared at a couple on the next table who were shamelessly eavesdropping until they reluctantly went back to their own conversation. Naomi Taylor placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘They say,’ she whispered, ‘that his head . . . was almost sliced off.’
Squeamish at the best of times, Carlyle grimaced. ‘Who told you this?’
She shuddered, as if someone had just stuck a blade through her ribs. ‘I overheard someone joking about it.’
The inspector shook his head in dismay ‘Have you not seen the body yet?’
If anything, the woman’s face became even more anguished. ‘No, they won’t let me see it.’
Carlyle thought back to this morning’s papers. The grisly details had been there for all to read. ‘But they told the press?’ Very strange. Someone must have sold the information. So much for the new Commissioner’s promise to clean up the Met; the organization still had more than its share of officers who were as bent as a nine-bob note, willing to sell juicy details of a crime to journalists for some beer money.
His unhappy musings were interrupted by the phone vibrating next to his left breast. ‘Sorry, I need to take this,’ he told her as he pulled it from his pocket.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Where are you?’
Taken aback by the brusqueness of his boss’s opening gambit, the inspector took a moment to get his bearings. ‘Er . . .’
‘I spoke to Charing Cross and they just said you’d gone out.’ Commander Carole Simpson sounded like a pissed-off headmistress. Come to think of it, that was increasingly her default tone when speaking with her erratic underling. Maybe it was simply a reflection of her advancing years. Remembering that, however old she was, the Commander was still younger than him, Carlyle dropped that line of thinking immediately.
‘I’m in a meeting. Not far from you, as it happens.’ Simpson was stationed at Paddington Green, barely five minutes’ walk from where he was sitting.
‘How convenient,’ Simpson drawled sarcastically. ‘So I take it that you could manage to put in an appearance with us, then?’
Bollocks. Whatever Simpson wanted, it would inevitably involve more work. As he got older himself, the inspector was less inclined to take on the cases he was given and more determined to pick and choose the ones he wanted. As far as he could see, it was one of the few perks of longevity in the organization. Normally, the commander was happy enough to keep him on a long leash. There were times, however, when she enjoyed bringing him to heel.
‘Of course, boss,’ he replied, throwing an ounce of fake cheer into his voice, ‘I’d love to.’
‘Good,’ said Simpson, her good humour equally false. ‘I look forward to seeing you in what – the next ten minutes or so?’