‘Sure thing,’ said Eric, laughing too. Pulling a mobile out of his back pocket, he began filming his friend. Panning across the roof, he zoomed in on Jerome before focusing on the Glock. ‘Go for it, man. Let’s make a movie!’
Jerome shrieked with delight. ‘This one’s for YouTube,’ he shouted at the tiny camera. ‘Comin’ to get ya, baby!’
‘You the man, Jerome,’ shouted one of the losers.
‘I’m a killer, man!’ Jerome stepped closer to the camera and put the gun to his head, grinning like a maniac. ‘This is how you muthafuckin’ kill someone!’ he screamed, eyes blazing. ‘Just sqeeeeeze.’ His index finger jerked back the trigger. There was a muffled crack and his eyes rolled back into his head. For a second, time stood still. Then, still holding the gun, he did a little sideways dance before stepping off the side of the building and disappearing from view.
Eric stood there, the background hum of the late-night traffic in his ears, trying to work out how his mate had done such a cool trick.
‘Wow!’ said a voice behind him. ‘Did you get all that?’
ELEVEN
The number 25 bus travelled west along Oxford Street, bouncing past the clothes stores, mobile-phone booths, cafes and sex shops at an average speed of about three miles an hour. It would probably have been quicker just to walk all the way, but he couldn’t be bothered. The top deck provided a dirty and depressing vista, an unappealing mix of third-world squalor and first-world weather. It was one of the few parts of his home city that made Carlyle feel ashamed, so he always did his best to ignore it.
This morning, on his way to his breakfast meeting with Rosanna Snowdon, he sat at the very front of the bus, with his head stuck firmly in The Times. On page three, he contemplated a story about a man in Wales who had spent thirty years in prison after having been wrongly convicted of the murder of a young woman. New DNA tests had shown that he could not have been the killer. The Criminal Cases Review Commission was rushing to have the guy freed.
Reading the article, Carlyle began to feel a physical pain in his chest. The whole thing was so depressingly familiar. The ‘murderer’ was described as being mentally ill. That was no big surprise — doubtless he had been an easy way of getting a serious case off someone’s desk and a grieving family off someone’s back. At the trial, the jury had returned a unanimous guilty verdict in double-quick time. The trial judge had thrown in his tuppenceworth as well, proclaiming: ‘ I have no doubt whatsoever that you were guilty of this appalling, horrible crime.’
No doubt whatsoever. They just couldn’t wait to throw away the key. How very satisfying. An appeal was refused. Only years later, when a new solicitor pushed for another look, did the Forensic Science Service test the bodily fluids collected from the crime scene.
In short, the case had been a total fucking mess, a serving policeman’s worst nightmare. It also raised serious concerns about the integrity of dozens of other murder convictions which would now have to be similarly reviewed. The man’s solicitor spelled it out for hopeful lags up and down the country: ‘ Anyone who believes that they’ve been wrongly convicted, and thinks DNA tests would help, should contact a lawyer immediately. ’
Carlyle wondered morosely how many of his own past cases could be undone by modern technology. It didn’t bear thinking about. There but for the grace of God…
Slowly, slowly, slowly, the bus struggled another fifty yards up the road to stop at a red light. Carlyle closed the paper and stumbled out of his seat towards the stairs. The five-minute wait while the bus crawled to the next stop and the driver condescended to open the doors, did nothing to improve his mood. Not for the first time, he pined for one of the old Routemaster-style buses, where you could just jump on and off the open back platform whenever you liked. Finally back on the pavement, he got off Oxford Street as quickly as possible and headed north.
Ten minutes later, he was walking up Marylebone High Street. Still burdened by thoughts of what it must be like to be wrongly banged up for thirty years, he didn’t pause to think about the purpose of his rendezvous with the alluring BBC journalist. Arriving at Patisserie Valerie, he found the place surprisingly empty for a weekday breakfast time. Deciding that he deserved a treat, Carlyle took a moment to inspect the cakes and pastries on offer, so that they could help lift his mood. Having paid for a large pain au raisin and a double macchiato, he repaired to a table by the window and set about cutting his pastry into quarters while contemplating a couple of minutes of undiluted pleasure before the hackette arrived. He had already earmarked a feature on the return of 1980s ska band The Specials for reading while munching. The lyric ‘You’ve done too much, much too young’ was bouncing happily around his brain. He smiled to himself, cheered by how much of the song he could still remember. Before he could reopen his newspaper, however, Rosanna Snowdon appeared from nowhere, gliding across his line of vision and pulling out the chair opposite.
Placing a glass of steaming peppermint tea carefully on the table in front of her, she sat down. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she began, shifting a large pair of sunglasses to the top of her head. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Carlyle made a humble gesture. ‘No problem.’ Instinctively, he looked her up and down. As always, Rosanna was well turned out, looking sternly sexy in a rather sombre but expensive grey trouser suit and a pearl-coloured blouse which had just enough buttons undone to arouse one’s interest. Looking tired and a little jumpy, she seemed to have lost quite a bit of weight since he’d seen her last, which was all to the good. On the other hand, even the inspector could see that her roots needed retouching, which was not so good. Overall, Carlyle thought, you’re not looking great, but it’s nothing that a couple of weeks in the Caribbean or The Priory, England’s health farm to the stars, wouldn’t put right.
She looked at his plate. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘If you insist.’ He took a large bite out of one quarter of his Danish and washed it down with some coffee. For the next few minutes, they sat in amiable silence while he scoffed the rest of his pastry and she sipped demurely at her tea.
She waited until he had popped the last morsel into his mouth and was wiping his lips with a napkin before speaking again. ‘I have a slight problem.’
Still chewing, he opened his eyes wide and waited.
‘There’s a man…’
More silent chewing.
Rosanna let out a large sigh and cut to the chase. ‘I’m being stalked.’ She took another sip of her tea and sat back in the chair, clasping her hands together as if preparing to launch into prayer.
‘Isn’t that normal?’ He tried to present what he hoped was a cheeky grin.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
He kept digging. ‘Aren’t celebrities like you supposed to attract stalkers — the price of fame and all that?’
She gave him a hurt look that suggested his juvenile attempt at humour had overstepped the mark.
‘Sorry.’ He held up a hand, indicating a willingness to take her problem seriously. ‘What’s been going on? Give me the background.’
‘He’s a guy called Simon. I don’t know his surname. I guess he’s in his late thirties or early forties. He started hanging around outside my apartment building about two months ago. He’s standing there when I leave the flat. Sometimes he even follows me to work.’
Carlyle reflexively glanced out of the window.
‘Not today,’ she continued. ‘Not every day. Maybe once or twice a week. And there have been a couple of times when I’ve seen him hanging around in the evening, too.’
‘Has he physically or verbally threatened you?’ Carlyle asked in his best official tone.
Her brow furrowed. ‘No, he’s not threatening. It’s more just… creepy. He always keeps his distance like he’s too embarrassed to talk to me.’