‘I suppose that’s the best we can hope for at this stage,’ Whitehead sighed. ‘Just make sure that he keeps you fully informed at all times.’
The little bastard never keeps me in the loop. Simpson stifled a laugh. ‘That won’t be a problem, sir. The inspector is extremely competent when it comes to lines of reporting.’
‘Good.’ Whitehead glanced at the clock on the wall behind Simpson’s head. He really was pushed for time now. That Calloway RAZR X driver he had his eye on would have to stay in the Pro’s Shop at least until after his round. ‘And be quick. We don’t want MI5 coming in and taking over our investigation, do we?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Taking her cue from the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Simpson jumped to her feet and headed for the door. MI5? What the hell had Carlyle dragged her into now?
SEVENTEEN
Dabbing at the corner of her eye with a paper napkin, Elma Reyes shot an accusing stare at her lawyer.
‘The amount of money I pay you, I’d have thought you could get him out.’
Michelangelo Federici shook his head sadly. Clients were unrealistic at the best of times – and this was not the best of times. ‘Elma,’ he said gently, ‘the boy attacked a guy with an axe. The guy died.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Elma hissed. Looking around the café, she took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘Taimur didn’t kill the guy, did he?’
Federici stared into the dregs of his elderflower tea. ‘That depends on your view of cause and effect.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. Look, at least you got to see him before they remanded him.’
At the mention of prison, Elma’s eyes started welling up again. ‘You should have got him out,’ she sobbed. ‘Now he’s locked up with a bunch of hardcore criminals. God knows what will happen.’
I’m sure you’ve said a prayer for him, Federici thought tartly. All this maternal grief would be more convincing if it wasn’t for the fact that their visit to Charing Cross was the first time that Elma had seen her son in almost a year. Since he had been a teenager, the boy had chosen to live with his father. All Elma’s energy had gone into building up the Christian Salvation Centre. This was one family for whom charity most definitely did not begin at home.
‘Have you spoken to Calvin?’ he asked.
For a moment, it looked like Elma might choke on her tea. She cleared her throat. ‘Why in God’s name would I want to do that?’
Gazing out of the window, Federici watched a young woman stroll past with a poodle on a leash. The poodle’s fur had been dyed pink. People can be such dicks, he thought. ‘He is the boy’s father.’
Elma grunted her displeasure at being reminded of such an unsavoury fact.
‘Look,’ Federici took his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a twenty-pound note to pay their bill, ‘I know that you and Calvin are not in regular contact.’
‘I haven’t spoken to that . . . we haven’t talked in almost ten years.’
‘But the point is that you have to now, for Taimur’s sake.’
Staring at the ceiling, Elma Reyes said nothing.
Carlyle breezed past the front desk, doing a double-take as he took in the man in the crazy yellow suit. Some kind of dress tartan, he mused to himself, digging down deep into his Scottish DNA. Waving his arms around, the guy was clearly irritated as a young PC fluttered aimlessly at his shoulder.
‘How long does it take to get a damn piece of paper around here?’ The accent was American, the body language universal.
Just another tourist who has come a cropper in the world’s greatest city, the inspector thought disinterestedly. Slipping through the doors leading to the station proper, he skipped up the stairs and into Interview Room 1C on the first floor. As he entered the room, a young girl who had to be Joanne Belsky looked up from behind her Beano.
The Beano. He didn’t even know it was still going.
For a second, his thoughts drifted back to memories of Calamity James and Alexander Lemming. Maybe, if he asked nicely, the girl might let him have a quick peek. ‘You must be Joanne.’
Saying nothing, the child slid back behind her comic.
‘Where’s your mother, then?’
‘I’m here.’
He turned to find an harassed-looking woman standing in the doorway. ‘I’m Stephanie Belsky.’ Slim, almost as tall as the inspector himself, she was wearing a brown leather jacket over a pearl-grey silk blouse, not too much make-up and her hair cut short, but not too short. All in all, a fairly standard yummy mummy look.
Belsky offered him her hand. Pushing back his shoulders slightly, he shook it limply and said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle.’
Removing a stray strand of hair from her face, Stephanie Belsky looked him up and down, giving no indication that she was in any way impressed. ‘And you’ve met Joanne.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you in charge of the investigation?’
‘That’s correct.’ He invited her to take a seat next to her daughter. ‘I was one of the officers on the scene after the initial attack. Our condolences . . . to you both.’
Pulling out a chair, Stephanie Belsky acknowledged the stilted expression of sympathy with a curt nod. ‘Were you the one who found him?’
‘Your father?’ Carlyle glanced at the child but she did not look up. ‘No, that was one of my colleagues.’
The admission seemed to sour her mood still further. ‘So, what is it that you need from us now?’
‘Well,’ Carlyle took a deep breath, ‘as Joanne was there . . .’
To further illustrate her exasperation with the forces of so-called law and order, Stephanie Belsky began drumming her bright red nails on the table.
‘. . . we would like to get a statement.’
‘Is that really necessary?’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘I thought that you had a confession?’
How did she know that? ‘Yes, but . . .’
‘So why do you need to put Joanne through all that again by making her give you a statement?’
‘Mum.’ With a theatrical flourish, Joanne placed her comic on the table. ‘For God’s sake. It’s not like I saw the guy put an axe in Grandpa’s head. I’m hardly traumatized. We’re all going to die in the end.’
An awkward silence descended on the interview room. Her mother looked like she wanted to give the girl a clip round the ear, but reluctantly thought better of it. Biting his lip, the inspector tried not to smile. He was liking Joanne Belsky just fine.
Stephanie Belsky shot the inspector an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry. She’s always been very . . . forceful.’
‘Not at all.’
‘She got into trouble at school,’ the woman added ruefully, ‘for telling the other kids that Santa Claus didn’t exist – she was only four at the time.’
‘Well, he doesn’t,’ Joanne said flatly, ‘does he?’
‘You sound like my daughter,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘She is very forceful too.’
Joanne gave a sympathetic nod. ‘How old is she? As old as me?’
‘A bit older. She runs rings round her old dad.’
Both females gave him a look which said that shouldn’t be too difficult.
Joanne let her gaze fall to the desk. ‘My dad ran away when I was little. Mum says that he was a right-’
‘That’s more than enough,’ said Stephanie Belsky, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘If you are going to give the inspector a statement, let’s get on with it, shall we?’
EIGHTEEN
‘The kid left her comic in the interview room.’ The desk sergeant waved the well-thumbed copy of the Beano at Carlyle. ‘I used to read this as a kid,’ he smiled.
‘Me too.’