‘I didn’t know they still published it.’
‘Yeah. A bit of a miracle in this day and age.’
‘Yeah,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Shame about the Dandy, though.’
Carlyle suddenly felt a twinge of nostalgia for Desperate Dan, Korky the Cat and Bananaman. ‘What happened to the Dandy?’
‘They closed it down,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It might still be online. But the comic was only selling eight thousand copies a week. When we were kids it sold millions, literally.’
‘Long time ago.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the sergeant, with feeling. ‘Kids don’t read any more. God knows what they teach ’em in the bloody schools these days. They just play bloody computer games all day. Can’t be right, can it?’
‘Things are different now.’
‘S’pose.’ The sergeant didn’t seem too happy about it.
‘Anyway, Joanne Belsky still reads. She seems a very smart girl.’ Carlyle stepped over to the front desk and took the comic from the sergeant. ‘I’ll get it back to her.’ He half-turned away and then remembered something from his mental To Do list. ‘By the way,’ he said, turning back to face the desk, ‘Chris Brennan.’
The sergeant’s face soured. Ambulance-chasing lawyers were never popular at Charing Cross, and Brennan, an ex-public schoolboy with the face of an angel and the morals of a sewer rat, was one of the worst.
‘I got a message that he was looking for me yesterday. Any idea what he wanted?’
‘I wasn’t on yesterday.’ The sergeant began flicking through the outsized day book on his desk. ‘And I don’t think there’s a note.’ He ran a finger down the relevant pages. ‘Nope . . . can’t see anything.’
‘Never mind,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘I’m sure that if he’s after something he’ll track me down soon enough.’
‘You can bet on that.’
Yes, thought Carlyle unhappily, I suppose I can.
Where the hell was Calamity James? An increasingly disgruntled inspector flicked through the pages of the Beano for a second time, just to be sure that he hadn’t missed it. With a sigh, he had to admit the truth: at some point over the last forty-plus years, it looked like his favourite cartoon character had been axed. ‘Ridiculous,’ he hissed. ‘Bloody ridiculous.’
‘So this is how you spend your time, is it? Reading comics?’
Urgh. Looking up, Carlyle saw Carole Simpson hovering at his shoulder. He had been too busy agonizing over Calamity to notice his boss sneaking up on him.
‘Good morning to you too.’
Simpson pointed to the clock on the far wall. ‘I’ll think you’ll find it’s now the afternoon, Inspector.’ The meeting with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner had left the Commander in a foul mood. Her headache had returned with a vengeance and she needed some sleep. Worst of all, Lover Boy was texting her every two minutes from the bloody conference.
‘Good afternoon, Commander.’ Tossing the comic on his desk, Carlyle made no effort to get up. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine,’ Simpson lied. Perching on the corner of his desk, she folded her arms. He was trying not to stare, but the inspector could see that she looked knackered. Washed out. Or, perhaps she was just hungover? He gave a discreet sniff. Was that booze he could smell? Maybe.
Facing conflicting emotions, Carlyle played for time. Seeing his boss looking like shit always brought out his cheery side. On the other hand, the Commander – based up the road at the Paddington Green station – rarely appeared at Charing Cross. Her arrival invariably meant that someone was going to get a bollocking; and usually, that ‘someone’ was the inspector himself.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘to what do we owe this pleasure?’
Simpson leaned thirty degrees forward in a vaguely threatening manner. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Joseph Belsky?’
Belsky, of course. He had deliberately avoided the media reporting of the cartoonist’s death. Ultimately, it was just another freakshow for so-called ‘normal’ people to gawp at. All the inevitable bullshit handwringing was intensely annoying. Scratching his head, the inspector tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you unnecessarily. It’s all sorted. I was just about to write my report.’
‘It’s all sorted,’ Simpson parroted.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle said evenly, beginning to wonder if she knew something that he didn’t. ‘Done and dusted. We have a full confession from Taimur Rage, the unfortunately-named axe man, and I got a statement this morning from the young granddaughter, who was in the flat at the time. Forensics are doing their thing. Once the autopsy on Belsky is in, the CPS or whoever can take a view on the precise charges and then the lawyers can sort it out.’ He tried to go for an innocent smile. ‘Simple.’
Swaying slightly, Simpson looked at him with a deep suspicion based on years of experience.
You’re not going to throw up over me, are you? Carlyle wondered. As a precautionary measure, he began edging his chair away from his desk. ‘What?’
‘This mad axe man. What about accomplices?’
The inspector made a face. ‘He says he did it on his own.’
‘Come on, John. Terrorists don’t work alone.’
‘Nutters who go around waving axes do.’
‘Belsky had a bounty on his head.’
Carlyle edged away a little more, until he could go no further without it being obvious. ‘Look, Taimur looks very much like your average brainless teenager. He’s probably spent the last couple of years sat in a dark room watching videos of IEDs going off in Afghanistan whereas, if he was a normal lad, he’d be sitting with a jumbo box of tissues, watching porn.’
The last microns of colour drained from Simpson’s face. ‘John, for God’s sake.’
‘The point is,’ said Carlyle, beginning to get exasperated, ‘that the wiring in his brain might be off a bit, but only by so much.’ He held up a hand, positioning his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. ‘I’m sure that the boys at MI5 can have lots of fun with his computer, but they’re not going to find evidence of a terrorist, just a fairly basic teenage fuck-up.’ He stopped, surprised by his strength of feeling on the matter. In total, he had probably only spent about an hour in the presence of Taimur Rage but the inspector knew instinctively what he was dealing with.
‘Quite a fuck-up,’ Simpson mused.
‘No question of that.’ Carlyle was pleased that his superior was at least prepared to consider his point of view. ‘He’ll definitely be spending some time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. But he’s just a bit thick. As far as I can see, he wasn’t motivated by money and he’s definitely not part of some sleeper cell. Go and talk to him for five minutes and you’ll see what I mean.’
‘Is he still here?’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. They took him to Belmarsh this morning – which is overkill in itself. Putting him in a high security prison is just for show. This is all about internal politics and external PR.’
‘You might be right.’
As always.
‘But that doesn’t matter.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I got hauled down to the Yard today because of this.’
Ah, thought Carlyle, that explains the mood.
‘Didn’t have a bloody clue what Whitehead was banging on about.’
The inspector frowned. Who’s Whitehead?
‘And I had to swear that you would do a proper job.’
‘I am doing a proper job.’
The Commander gave no indication that she supported that assertion. ‘The Commissioner wants action.’
‘Good for him,’ Carlyle snorted.
‘Don’t come the petulant schoolboy with me, Inspector.’ Swaying slightly, Simpson almost slipped off the edge of the desk. She definitely looks like she’s going to throw up, Carlyle thought. ‘You know how difficult the current financial and political context is in which we have to operate. We need more than just a confession.’