‘But?’ Elma slumped back into her chair.
‘But,’ Federici repeated, ‘if I do that, the danger is that he’ll go to a friendly judge in some hick town in Texas and get some kind of preliminary judgement to start a legal process that could tie you up for years. Worse than that, depending on what the judge decides, you could face arrest and possible incarceration the next time you go to the United States.’
Arrest and possible incarceration. Elma thought about that for a moment. There were three trips to the US booked into her diary before the end of the year, starting with a guest slot at the San Diego Hispanic Rebirth Festival in a little over a week’s time. If she had to cancel any or all of the trips it would be a disaster for her attempts to crack the American market. And without America, she might as well close down the Salvation Centre right now. London just wasn’t big enough on its own. There was no way she was going to keep slogging round the budget hotels of the capital for the rest of her career. No way. It was America or bust for her.
‘How much does he want?’ she asked resignedly.
‘Another ten thousand, sterling.’
‘Wha-at?’ Elma squawked. ‘Is he on crack?’
Probably, Federici thought. ‘Reading between the lines,’ he explained, ‘the balance of the original fee was stolen from Jerome’s London hotel room before he went back home. It looks like his insurance company doesn’t want to pay up and he’s trying to recoup his losses by gouging you.’
Elma eyed her lawyer carefully. ‘And how do you know all this?’
The man gave a modest shrug. ‘I have my sources.’
‘Can we afford it?’
‘The ten k? Just about. It doesn’t leave you with much left over, though.’
‘Cashflow’s a bitch.’
‘Haven’t you got that new CD coming out?’
‘Not for a couple of months,’ Elma sighed, ‘and these things don’t sell much these days.’ Closing her eyes, she began humming a tune he didn’t recognize.
‘I suppose not.’ Federici let his client ponder her options a little longer. ‘Do you want me to pay him off?’
‘Lemme think on it.’
‘Okay. I’ll play for time.’
‘Good,’ Elma mumbled. Torn between pragmatism and poverty, her indecision was final. After a couple of moments, she opened her eyes. ‘Are we done?’
‘We still have to talk about Taimur.’
‘Not any more.’ Elma gave Federici a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘That boy’s a totally lost cause. There’s nothing more I can do for him right now. He’ll have to find his own salvation. We have to focus on the important stuff – like how to generate some more cash.’
The smiling blonde pulled her hair away from her face to give a better view of her ample chest. ‘I like Army guys,’ she purred, ‘but firemen too.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ Pushing the chair away from his desk, Umar looked up at his boss like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Just a bit of surfing.’
From a nearby desk, WPC Sonia Mason observed them both coolly. ‘He’s not on sexyuniforms.com again, is he?’
‘Just having a look,’ Umar admitted sheepishly.
Carlyle squinted at the girl in the small video in the top corner of the screen. ‘But she’s not wearing a uniform.’
‘No,’ Umar explained. ‘She’s a normal member of the public.’
Carlyle grinned. ‘Normal member of the public’ wasn’t the kind of phrase he came across too often at the station.
‘She wants to go out with someone in a uniform,’ the sergeant said.
‘Ah,’ said Carlyle, none the wiser.
‘Most of them want soldiers,’ Mason chipped in, ‘not coppers. But Umar lives in hope.’
‘So, it’s a dating site?’
Umar hit a button on his keyboard and the video containing the blonde disappeared. ‘Isn’t that what I said? It’s a dating site for punters who want to go out with people who wear uniforms. Some people like that kind of thing.’
Gang of Four’s ‘I Love a Man in a Uniform’ started playing in Carlyle’s head. He hadn’t heard the song in years, perhaps decades. Whatever happened to the Gang of Four? He pointed at the computer screen. ‘Why are you looking at this?’
‘No reason.’
‘He’s still trying to pull,’ Mason laughed. ‘Playing away.’
‘Bollocks,’ Umar protested. ‘I was only having a look.’
‘It’s quite common among men whose wives have just had kids,’ Mason observed. ‘Not getting the attention at home and feeling a bit sorry for themselves.’
Carlyle gave Umar a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘God help you if Christina finds out.’
‘I’m only looking,’ the sergeant repeated, sounding rather more irritated.
Carlyle looked sceptical. ‘Good luck with that line of defence.’ A thought popped into his head. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t the IT department block this kind of stuff?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mason cheerily. ‘We need access to the whole worldwide web to do our job properly. It’s essential that we know what all the nasty people are up to, as well as the needy.’
‘Lucky us.’ Carlyle pulled up a chair next to his sergeant and lowered his voice. ‘Anyway, about tonight . . .’
‘Yeah. Thanks for agreeing to do the babysitting.’
‘Happy to do it,’ Carlyle lied.
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s no problem. Helen’s really up for it. But . . . er, how long do you think you’ll be?’
‘Not long,’ Umar shrugged. ‘A couple of hours, max. It’s the first time we’ve gone out on our own since Ella was born. Christina’s looking forward to it but she’ll get too stressed if we leave the baby for too long.’
‘Okay. Good.’ Getting to his feet, the inspector began heading towards the stairs. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘You still remember how to change a nappy?’ Umar called after him.
‘Naturally,’ Carlyle muttered, hurrying away.
TWENTY-THREE
At the front desk, there was a message for him. Chris Brennan, the oleaginous lawyer, had called again and was insisting that they spoke again as soon as possible. Why don’t you just sod off? the inspector thought sourly. He was sick of people telling him what to do. Carlyle knew well enough that dealing with authority – real or imagined – had never been one of his strong points. Indeed, he had long clung to the belief that the man who had many the masters had none. The problem was that the masters, like buses, tended to all turn up at once – usually after long absences – to put that theory to the test. Well, Brennan was not one of his bosses. He simply had no authority to swan into the station and demand that the police hand over Brian Winters’ bag.
That was not to say that Brennan’s lumbering attempt to recover his ex-colleague’s effects had not piqued Carlyle’s interest. After giving the strictest instructions that the lawyer was not to be allowed anywhere near his presence, the inspector headed downstairs in search of the mysterious briefcase.
Located between the canteen and the media room, the evidence room at Charing Cross was, in fact, no more than an outsized broom cupboard. After punching in the security code on the entry pad, Carlyle pulled open the door and stepped inside. Switching on the overhead strip light, he stood in the middle of two lines of shelving, four rows high and about two feet deep, lined up against each wall. There was just enough room to walk between the shelves, as long as there was only one person in the room at a time. The place had the air of a lost luggage deposit. The shelves contained items that had been lost, or pinched from tourists, in and around Covent Garden – cameras, watches, mobile phones and the like. Few, if any, were ever returned to their original owners; after a few months, anything with a residual value would be scooped up and sent to Mile End, to be auctioned off for the benefit of the Police Benevolent Society.
The briefcase was where he had left it, in the middle row on the left, sitting between a battered laptop and a pair of Nike trainers, which were still in their box. Grabbing the handles, Carlyle signed the case out in the evidence log and made his way back upstairs. After a quick detour into the canteen to pick up a sandwich and a Coke, he grabbed an empty interview room on the first floor. Placing the bag on the table, he sat down and ate mechanically before turning his attention to the bag, pressing the catch on the lock and giving it a gentle push. Happily, it sprang open without any protest. ‘Not locked – very good.’ Carlyle peered inside. The case was divided into three compartments. The ones at the front and the back were stuffed with papers. The inspector carefully removed them, setting them on the table in two separate stacks. The middle compartment was zipped shut. Opening it up, he stuck in a hand, pulling out a passport, a wallet and a pile of credit-card receipts.