‘Very good,’ he repeated.
Predictably enough, the passport was made out to Brian Winters. Carlyle looked at the picture of a silver-haired guy. According to the details in the book, he had been born in 1953. The document itself had been issued in London less than a year ago but already the pages contained visas for Nigeria, Israel, Russia and Brazil, as well as the United States. Clearly, its owner spent a lot of time on the road. And equally clearly, he had not been expecting to keel over so suddenly on Waterloo Bridge. Pulling out his phone, the inspector scrolled through his contact list until he found WPC Mason’s number upstairs.
She picked up on the second ring. ‘Mason here.’ Her chirpiness made him smile.
‘It’s Carlyle. Is Umar still gawping at that website?’
‘Nah,’ she laughed, ‘he’s gone out. On bike ride-duty.’
‘He’s on a bike?’ Carlyle frowned. He had never known Umar to do anything remotely athletic – apart from flirting – in all the time they had worked together.
‘No, no,’ Mason giggled, ‘he’s not riding a bike. He’s signed up to cover the naked bike-ride protest. Him and half the station.’
‘Figures,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘They should be coming down the Strand right about now. He can’t be that far away. D’ya want me to find him for you?’
‘It’s okay. But there is something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you speak to the Waterloo station and get their report on the guy who dropped down dead on Waterloo Bridge the other night? His name was Brian Winters.’
‘Sure.’
‘Also, check whether he’s ever been in any trouble with us before. And, if you’ve got time, do a quick online search and see what you can find out about him, generally speaking.’
‘No problem. What am I looking for?’
‘Nothing in particular,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Just see if anything interesting pops up.’
‘Okay, I’m on it.’
Ending the call, he rang Susan Phillips. After three rings, her voicemail kicked in and he left a short message, asking her to call him back. Then, after finishing the last of his snack, he wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and began sifting through Winters’ papers.
After several minutes of aimless searching, he was interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing across the desk. It was Susan Phillips.
‘Hi. Thanks for calling me back. I just wanted to check about the guy on Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Just done him,’ Phillips replied cheerily. ‘Interesting character.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, you don’t normally find sixty-something men with traces of cocaine in their system, at least not in London.’
Carlyle sat back in his chair. ‘I thought he died of a heart attack?’
‘He did. Not a bad way to go, if you ask me. Bam. He didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Brought on by the coke?’
‘That wasn’t clear but I rather doubt it. Just general wear and tear. Could have been brought on by the stress of the rush hour.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s not that uncommon. What we found was evidence of long-term drug use, rather than of any massive recent binge. He certainly didn’t OD. The guy was a lawyer as I understand it.’
‘Apparently so.’
‘So, presumably, it was just a recreational habit he’d developed over the years. Nothing that exciting.’
‘Hm. Have your findings gone over to Waterloo?’
‘Not yet. But they’ve had the basics, like you. I’ll probably get a written report to them sometime tomorrow.’
‘Will they do anything with it?’
‘Nah, you know the score. Natural causes. It’s gonna be case closed as soon as my findings reach their inbox.’
‘Fair enough,’ Carlyle mused, knowing that, in their position, he would do exactly the same. ‘Thanks again for calling me back.’
‘No problem. Any time.’ The pathologist ended the call. Tossing the phone onto the desk, Carlyle contemplated the papers spread out in front of him. Phillips was right – it all seemed very straightforward. Winters’ property should quickly be returned to his next of kin, who could then hand the relevant bits back to his employers. One thought, however, kept nagging at him: if Winters’ death was so routine, why was that little shit Chris Brennan getting so agitated about the contents of his briefcase?
TWENTY-FOUR
Wearing nothing but a cycling crash helmet and a pair of aviator shades, Melissa Graham pedalled slowly down the Strand, heading towards Trafalgar Square. Trying to keep her gaze firmly on the patch of tarmac two feet beyond her front wheel, she hoped that none of the gawkers standing on the pavement could see how deeply she was blushing.
All around her, people were laughing and joking. Every so often, someone would break into an impromptu, invariably tuneless, song. After more than an hour on the road, however, the collective determination to have fun felt increasingly oppressive. Her shoulders were starting to burn under the London sun and, all in all, Melissa felt thoroughly miserable. Not for the first time that afternoon, she cursed her boyfriend for talking her into getting naked and riding through the middle of bloody London at about three miles an hour for the amusement of all and sundry. Her friend Laura, who was supposed to be riding alongside her, had pulled out at the last minute, claiming bad PMT. Laura, Melissa thought ruefully, was no mug. She instinctively knew when something was just too uncool for words.
The rider in front of her got out of the saddle, giving Melissa a perfect view of his hairy arsehole. Grimacing, she looked away. What the hell had she been thinking? All the talk of making a protest – about what, by the way? – was a load of old nonsense. The whole thing, she realized sadly, was just a chance for a group of pervy men to talk a bunch of stupid girls into taking their kit off.
Stupid girls, just like her.
Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. ‘Nice tits!’ came a cry from the crowd, followed by peals of plebeian laughter. Melissa looked up to see who had been shouting, only to be greeted by a random mixture of bemused and lecherous faces – a united nations of wankers. Even the small knot of policemen – and one WPC – standing in front of a taxi that had stopped to take in the show seemed to think that the whole thing was hilarious. A few yards further on, a reporter was doing a piece to camera while a couple of other TV crews were filming the cyclists, many of whom were waving or mooning as they went by, flourishing their little anti-nuclear and anti-capitalist flags and banners as they did so.
Shit, shit, shit. She felt like crying. What happens if they see me at work? What if my parents are watching this, live, on News 24?
Melissa badly wanted to stop, get off her bike, pull out some shorts and a T-shirt from her pannier and get dressed. But that would only serve to draw attention to her and her embarrassment. All she could do now was try and get to the end as quickly as possible and slink off, putting it down as a never-to-be-repeated learning experience.