TWENTY-SEVEN
Where exactly was he? Page 378? 379? It had to be around there. Harry was just about to shoot someone and save the day.
Good man, Harry. Good name, too.
Harry Hole.
Great name for a cop.
Shame about his drinking problem.
And his relationship problems.
And all his other problems.
Feeling rather smug, sitting pretty in his domestic cocoon, Carlyle looked over at Helen, perched on the edge of the sofa, her mobile jammed under her ear.
‘Well,’ she said, speaking into the phone, ‘if you can’t come up next week, maybe we could come down to the coast for a few days.’
Uh, oh, Carlyle thought, she’s cooking something up with her mother. He shifted uneasily in his seat. It wasn’t that he had any particular cause to dislike his mother-in-law; it was just that he preferred it when he was in London and she stayed down in Brighton.
‘No, no, I think we would all come.’ Helen glanced up at her husband but he pretended not to notice. ‘John would like to come too. He could do with a bit of time by the sea. The fresh air would do him good.’
Finding his page, the inspector shrank as far behind his book as possible and began reading. The bad guy was just about to be stopped in his tracks, as promised. This is what policing is supposed to be about, he thought happily. Shoot first and ask questions later.
If only.
Sadly, it was about as far removed from reality as he could possibly imagine. You didn’t get many serial killers howling at the moon in Covent Garden.
Waaa.
The cry from down the hall was faint but clear. Carlyle stead-fastly refused to look up from his book. Ignore it, he told himself. It might go away.
Waa. Waa.
Just ignore it.
‘Hold on a second, Ma.’ Stretching across the sofa, his wife prodded him with a stockinged toe. Reluctantly, he looked up. From down the hall, the crying had mutated into a continuous complaint that was becoming steadily louder. ‘Go and see that Ella’s all right. Her nappy might need changing.’
When he didn’t move, Helen waved the handset in front of his face. ‘I’m on the phone.’
WAAA.
Why don’t you get off the bloody phone, then? he thought grumpily. But Helen had already returned her attention to the conversation with her mother.
‘Yeah, just making John get off his backside to go and see to the baby . . . yes, she’s lovely . . . I know . . . no, it would be far too late for us to have another one now.’
Too damn right, Carlyle thought. With a weary sigh, he tossed his book onto the table, struggled to his feet and padded towards the hall.
Ella was lying in a travelling cot on their bed. By the time he reached her, the noise level had gone up another notch. As he bent down to pick her up, the inspector realized that Helen had been right. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Shit.’
Taking a moment out from her wailing, the child looked up at him suspiciously. Even Carlyle had to admit she was a very pretty kid, her dark features showing traces of both of her parents. He tried a smile.
Waa.
‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands in supplication. ‘Let’s get this done.’ Gently removing the child from her cot, he carefully carried her next door, breathing through his mouth as best he could.
In anticipation of just such an occurrence, Helen had laid out a changing mat on the bathroom floor, along with all the required paraphernalia. Thankfully, Ella lapsed into a bemused silence as she watched the inspector free her legs and lower body from her romper suit and begin the delicate operation of removing the soiled nappy. ‘God,’ Carlyle grimaced, reaching for a nappy sack. ‘What the hell have you been eating, eh?’ Looking up, Ella gave him something that could have been interpreted as a smile. ‘That was a monster.’ Dropping the nappy into the sack, he tied the drawstrings and lobbed the offending article into the bath. How long is it since I did this for Alice? he wondered, knowing that his daughter wouldn’t want to be reminded of those not so long ago but long gone days. He looked at Ella and smiled. ‘You’ll be grown up too, before you know it.’ All he got by way of reply was a broad yawn. ‘Understood.’ Reaching for the wipes, Carlyle began carefully cleaning the child’s arse. ‘Give me a minute and we’ll get you back in bed.’
When he made it back to the living room, Helen was still on the phone to her mum. She looked up and he gave her a nod to signify that everything was all right. Ella had fallen asleep almost before he had left the room. Domestic peace had been restored. Reaching over, he kissed his wife gently on the top of her head. For a moment, it was almost as if they had gone back in time. Returning to the sofa, he picked up his book and returned to his page. Finally, it was time to learn a thing or two about proper policing.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Three missed calls from Bernie Gilmore were by no means the ideal start to the day. The journalist would either want to berate the inspector for not dropping a tip in his lap or, alternatively, try and winkle something out of him. There was nothing that Bernie liked more than some nice piece of juicy information that Carlyle should sensibly keep to himself. ‘God, Bernie,’ he grumbled to himself, ‘what makes you think I know anything?’ He didn’t have any such titbits to share, whether he wanted to or not. Hell, that was the whole point of being a copper – you spent your entire life coming to terms with your basic lack of information.
Happily, by the time the inspector reached the front steps of the station, Bernie Gilmore had been completely forgotten.
Slipping unobtrusively through the reception, keeping an eye out for any familiar faces on the benches, he was intercepted by Michelangelo Federici, creeping up on his blindside.
‘Inspector.’
Oh shit. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Carlyle asked grumpily.
Federici looked around nervously. Clearly, the lawyer was not keen to be discussing his business in such a public space. ‘Can we talk upstairs?’
Carlyle sighed. He had a lot to get through this morning and already he was running late. But Federici seemed a decent enough sort – for a lawyer. The inspector pointed past the front desk, towards the doors leading into the station proper. ‘Sure. Let’s go and find a room. It’ll need to be quick, though.’
‘Thank you.’ Smiling, Federici immediately signalled to a small black woman in an expensive-looking business suit sitting on a nearby bench. The woman jumped up as if she had been given an electric shock and scuttled over. ‘Inspector, this is Taimur Rage’s mother.’
Hovering beside her lawyer, Elma Reyes shot Carlyle a hard look but said nothing.
Nice to meet you too, Carlyle thought, scowling at the lawyer who had so shamelessly tricked him. ‘Uhuh.’
‘We need to discuss developments,’ Federici continued.
So now, all of a sudden, she wants to get involved? Well, it’s a bit bloody late. The only development we’re going to get now is her lad going to jail for a long time. Turning on his heel, the inspector headed towards the doors. ‘Follow me.’
Finding an empty interview room on the first floor, Carlyle pushed open the door and ushered his guests inside. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Michelangelo Federici pulled out a chair and invited his client to sit down. Silently, Elma Reyes obliged. Federici took the seat next to her.