The inspector stepped over to the window. There was a pause while his guests waited for him to speak. When he failed to oblige, Federici took the initiative. ‘What happened last night was truly devastating.’
‘Hm.’ What the hell was he talking about? Gazing through the glass, Carlyle kept his back to the table.
‘For Taimur to be able to take his own life while under the care and protection of the state is a dreadful indictment of the prison service.’
Shocked, Carlyle maintained his silence.
‘The fact that this vulnerable young man was able to obtain and use as yet unidentified drugs while supposedly under round-the-clock supervision will,’ the lawyer continued, ‘surely be a matter of some detailed investigation.’
Why had no one told him about this?
‘In the meantime, it almost beggars belief that these services were outsourced to a private contractor.’
In the courtyard below, he caught sight of the top of WPC Mason’s head as she climbed into a squad car. Maybe that’s what Bernie was ringing about, he thought. It wouldn’t be the first time that the shaggy journalist had known more about one of his investigations than Carlyle himself.
‘Legal action will almost certainly follow.’
Get to the point, Carlyle thought, you’ve used up all of my goodwill already.
‘However, our main interest is in truth and justice for the family.’
Yeah, right, you ambulance-chasing bastard.
‘Ms Reyes has lost her son. And nothing anyone can say or do can bring him back.’
‘Yes.’ Finally, the inspector turned away from the window and took a seat on the opposite side of the table, holding the mother’s stony gaze as he did so. ‘Please accept my deepest condolences.’
Elma Reyes gave the merest of nods. A grim mask had settled on her face. If she had shed any tears for her son, they were long gone.
‘This must be a very difficult time for you.’ The inspector paused, counting to three in his head. ‘What is it that I can do to be of assistance?’
Federici started to say something but Elma Reyes held up a hand to silence him. ‘Arrest the people that killed him,’ she said, jabbing an accusing finger at the inspector. ‘Do your job for once.’
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle looked at the lawyer. Regardless of the circumstances, he didn’t like being criticized, and certainly not by a civilian.
‘Ms Reyes believes that her ex-husband, Calvin Safi, and his associates are ultimately responsible for this tragedy,’ said Federici.
‘By ultimately responsible, you mean . . .’
‘They gave him the drugs,’ Elma said flatly.
The inspector thought about that for a moment. ‘When he was arrested, Taimur was tested for drugs – I don’t think they found anything. Are you saying that he had a history of-’
‘No.’ Elma glared at him as if he was a stupid child, trying her patience. ‘Taimur never did anything like that. That’s why it was so easy to lead him astray.’
‘And why would they want to do that?’
‘Good God.’ Elma turned her wrath on her lawyer. ‘I thought you said this one wasn’t totally stupid.’
Federici shrugged apologetically. Whether the gesture was for the benefit of his client or the policeman, it was not clear.
Looking at the lawyer, Carlyle tried to change tack. ‘I thought that Mr Safi was your client also?’
‘I pay the bills.’ Elma Reyes angrily slapped her hand down on the table. ‘Those heathens corrupted my boy, they’re the ones to blame. My son would never have ended up dead on drugs if he’d been under my roof.’
But he wasn’t, Carlyle thought, was he? All these people who came crying to him after the event; why didn’t they manage to pull their finger out before the shit hit the fan? It was so much easier just to whine about it afterwards. Taking the deepest of breaths, he tried to locate an atom of sympathy from somewhere in his being. ‘Mrs . . .’
‘Ms,’ Federici reminded him. ‘Ms Reyes.’
‘Ms Reyes,’ the inspector repeated, ‘do you have any evidence to support what you are saying here?’
A look of such pure fury passed across Elma Reyes’ face that for a moment he thought she was about to reach across the table and try to rip his face off with her bare hands. However, as it passed, she slumped back into her chair and folded her arms. ‘Isn’t that your job – to find the proof?’
Carlyle looked over at the lawyer, who was staring at his hands. ‘Yes, but-’
‘As God is my witness, I told you what happened,’ she said defiantly, her eyes shining with an emotion that Carlyle couldn’t quite place. ‘Now surely it’s up to you to go and get the damn evidence.’
TWENTY-NINE
Deeply irritated by Elma Reyes’ crude attempt to bully him into hassling her husband, Carlyle was in a foul mood as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Ignoring the two guys hovering near his desk, he scanned the room looking for his sergeant. Where the hell was Umar?
With a weary sigh, the inspector sat down and began banging on his keyboard. He still hadn’t submitted his final report on Taimur Rage to Simpson. It was a bit academic now, but the Commander liked her paperwork. If he didn’t get it over to her soon-ish, she would be on his case.
‘Inspector John Carlyle?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle mumbled, not looking up as he continued typing, ‘that’s me.’
Why couldn’t people just bloody leave him alone? Holding up his left hand, he continued typing with his right. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy right now, so if it can wait . . .’
‘It can’t.’ The stony reply was followed by a warrant card being waved in front of his face.
‘Fuck.’ Pushing back his chair, the inspector looked up to see a small round guy with a completely bald head and a rather spectacular handlebar moustache staring back at him. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket and a navy polo-neck jumper of the kind that had rarely been seen in London since the late 1970s. Behind him stood a younger, taller guy sporting a T-shirt showing a line of guitars over the legend Choose Your Weapons. With hair down to his shoulders and a dopey expression on his face, he looked like something out of a Bill amp; Ted movie.
Not the fashion police, then, Carlyle thought unkindly.
‘I’m DI Ron Flux and this is Sergeant Adrian Napper. We’re from the Hammersmith station.’
‘Nice to meet you guys,’ Carlyle lied unconvincingly. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
Scratching his ’tache, Flux made a show of giving Carlyle the once-over. ‘We want to talk to you about Sandra Middlemass.’
Trooping his colleagues back down the stairs, Carlyle took them to the interview room that had just been vacated by Elma Reyes and her lawyer. Flopping into the seat last used by Michelangelo Federici he gave a thin smile. ‘Okay, so who is . . .’
‘Sandra Middlemass,’ said Napper, taking the seat opposite.
‘Sandra Middlemass,’ Flux repeated, leaning back against the wall, ‘was a fifteen year old from White City who disappeared three months ago.’
‘Okay.’
‘Before she vanished, one of the last places she was seen was the Persian Palace.’
It took the inspector a moment to place the name. ‘Calvin Safi’s kebab shop?’
‘Exactly.’ Pulling out a chair, Flux finally sat down. ‘Sandra used to hang out there a lot.’ Taking a photo out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he flicked it across the table. Carlyle stopped it before it fell off the edge, picked it up and made a show of studying the girl’s nondescript face.
‘In fact,’ Flux continued, ‘she spent more time there than she did at school. One of the worst attendance records at Phoenix High School. By all accounts, a complete waste of space. But just a kid, nonetheless.’