Handing back the picture, Carlyle recalled his visit to the shop and the girl in the rear booth. Leather jacket and eye-liner. Looked like she was off her face on something.
Flux stuffed the picture back in his pocket.
Napper idly scratched one of the guitars on his T-shirt. ‘What were you doing at the Persian Palace?’
‘After we arrested Taimur Rage,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I went to see the father.’
The two officers looked at each other. ‘What did Taimur do?’ Napper asked.
‘Are you serious?’ Carlyle laughed. All he got in return was a couple of blank looks. ‘Where have you been the last few days? Have you not seen the papers?’
Flux shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I’m just back from holiday. Two weeks’ fishing in Ireland. I was in the middle of nowhere.’ Looking down at the table, his sergeant said nothing.
‘Okay, well . . .’ Carlyle gave them the two-minute version of events.
‘So Taimur finally lost the plot,’ Flux observed. ‘Doesn’t really surprise me. The boy never struck me as being all there.’
‘The whole family’s fairly fucked up,’ Napper mused.
Flux smiled at Carlyle. ‘Nice for you, though.’
‘What?’
‘The kid confesses and then tops himself. If only it were always that simple.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but back to the matter in hand, what do you want from me?’
‘When you went round there,’ Napper asked, ‘did you find out anything interesting?’
‘Not really.’ Carlyle pretended to think about it for a moment. ‘The boy’s room had been cleaned out by MI5.’
‘Those muppets,’ Flux groaned. ‘What do they want?’
‘They see this as an organized terrorist attack,’ Carlyle said.
‘An attack on the very fabric of civilized society,’ Flux quipped, parroting the standard line in official bullshit for such occasions.
‘Exactly. As such, they want to track down other members of Taimur’s cell, so that we can all sleep more easily in our beds.’
‘Ha. What cell? That boy couldn’t organize shit,’ Flux scoffed. ‘It’s a miracle that he was able to get out of bed in the morning.’
‘I know,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but they have to tick all the boxes. Imagine if someone else popped up and they hadn’t been seen to take it seriously?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Flux, clearly as unconvinced as the inspector.
‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I had a look around and a chat with Calvin. He just seemed a bit worn down by the whole thing.’
‘I wouldn’t be taken in by that struggling small businessman act,’ Flux snorted. ‘He’s a right bastard.’
‘Two drugs convictions,’ Napper chimed in, ‘for possession with intent to supply.’
Maybe Elma Reyes had a point, Carlyle thought glumly.
‘Plus one for assault. And another for false imprisonment.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
‘A twenty-year-old girl claimed he locked her in a room on the first floor for a couple of hours.’ Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, Flux leaned across the table. ‘And four months before she went missing, Sandra Middlemass turned up at Shepherd’s Bush police station to make a complaint.’
‘About Safi?’
Flux grimaced. ‘We don’t know. It wasn’t properly investigated.’
You mean it wasn’t checked at all, Carlyle thought. ‘So how did you guys get involved?’
‘I know Sandra’s family.’
Carlyle waited for further explanation. When it wasn’t forth-coming, he pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Fine. Okay, well, sorry I can’t be of more help. From my end, the Taimur Rage investigation is more or less done. But if anything that might be of interest comes up, I’ll shout.’
‘Thanks.’ Pulling a business card from his pocket, Flux handed it over.
‘No problem.’ Taking the card, Carlyle shuffled from the room, leaving his visitors to find their own way out.
THIRTY
‘Even by your standards, this is a bit of a mess.’ The outsized reporter took his empty crisp packet in both hands and began carefully folding it into quarters.
Carlyle wasn’t going to disagree. ‘Kind of you to point that out,’ he said morosely from behind his demitasse.
‘Just an observation.’
Bernie Gilmore had chosen the small café in a side street off Soho Square, just south of the permanent traffic jam that was Oxford Street. The original Uruguayan owner of the Café Montevideo had gone decades ago. But his successors had kept its name and also its reputation for good, cheap food. A great spot for people-watching, it was also far enough from his home turf for the inspector to be able to relax a little over his elevenses.
Ringing up to suggest the meeting, Carlyle had requested that they go somewhere not too close to Charing Cross. In his book, that basically meant west of Charing Cross Road and north of Old Compton Street. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed to be seen in Bernie’s company, but there was no need to be seen too close to the station while in the act of shamelessly breaking bread with such a notorious muck-raker. After all the recent scandals concerning police officers selling information to reporters, the inspector didn’t want to get a reputation for being too chummy with journalists. As a rule of thumb, he normally gave most hacks short shrift. But he had an occasionally symbiotic relationship with Gilmore based on the careful exchange of information. No money ever changed hands.
Bored with his origami, Bernie tossed the crisp packet amidst the remnants of food on his plate. Then he toyed with his Coca-Cola can, taking a swig before asking: ‘Have you seen Seymour Erikssen recently?’
Wondering how much more baiting he would have to endure before they got down to business, Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘So the world’s crappest burglar is not on the Met’s Most Wanted list any more, then?’
Finishing his espresso, the inspector returned the cup to its saucer. ‘As you know, I’ve been rather busy.’
Stroking his chin, Bernie grunted his commiserations. Their last face-to-face meeting had been months earlier, in a pub just down the road. Since then, the journo had shaved off his beard and invested in a new hairstyle, a rather severe all-over number one. The effect was to make his face look fatter than ever, even though the inspector guessed that Bernie might actually have lost a little weight in recent times, given the reduced swell beneath his grubby T-shirt.
‘I hear that Seymour’s been quite the busy bee, up the West End. Knocked off a couple of high-end hotel rooms. Rich pickings. A few tourists have been taken to the cleaners.’
Good for him, Carlyle thought irritably. He vaguely remembered having heard something about it, but hadn’t connected it to Seymour. Maybe he should go and pay him a visit – see if he could manage to nick the old bugger properly this time. Even better, he could get Umar to do it. The thought of delegating such a chore made him perk up.
Bernie waved the Coke can in front of his face. ‘Shame you couldn’t manage to keep hold of him.’
‘Don’t worry, you know he’ll be back behind bars soon enough.’
‘That’s a nice picture story,’ Bernie grunted. ‘I’m more interested in words. Do you know anything about the bloke who was stabbed on the bike?’
‘The guy on the naked bike ride?’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Nah. That isn’t me. Postic and Shames are dealing with it.’
‘Okay, I’ll give them a call.’
Is there anyone on the force you don’t know? Carlyle wondered.
‘Strange way to go, totally naked in a London Street.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Probably some kind of domestic.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Bernie made a face. ‘Guy was probably wiggling his willy at the wrong bird – or the wrong bloke – on the wrong bike.’
‘Maybe.’ Carlyle couldn’t care less.
‘Postic’s on it, you say?’