Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Who’s the journalist?’
‘No idea.’ The inspector didn’t need to check the byline. Bernard Gilmore was one of Carlyle’s long-term journalist contacts. The fact that he had tipped Bernie off the night before was not something he was going to share with Seymour. ‘Anyway, it’s not exactly something to tell the grandkids about.’
‘They know already.’
God give me strength, Carlyle thought.
Taking a sip of his tea, the burglar sniggered. ‘At least I’m famous.’
Under the hard strip-lighting of the interview room, Carlyle noticed that Erikssen’s hands were shaking quite badly. His silver hair was thin on top, almost to the point of extinction, and his cheeks were hollow. Not exactly a great advert for a career in breaking and entering. The guy must be pushing seventy by now, he thought. Maybe he’s ill. ‘Are you okay?’
All he got in reply was a non-committal grunt.
Opening the file, Carlyle looked down at his papers. Seymour’s criminal record ran to twelve pages of A4.
Seymour pointed at the file. ‘I would have thought you’d have all that on computer by now.’
The inspector flicked through the pages. ‘Not when your first conviction is from Dorking Juvenile Court in 1957.’
‘Convicted of larceny.’ Seymour smiled at the memory. ‘A year’s probation and ten shillings in costs.’
Carlyle looked up from the papers. ‘Nothing wrong with your memory, then.’
‘Not at all.’ Seymour tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘Sharp as a tack.’
‘Still, I don’t think that two hundred and fifty-two convictions over a period of fifty-three years is the kind of claim to fame that most people would want.’
‘It’s a living.’
‘Seymour, you are the worst bloody burglar I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s time to retire.’
‘What would I do?’
‘I dunno.’ Feeling quite old himself, Carlyle made a face. ‘Something.’
‘Inspector?’
Swivelling in his chair, Carlyle turned to see the aforementioned WPC Mason with her head stuck round the interview-room door and a serious look on her face. She glanced at Erikssen before telling her superior officer: ‘We’ve got a situation.’
FIVE
The corridor was so full of people he could hardly get through. Nodding at the uniform stationed at the front door of the flat, the inspector brushed past a couple of forensics guys and headed inside. In the living room, he clocked the girl watching cartoons on the sofa, studiously ignoring all the excitement going on around her, and headed towards the grinding sound of metal on metal coming from further back inside.
Stepping into what looked like a study, he nodded a greeting at Umar Sligo. Hands on hips, the sergeant was watching a man on his knees, trying to drill a hole in a door in the far corner of the room. Carlyle shot Umar an enquiring look. All he got back was a weary shrug.
The workman was clearly getting nowhere. Waiting for him to stop, the inspector looked around the room. On the far wall was a large framed poster from the recent Art as Life Bauhaus exhibition at the Barbican. Carlyle recalled his wife dragging him along to it a few months earlier. It had been vaguely interesting but tiring; for some reason, museums always seemed to exhaust him, almost from the moment he walked through their doors.
Scrutinizing the image of a woman in a gimp mask, it took the inspector a moment to notice that the drilling had stopped. He waited for the ringing in his ears to die down before turning back to his colleague.
‘What’s been going on here then?’
‘Man locked himself in the bathroom,’ Umar chuckled, ‘and can’t get out.’
‘And we can’t get in?’
The workman struggled to his feet. ‘It’s a panic room; reinforced steel. Looks like the lock has jammed, or something.’ He dropped the drill into an outsized bag of tools. ‘You’re going to have to get the company that installed it to come round and get him out.’
‘They’re on their way,’ Umar explained, ‘but it could take a while.’
The inspector felt a spasm of irritation. He hadn’t eaten all day and knew that if he didn’t get some sustenance soon, someone would suffer. ‘How long?’
‘Hard to say,’ Umar replied. ‘It’s gonna take an hour or so for the engineer to get here. When he does, it might take five minutes to fix, it might take five hours. We just don’t know.’
Carlyle stared at the door. To his highly trained eyes, it looked like a normal bathroom door. ‘The guy in there, is he okay?’
‘He’s a bit embarrassed, but fine.’
‘You’ve talked to him?’
‘He’s got a landline installed in there. I spoke to him on the phone about ten minutes ago. He’s got enough food and water in there to last for twenty-four hours, apparently.’
At least he’s getting fed, Carlyle thought grumpily.
‘And Triple RXD says the panic room has its own dedicated clean air supply.’
‘Triple RXD?’
‘The specialist security company that installed the panic room.’
‘And who’s the kid sitting in the living room watching TV?’
‘That’s the guy’s granddaughter.’
So the guy ran into his panic room and left the kid? Carlyle was less than impressed.
‘We’re trying to track down the mother at the moment,’ Umar continued. ‘Meantime, I’ve got a female PCSO to sit with the girl. She seems fine.’
The inspector hadn’t seen any support officer on his way in but he let that slide. ‘So, what exactly happened here?’
‘Well . . .’
Before his sergeant could explain, Carlyle raised a hand. ‘First things first,’ he said sharply. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’
Laura Stevenson flipped the Closed sign and locked the door. Carlyle and Umar were the only patrons left in the 93 Coffee Bar but Laura had known the inspector a long time and she was not going to hurry them out.
‘Take your time,’ she said, heading behind the counter. ‘I’ll be a little while yet.’
‘Thanks, Laura. That was great.’ Pushing away his empty plate, the revived inspector leaned back in his chair and smiled in satisfaction.
‘More coffee?’
The inspector held up a hand. ‘Not for me, thanks. I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. I drink far too much already as it is. I get loads of grief about it at home.’
‘Addicted,’ Laura tutted, coming back over to take away his plate.
Carlyle waited until she had gone before turning to his sergeant. ‘How long had you been at the flat before I got there?’
Umar made a face. ‘Half an hour or so, maybe forty-five minutes. It was pretty clear from the off that it was going to take a while to get him out.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘You got there quick.’
‘I was on my way home when I got the call. Christina wasn’t best pleased.’
Carlyle gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘She’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘She’ll have to.’
Umar said nothing.
‘Still not getting any sleep?’
Umar shook his head. The dark rings under his eyes told their own story. Parenthood had begun chipping away at his youthful good looks. All in all, it made the inspector feel decidedly chipper.
‘Don’t worry; you just have to muddle through as best you can. It’s the same for everyone. And it gets easier as they get older.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Umar said wearily. ‘Ella’s still waking every couple of hours. Christina’s walking round like a zombie and I just feel knackered all the time. It’s almost been a year . . .’
Birthday alert, Carlyle thought and made a mental note to mention it to his wife. Helen would know what kind of present to get for a one year old. Some kind of fluffy toy, probably. He gave his colleague a gentle pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. One down, only another twenty or so years to go.’