Denzil, a small, wiry man in his sixties, sporting a pair of thick black Prada frames which kept slipping down his nose, smiled happily, safe in the knowledge that there would never be a lack of demand for his services. ‘We all need glasses as we get older, it’s just a fact of life.’ Sliding off the stool, he moved to the door. ‘Let’s go upstairs and find a nice pair for you.’
Extracting himself from the examination chair, Carlyle followed. Ten minutes later, he had chosen a pair of half-rimmed, gunmetal grey Police frames. Effortlessly relieving him of £300, Denzil cheerily informed the inspector that his new glasses would be ready the next day.
‘How is your wife getting on with her reading spectacles?’ Denzil asked, as he walked Carlyle out.
‘Fine,’ the inspector smiled wanly, still feeling the pain in his Visa card. He didn’t have the heart to tell the optician that Helen had lost her glasses again.
‘Pass on my regards,’ Denzil said, giving him a gentle pat on the back. ‘We’ll let both of you know when it’s time for your regular examinations.’
Great, Carlyle reflected; something else to relieve us of our cash. He shook the optician’s outstretched hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said insincerely. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Belatedly realizing that they were a long way from home turf, Dominic Silver watched the silver-haired gentleman standing next to him flick off the safety on the Italian pistol that nestled all too comfortably in his right hand. Taking a deep breath, he glanced over at the impassive face of Gideon Spanner. Sticking his hands into the back pockets of his Firetrap jeans, Spanner gave the slightest of shrugs. All they could do was indulge their host.
In front of them stood three guys – teenagers, Dom guessed – in regulation hoodies and sweat pants. All three had been relieved of their shoes and socks. And beaten, badly beaten. One had his left eye almost completely closed by a massive shiner. Another had blood still spilling from his left ear. Indeed, it looked as if the ear had been half-sliced off. Silver was mesmerized by it, even as he wanted to look away. As the forlorn trio stood, heads bowed, shifting from foot to filthy foot on the cold, clammy concrete floor, he wondered how much of this show was for his benefit. Maybe about half, he concluded. There would be others who were meant to get the message as well. Dom sighed; he wasn’t a fan of violence. Invariably, he had found it to be unnecessary, if not counter-productive. But, in the business that he was in, he knew that it was often unavoidable.
The barrel of the gun was pointed casually at the middle hoodie. ‘Lorsque vous devez tirer, tirez – n’en parlez pas.’
Silver and Spanner exchanged another look.
The old man with the gun glanced over at Silver. ‘Do you speak French, Dominic?’
Silver smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. You know what it’s like in England, we’re all useless at languages.’
‘It’s understandable,’ the man sighed. ‘English is the international business language, after all. If everyone else has to learn your language, why should you bother learning theirs?’
Dom shrugged. ‘People are lazy.’
‘I suppose they are.’ Squeezing the trigger, the man shot the middle hoodie in the face, before dispatching his squealing comrades in similar fashion with a minimum of fuss.
Whoa! Dom held his ground as a pool of blood began moving steadily towards him.
Carefully putting the safety back on, the man tossed the semi-automatic to one of his henchmen.
‘Un deuxième tour pour chacun,’ he growled, ‘juste pour être sûr. Then ‘Get rid of them,’ he snapped. Then, placing a hand on Dominic’s arm, he steered him towards the exit. ‘Now that little problem has been dealt with,’ he said, ‘I think it’s time for some lunch.’
‘What the hell is that?’ Carlyle picked up the A4-sized transparent plastic evidence bag from Angie Middleton’s desk and lifted it up to the light. Inside was a slim white cylinder, maybe seven inches long and a couple of inches in girth, rounded at one end. It looked like a quarter-sized light sabre, except that it had a wind-up mechanism at one end and was attached to a nylon harness.
‘It’s called the Earth Angel,’ the desk sergeant smirked.
Carlyle made a face that suggested he was none the wiser.
‘It’s the world’s first green vibrator.’
Blushing slightly, Carlyle looked swiftly over his shoulder to check that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. He needn’t have worried. It wasn’t yet eight in the morning and the place was deserted. ‘Is the colour relevant?’
‘Green as in “environmentally friendly”, Inspector.’
‘Oh, right. And what exactly is a “green” vibrator?’
Middleton pointed at the wind-up mechanism. ‘It doesn’t use batteries; you crank it up by hand. The guy who invented it said he was worried about climate change.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ nodded Carlyle. Personally, he couldn’t really give a toss about global warming. Given his experience of dealing with the human race, he assumed that whatever was being done about it was bound to be too little, too late. If we all ended up drowning, it would be our own stupid fault. He handed the bag back to the sergeant. ‘Is it any good?’
Middleton gave him a bemused look. ‘How would I know? It’s not mine.’
‘No?’ Carlyle teased.
‘No.’ Middleton’s face broke into a sly grin. ‘I’m more of a Rampant Rabbit girl myself.’
Now Carlyle felt himself go properly red. ‘That’s good to know,’ he coughed.
‘That,’ Middleton explained, gesturing at the device again, ‘is evidence. It was what that stripper used to bash Lea over the head with.’ She picked a sheet of paper from the desk and scanned it carefully. ‘Or, as Sergeant Bishop has so beautifully described it in his report: the assailant brandished the rigid feminine pleasure device above her head and advanced on the officer in a threatening manner, proceeding to strike him about the head on multiple occasions.’
Carlyle laughed heartily. ‘Was it wound up at the time?’
‘That,’ Middleton chuckled, ‘is not recorded for posterity.’
‘Anyway,’ said Carlyle, feeling his eyes welling up with mirth, ‘I thought that a “rigid feminine pleasure device” was a name for a credit card, not a sex toy.’
‘Very good, Inspector,’ Middleton guffawed, ‘very good. We are on form today, aren’t we?’
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘For once.’
‘Hey, hey,’ Carlyle protested, ‘less of that. I get stereotyped enough as it is round here.’
Middleton reached over and squeezed him on the arm. ‘You’re not stereotyped, Inspector,’ she crooned. ‘You’re just a grumpy old sod, who manages to come out with the occasional funny one-liner.’
Carlyle shook his head. ‘So young, yet so insightful.’
‘Thank you, sir!’ Middleton gave him a fake salute. ‘It’s all the training they give us these days.’
‘How is Constable Lea, by the way?’ Carlyle asked, once they had finished laughing, trying to fake some concern for his injured colleague.
‘They took him up to A amp;E at UCH to get a couple of stitches. He’ll be fine.’
Carlyle nodded. The wound would be healed in a week; being clobbered by a naked lap dancer wielding a dildo would take considerably longer to live down. ‘And the stripper?’
Middleton jerked a thumb towards the cells. ‘She’s downstairs.’
‘Got some clothes on?’
‘Yeah.’
Shame, thought Carlyle. ‘What about the video guy?’
Middleton looked at her worksheet. ‘Mr . . . Craven? Bishop let him go without charge.’
Fuck, thought Carlyle.
‘He wasn’t very happy, all the same. Shouting about police brutality, infringement of his civil liberties. All the usual stuff.’
‘Did we give him his camera back?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘Apparently he left at three a.m., promising to give you a starring role in his film. Everyone’s desperate to check out the internet.’