Standing in the mud in the Royal British Legion Wootton Bassett Field of Remembrance, Gasparino shivered. He had eaten nothing for more than twenty-four hours and the beer had gone to his head. Looking around, he saw a smattering of people, small knots of families wandering among the rows of tiny crosses pressed into the turf. A sharp blast of wind blew across the field. Looking up at the slate-grey sky, he breathed in deeply, trying to clear his head. In his hand, he was holding a six-inch wooden cross, the legend Sergeant Spencer Spanner written in blue biro across the tip. Dropping on to his good knee, Gasparino drove the cross into the ground until he was sure it was safely secured. His injured leg flared with pain as he struggled to his feet. Stepping away from the cross, he felt the first rain of the day on his uncovered head.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, choked.
Keeping his gaze on the ground, he headed for the road.
The inspector sat in the familiar surroundings of Simpson’s office in Paddington Green police station. Aside from the basic office furniture, the place was empty. The only personal touch – a photo of Simpson’s husband – had been removed years earlier, around the time the latter had been arrested for fraud. Carlyle waited patiently while she signed some papers. After a few moments, she tossed the biro onto the desk and looked up.
There was a pause while she did a double-take.
‘When did you . . . ?’
Carlyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘The other day.’
Simpson tried not to grin. ‘They make you look different.’
A familiar sense of being persecuted stabbed Carlyle in the chest. ‘That’s exactly what Helen said.’
Simpson nodded.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ he added, somewhat defensively. ‘Everyone needs specs in the end.’
‘Quite,’ Simpson agreed, gesturing to her own glasses case lying on the desk. ‘Anyway, you know what this is about.’
Carlyle cringed. ‘The Mayor’s website: have you seen the video?’
Simpson shook her head.
‘You must be about the only person in the Met who hasn’t.’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I have a starring role.’
Simpson picked up a mug of steaming peppermint tea from her desk and took a sip. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what you were told?’ Carlyle made to say something but she cut him off. ‘For once, just execute my order. Not create another bloody drama that gets the Mayor’s back up.’
Carlyle’s grin got wider.
‘You bloody enjoy it!’ Simpson slammed her mug down on the desk, spilling tea over her newly signed letters. ‘Shit!’
Carlyle struggled to suppress a laugh.
Simpson could tell there was no point in trying to clean up the mess. The letters would have to be redone. ‘The problem is that you just like making trouble,’ she complained. ‘What on earth was the point of arresting that cameraman?’
Carlyle spread his arms wide in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion. ‘What was the point of arresting anyone? How many illegal aliens did we actually catch?’
Simpson glared at the inspector. They both knew the answer to that: zero.
Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One stripper arrested for assault – an assault that only happened because we turned up – and thousands of pounds’ worth of police time wasted. And all for what? So we could make some fancy video for the Mayor’s website.’
‘The Mayor-’
‘The Mayor,’ Carlyle said angrily, ‘can go fuck himself. It’s not like he’s going to be in the job for much longer anyway.’
Simpson thought about mentioning Holyrod’s new job with Dino’s company but decided against it. ‘He’ll still be an important man,’ she said lamely.
‘We’ll see,’ Carlyle snorted.
‘What about the woman that assaulted your constable?’
‘PC Lea? She’s an American citizen by the name of Christina O’Brien. I expect that she’ll be deported. Bishop’s dealing with it, unless my new guy turns up, sharpish.’
‘That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Simpson, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a thin file. She handed it to Carlyle, careful to avoid the pool of tea on the table. ‘He starts on Monday. Here are the details.’
‘Thanks.’ Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle flicked through the contents. ‘Umar Sligo,’ he frowned. ‘What kind of a name is that?’
‘Fucking shit!’ Alain Costello threw his PSP at the wall in frustration. ‘Merde alors!’
He had been playing the same game for weeks and had to get to a store to buy something new or his head felt like it would explode. No one would be looking for him now. His father Tuco was being a total arsehole. If Tuco had made more of an effort, Alain could have been home by now. Well, fuck him. Grabbing his puffer jacket, he headed for the door.
‘Hey! Where you going?’ Salvatore, the minder Tuco had instructed to look after him, stuck his head out of the kitchen door. In his hand was a ham and cheese sandwich. Frowning, he took a large bite. Alain swore to himself; all the fat fuck ever did was eat.
‘I’m going out.’
‘But . . .’ Salvatore struggled to chew and talk at the same time. ‘Tuco-’
‘Fuck Tuco,’ Alain whined. ‘I need some new games.’
Salvatore shoved the remainder of the sandwich into his gaping maw and wiped his hands on his Kings of Leon T-shirt. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll go and get them.’
‘I want to go out.’
‘But the police . . .’
‘There are no police,’ Alain scoffed. ‘Everyone thinks I have left the country.’
Salvatore looked doubtful. ‘Hold on,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll come with you.’
FIFTEEN
Feeling weary, Adrian Gasparino turned into the driveway of number 47 Hobart Street and walked down the side of the house. Placing his rucksack against the wall, he gently pressed down on the handle and pushed open the back door. Stepping into the kitchen, he gazed upon the pile of dirty plates in the sink and breathed in the familiar, stale cooking smells that always filled the tiny space. Closing his eyes he tried to feel something. Over the ticking of the clock on the wall came the sound of children laughing from the garden next door.
The door that led into the living room was ajar. From behind it he heard a noise – a grunt – followed by what sounded like a slap and an indistinct male voice. Gasparino stepped carefully to the door and pushed it open another couple of inches. His eyes moved to the large mirror hanging on the far wall, which gave him a view of the end of the L-shaped room. Biting his lip, he watched Justine, naked, on her hands and knees, her bump almost touching the carpet, move her legs apart for a man he had never seen before. Equally naked, the man slipped his engorged penis between her buttocks and thrust vigorously.
Justine fell forwards on to the carpet, passing wind noisily as she did so. ‘Hey!’ she complained over her shoulder. ‘Not there! That’s the wrong hole!’
Laughing, the man slapped her on the arse and pulled her back up into a kneeling position.
Gasparino was amazed by the size of her breasts. They were twice as large as he remembered them, hanging either side of her belly, blue veins standing out against her off-white skin.
‘Take it gently,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
Moving back inside her, the man grasped her by the hips and began grinding slowly against her rear. Gasparino waited for him to look up and see that he was being watched, but, concentrating hard on the matter in hand, he never did.
He noticed a large blue teddy bear sitting on the sofa, watching the engaged pair with an air of amused detachment.
Maybe it’s a boy, thought Gasparino.
The man’s thrusts got faster.
‘Oh, fuck,’ Justine groaned.
Stepping back into the kitchen, Gasparino slipped out of the back door. Picking up his bag, he moved quietly out of the drive and began walking back down the road in the direction he had come.
Roche sat at the first-floor window of an empty house on the other side of St Paul Street, sipping a cup of tea that she’d bought from a café round the corner. She hated surveillance work and would far rather have gone straight in and searched the place that Carlyle had been told Alain Costello was hiding out in. But the powers-that-be had decided they should wait. Two weeks earlier, the Met had mistakenly raided a wedding party in Bethnal Green, thinking it was a terrorist cell. There could be no more fuck-ups, for a while at least. Finishing her tea, she tossed the polystyrene cup into the corner of the room as two men came out of the target address. Both were wearing hoodies under their jackets, obscuring their faces.