Still looking in the mirror, sucking in his stomach, Carlyle told him, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.’ Ending the call, he reached for the mouthwash.
Helen appeared behind him. Stepping out of her pyjama bottoms, she sat down on the toilet and began to pee. She gestured at the mobile as he set it down by the side of the bath. ‘Work?’
Carlyle nodded as he gargled. Spitting the mouthwash into the sink, he took the T-shirt that had been warming on the radiator and put it on. ‘Yeah. Dead tramp. Nice way to start the day.’
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ He kissed her gently on the top of the head. ‘I’ll tell you about it tonight.’
Umar Sligo turned up the collar of his raincoat and flashed a cheesy smile at the pretty blonde WPC standing by the police tape. He was sure he hadn’t seen her before; if he had, he would have remembered. Umar prided himself on always remembering a pretty face. Tossing her head, the girl looked away. Umar didn’t mind. Making a note of the number on her epaulette, he knew he would have her mobile number by the end of the day, no problem.
‘Sergeant . . .’
Turning back to face his boss, Umar gestured at the Fulham FC baseball cap pulled down low, with the brim concealing most of John Carlyle’s face. ‘Nice hat, Inspector.’
Stepping out of the rain, Carlyle tugged the brim down even further and grunted. The downpour was getting heavier but in the enclosed space of the doorway there was no chance that the stink of death was going to be washed away any time soon.
It wasn’t much of a crime scene, just a pair of battered Gola trainers sticking out from a heap of smelly clothes. If it wasn’t for the congealed blood spreading along the grimy concrete, you would assume the guy – Carlyle assumed that the victim was a man – was just another sleeping dosser of the kind that were to be found sprinkled around Covent Garden at any time of the day or night.
Nameless people living in a different world on the same streets.
‘Any ID?’
‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘They took everything.’
‘They?’
‘The techies reckon four or five people were involved. Anyway, they cleaned him out, took whatever money and possessions he had. All he had left were his clothes and the sleeping bag.’
‘Great.’ Turning away from Umar, Carlyle watched the pathologist, a small bearded guy called Evan Milch whom he hadn’t worked with much before, snap off his latex gloves and drop them into his bag. Closing the bag, he stretched and shook out his shoulders, catching Carlyle’s eye as he did so.
‘Nasty,’ said the pathologist.
Carlyle nodded.
‘We have just about finished here, I think.’ Milch wiped his hands on his green corduroy jeans. ‘I will let you have some initial thoughts by close of play.’
Someone kicked the poor bastard to death, Carlyle thought. What’s to know? He smiled thinly. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ Zipping up his padded green Barbour jacket, Milch gave a small bow and moved off the pavement, heading for the far side of the police tape and the peace of his mortuary.
As he watched him go, Carlyle stared vacantly at the corpse. For no particular reason, his mind alighted on a memory of Walter Poonoosamy, a local drunk known as ‘Dog’ on account of the fictitious pet he used to panhandle money from tourists. For a while, a few years back, Walter had been a local micro-celebrity, a regular fixture in the waiting room of Charing Cross police station. Then he disappeared, his fate unknown. Or, rather, the details of his fate were unknown. But, for a while at least, Walter had a name, an identity of sorts.
This guy, Carlyle thought sadly, was probably just a corpse long before he had breathed his last.
‘Fuck!’ Looking down, Carlyle saw that he had stepped in the victim’s blood. He took a step backwards, ignoring the disapproving looks of the two technicians still working on the crime scene. Standing in the rain, he wiped the toe of his shoe in a pool of murky water and looked across at his sergeant, standing vacantly in the gutter waiting for something to happen.
Umar caught him staring. He nodded again at the inspector’s cap. ‘Bad result for Fulham last night.’
Tell me something I don’t know, Carlyle thought. Fourth defeat on the bounce, a shell-shocked manager and another wearisome relegation battle looming. ‘We’re not like United,’ he said maliciously, ‘with dodgy decisions from helpful referees every week.’
Umar shook his head. ‘I’m a Citeh man,’ he said, ‘as you well know. I don’t like United any more than anyone else.’
‘These days that’s probably worse,’ Carlyle said morosely. Manchester City, for so long the poor relations of their local rivals, had been bought by some rich Arabs intent on buying their way to success. In football, where money was everything, even perennial losers like City could be transformed . . . eventually.
Umar shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re just jealous of our money,’ he said almost wistfully in a soft Lancashire accent that had clearly been honed in some of the smarter parts of Cheshire.
‘You can’t buy class.’
‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed, puzzled by his boss’s obvious hostility over such a trivial matter. ‘Like your cap – very classy.’
Finally, Carlyle managed a grin. ‘At least it keeps my head dry.’
Umar Sligo pulled himself up straight so that he could profit from his three-inch height advantage over his boss. ‘A bit of rain never hurt anyone,’ he said.
Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his North Face jacket, Carlyle pawed the ground restlessly. Breakfast was long overdue. ‘Where you come from,’ he said, ‘I suppose it rains all the time.’
‘Manchester’s not that bad,’ Umar said defensively.
‘Yeah, right,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Just be grateful that you’ve finally made it to civilization.’
Umar looked at him defiantly. ‘Have you ever been there?’
Carlyle frowned as if the question was crazy. He lived and worked in London. Why would he ever want to venture into the provinces? Letting his gaze slip from his sergeant, he watched an ambulance appear from round the corner, its blue lights flashing, then pull up to the tape.
‘We’re done here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and get a drink.’
Sitting in a cramped booth at the back of the Monmouth Coffee House, just off Seven Dials in Covent Garden, Carlyle took off his cap and hung his jacket over the back of his chair. He could feel a headache coming on. A trio of baristas expertly worked the red Gaggia Deco machines lined up against the far wall, and while he waited, he read the notice hanging above them that explained the characteristics – toasted almonds with smooth body and balanced fruity acidity – of his espresso. We currently use Fazenda do Serrado (Brasil) as the base of the espresso, adding Lo Mejor de Nariño (Colombia) for high notes and complexity and Finca Capetillo (Guatemala) for cocoa notes.
Carlyle didn’t know whether to be impressed or embarrassed. Sipping his drink, he scanned the room. At a nearby table, a hugely famous, jaw-droppingly gorgeous young actress was canoodling with a young pretty boy who looked even more feminine than she did. Carlyle was no star-gazer – in Central London, celebrities, even proper celebrities, were ten a penny, but even so, he found it hard not to gawp.
Finishing his cappuccino, Umar noisily dropped his cup back on its saucer, bringing the inspector back to the present. ‘Shall we get going?’ he asked, bouncing around on his seat like a hyperactive five year old.
‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle. Making no move to get up, he gave his sergeant the onceover. They had been working together for a while now but Carlyle, usually a man quick to make a judgement on people, felt like he was still a long way off making a decision about Umar Sligo. Dark and clear-eyed, with a strong jawline, high cheekbones and a mane of pitch-black hair that was considerably longer than allowed for in the Met’s regulations, Umar was a pretty boy too, and no mistake. Sitting in a charcoal, single-breasted Jil Sander suit, something that Carlyle could never have afforded on his inspector’s salary, and with an aqua-blue Hugo Boss shirt, open at the neck, the young man looked more like a model than a policeman. Carlyle watched as the actress turned away from her boyfriend and blatantly gave Umar an appraising look. The stab of envy that Carlyle felt was sharp and lingering. What is it today, he wondered grumpily, with all these beautiful people? Glancing up, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar. His hair was greyer than he remembered and his plebeian build, always slight, seemed to be shrinking as he hunched over his demitasse. To his own hypercritical eye, he looked at least ten years older than his actual age. You’re past your sell-by date, he said to himself, too old to be a footsoldier in the battle for law and order. You’ve been doing this job for far too long – you should have found something else to keep you busy by now.