Umar had started reading a story on his BlackBerry Curve 8520 and was soon laughing out loud. ‘Have you heard the latest about Gavin Swann?’
‘His new contract?’
‘Nah. That was sorted weeks ago. Two hundred grand a week after tax, apparently.’ He turned the BlackBerry round in his hand, so that Carlyle could see the screen. It showed an image of a sleek white automobile. Gavin Swann was leaning out of the driver’s window, signing autographs for a couple of young boys. In the background, a gaggle of middle-aged men in shell-suits looked on. ‘The latest addition to his stable of high-end motors. A Bentley Continental. One of the most popular cars with Premier League footballers. More than a hundred grand’s worth of style and grace.’
‘Nice.’ Carlyle failed to fake much interest. The truth was that he knew nothing about cars and cared even less. ‘Bit of a cliché, though, isn’t it?’ he went on. ‘Footballer buys flash car. Not very imaginative.’
‘By and large,’ Umar acknowledged, ‘it is pretty much what you’d expect. English footballers tend to come either from the working class or from the underclass. Young men, lacking in both formal education and life skills, with a lot of disposable income . . . they like their expensive toys. A lot of them have a problem when it comes to managing money.’
‘He’s a chav,’ Carlyle sneered.
‘Like all of us, Gavin Swann is a product of his environment. Until he signed as a professional footballer, no one in Swann’s immediate family had worked for almost thirty years. He lived in a one-bedroom council house in Elephant and Castle until he bought a six-million-pound mansion in Surrey. He played for England before he had even qualified for a driving licence.’
‘Part of a long tradition of lovable “bad boys”, like George Best, Stan Bowles, Paul Gascoigne.’
‘His is the kind of story you’d expect from this society.’
Carlyle let out a short, harsh laugh. ‘You sound like you’ve been on one sociology course too many.’
‘Nah.’ Umar shook his head. ‘But I read an interesting article about it in the FT at the weekend.’
The FT? What kind of bloody copper, Carlyle wondered, reads the Financial Times?
‘They have a guy called Simon Kuper who writes lots of interesting stuff.’
Carlyle gave him a blank look.
‘He co-wrote a book,’ Umar continued, ‘called Why England Lose.’
For a nanosecond, Carlyle rediscovered his Scottish roots. ‘England lose because they are not very good,’ he said.
‘No, well, actually . . .’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Let’s not go there.’ However shit England were on the football field, he knew only too well that Scotland were far worse.
With a sigh, Umar realized that he was wasting his time, trying to have an intelligent conversation with his boss about anything that was not directly related to work. It was clear that the inspector was two-dimensional – at best – and Umar wondered just how much he would learn from working at Charing Cross. Hopefully, his stay would be a short one.
‘Okay,’ he asked, looking up from the screen of his smartphone, ‘what do you want me to do next?’
Carlyle finished his drink. ‘Your call.’ The boy had to start making his own decisions. Until he did that, the inspector wouldn’t know if he was any good or not. Simpson hadn’t explained why Umar – academic, matinée idol and rising star in the provincial police force – had upped sticks and come to London. A restless spirit? A dark secret? A hidden agenda? Or simply an understandable desire to play with the big boys? There were various possibilities. Not that Carlyle cared much one way or another. As a Londoner, he always assumed that anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves living in another part of the country would try and make it to the capital at the earliest opportunity, before life passed them by completely. As a policeman, he was not overburdened by curiosity. Anyway, whatever Umar’s reasons for heading south, they were unlikely to have much bearing on how things worked out between the two of them at Charing Cross. The kid would either stick around or he wouldn’t. Only time would tell. If they established a good partnership, terrific. If not, he would get someone else. That was one of the great things about London: there was always someone else. You were never missed for long. No one was indispensable. Ever. It was not a place for sentimentality.
Looking up, Carlyle saw the poster on the wall behind Umar’s head. It was for one of the ENO’s current shows called A Dog’s Heart. Bored, he read the blurb: . . .a new work by Russian composer Alexander Raskatov, based on a classic novella by one of the Soviet era’s best-known writers, Mikhail Bulgakov. Banned for many years under Stalin’s rule, Bulgakov’s absurdist tale tells of a stray mongrel that becomes human after a Frankenstein-like organ transplant by his master. Carlyle had never been to an opera in his life, but at least this one sounded interesting. At the bottom of the poster was a quote lifted from a Financial Times review: a total sensory extravaganza. Well, if it’s good enough for the FT . . . Carlyle thought sarkily.
Maybe he should ask Umar his opinion.
Maybe not.
Shocked by his willingness to contemplate trying something new, he made a mental note to ask his wife about it. He chuckled to himself. Was an opera about a Frankenstein dog a good choice for a date? Was there even such a thing as a date opera anyway? Helen would have to be the judge of that. The point was that it was up to him to make the effort to do something.
Umar finished typing some notes into his mobile device and looked up. ‘I’ll see if I can get a name, see what the uniforms come up with, knocking on doors, and chase up the pathologist’s report.’
‘Talk to the people at the halfway house on Parker Street and also the St Mungo’s hostel on Endell Street. They might be able to tell you something useful.’
‘Okay,’ Umar nodded.
‘Good.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Get an estimated time of death and check the CCTV as well. I counted at least four different cameras that should have caught something.’
Umar grinned. ‘That would make our life easier.’
‘We’ll see.’ Carlyle let out a deep breath. Accidentally catching the eye of the actress, he looked away quickly, feeling like a berk. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Apparently oblivious to the star in his midst, Umar dropped the BlackBerry into his pocket. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Stuff to do,’ said Carlyle, as he headed for the door. ‘I’m off to see your predecessor.’
TWENTY-ONE
Was he imagining it, or did Roche look different? Scanning her face, Carlyle thought there was something missing. And then he saw it: the loss of sparkle in her eyes as she looked at him made him wonder if she could really recover from her tussles with Alain Costello.