Releasing her hair, Swann almost fell over laughing. Blushing, Paul picked up the towel at his feet and wiped himself down.
Masturbating with one hand, Swann smiled maliciously at Sandy. ‘He’s just making sure he doesn’t finish too quickly . . . when it comes to the real thing.’
Regaining some of her composure, Sandy hoisted the bag over her shoulder and stepped towards Swann. Placing a hand on his chest, she pushed him firmly out of the way and headed for the door. ‘You are a pair of sick bastards,’ she shouted, hoping someone outside would hear her distress. ‘Fucking perverts. You should fuck each other. I’m going.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Swann growled.
Expecting him to grab her hair once again, Sandy flinched. But this time, he clutched her by the shoulder and spun her round, gesturing at his now fully erect penis. ‘Suck me off,’ he commanded.
Sandy started crying again. Massive, ripe tears rolled down her cheeks. The kind of tears she hadn’t cried since she was eight and Santa failed to bring her the right kind of Barbie for Christmas. ‘Piss off!’ she cried.
Placing a meaty hand on the top of her head, Swann tried to push her down towards his groin. When she resisted, he took a step back, unleashing a vicious right upper cut that caught her flush under the chin, sending her collapsing to the floor.
Letting go of Costello’s collar, Carlyle pushed him in the direction of the ashen-faced Roche. ‘You looking for this guy?’
Roche raised her eyes to the darkening heavens but said nothing. Standing next to the sergeant, a po-faced woman made a show of looking Carlyle up and down.
‘Who are you?’ she asked snootily.
‘This is Inspector Carlyle,’ said Roche, snapping out of her torpor as she stepped between them. She gestured at her boss. ‘Inspector, this is Chief Inspector Cass Wadham.’
Carlyle gave a curt nod. He already knew that Roche was right. Wadham was another paper-pushing copper destined to get up his nose; someone best left well alone.
‘How did the prisoner get those marks on his face?’ Wadham asked brusquely as Roche, taking possession of Costello, levered him into the back of a police car parked at the kerb.
‘He hit me,’ the Frenchman whined as he fell onto the back seat. ‘And he stole my PSP.’
Good point, Carlyle thought. Pulling the console out of his pocket, he threw it underarm to Roche. Fumbling the catch, she watched in dismay as it fell into the gutter.
‘Hey!’ Costello protested as Roche bent down to retrieve it.
It would be a shame if it happened to get broken, Carlyle mused.
‘I was asking . . .’ Wadham interjected.
Carlyle shot her a sharp look. ‘Just be grateful I recovered your man for you.’ He gestured towards the car. ‘Your track record when it comes to trying to arrest this guy is on the bad side of appalling.’
Making a sound like a deflating beach ball, Wadham stepped forward. For a moment, Carlyle thought she was going to give him a slap. Then, thinking better of it, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the street.
Carlyle watched the exaggerated swing of her hips.
Roche followed his gaze. ‘Are you checking out my boss’s arse?’
‘No way,’ Carlyle frowned.
Laughing, Roche slammed the door shut on Costello. ‘I told you that you wouldn’t like her.’
‘And you were right.’ Carlyle thrust his fists into his pockets. ‘How did you manage to lose the scumbag this time?’
Roche sighed. ‘Through the attic. He scuttled up there when he heard us coming in, and was able to get all the way along to the end of the row. It was just as well you were waiting for him.’
‘I was waiting for a bus,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘They seem to have a very good service round these parts.’
Roche stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Look – just don’t lose him again, eh?’ Carlyle told her.
‘I’ll try not to.’ Roche’s gaze fell to the pavement. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I need to get going.’
‘How are things back at Charing Cross?’ Roche asked quietly.
‘Fine.’
‘Have you replaced me yet?’
Carlyle gave her his cheesiest grin. ‘You’re irreplaceable.’
She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. ‘I might want to come back.’
You made your bed . . . ‘They’ve given me someone.’
‘Any good?’
‘Too early to tell.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘keep me posted.’
‘Of course.’ Carlyle was already heading back down the street. ‘See you later.’
TWENTY-TWO
Gazing vacantly out of the window, Carlyle sat on the 243 bus trundling back towards Central London, enjoying the luxury of an empty mind. His pleasant journey came to an end halfway down Clerkenwell Road when his mobile sprang into life. He looked at the screen. Alex Miles. Miles was the chief concierge at the Garden Hotel, round the corner from the police station. The inspector hesitated for a moment before answering.
‘Alex,’ he said tiredly. ‘How are you?’
‘Inspector?’
‘Yeah. It’s Carlyle here. What can I do for you?’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Must be bad, Carlyle thought.
Finally, Miles cleared his throat. ‘Well . . .’
Distracted by a pretty girl walking by, Carlyle tuned out of the conversation.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
‘Were you listening to what I said?’ Miles huffed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Just sit tight. I’ll have some uniforms there in five minutes. Do nothing until I get there.’
Ending the call, he quickly dialled the station and told Angie Middleton to have a team meet him at the hotel.
‘Shall we go up?’ Carlyle faced Alex Miles across the concierge’s table, a mahogany Regency writing desk, largely hidden behind an oversized sofa in the left-hand corner of the hotel lobby. They had been joined by a bored-looking uniform, PC Tim Burgess. Burgess had been a constable for the best part of a decade now and Carlyle knew that, even if he stayed in the Met for another thirty years, a constable he would remain. Useless was not the word.
As Miles headed for the lifts, Carlyle nodded at his colleague. ‘Stay here. I’ll give you a shout if you need to come up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Burgess glumly.
Upstairs, he met Susan Phillips coming the other way. Working out of Holborn police station, Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than twenty years now, and she and Carlyle had worked together many times.
‘John!’ she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek.
‘Susan,’ he smiled in return, ‘you got here quick.’
‘Too quickly,’ Phillips told him. ‘I left some stuff in the car and need to nip back downstairs.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘But my colleague is in there. You can take a look.’
‘What happened?’
Phillips glanced at Miles, who bowed his head and retreated a respectful distance.
‘Simply speaking,’ Phillips whispered, ‘someone punched her lights out.’ She added: ‘Is it true the room was booked to Gavin Swann?’
Carlyle sighed. ‘So I’m told.’
Phillips shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess.’ She patted Carlyle on the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heading unhappily towards the door.
Less than twenty minutes later, Alex Miles stuck his head round the door of the room. He looked stressed. ‘Inspector! There are half-a-dozen journalists downstairs in the lobby already.’ He made it sound like this was somehow the inspector’s fault.
‘Not that surprising, is it?’ Carlyle affected an air of insouciance. Inwardly, however, his heart sank. The fact was that he shouldn’t have touched this case with a bargepole. But no, he’d had to play the big ‘I am’ and wade right in. As a result, he’d fucked himself good and proper. He turned grimly to the concierge. ‘Try to keep them downstairs,’ he instructed.