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‘Well, guess what?’ Carlyle growled. ‘She’s right. This kid is going to jail for a long, long time. I hear that it’s going to be a fast-track trial. If I were him, I would just plead guilty and try to get the best deal I could.’

‘Tuco isn’t going to like that,’ Dom mused. ‘He wants his boy back in France.’

‘What can I say?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Life is a bummer, get used to it.’

Dom stared morosely into his tea cup.

‘There’s nothing I can do to help you on this one, Dominic,’ Carlyle added quietly.

‘I know.’

‘And even if I could, I wouldn’t.’

Spreading his hands in supplication, Silver smiled weakly. ‘Fair enough.’

‘This is too far over the line, even for me. There is a point where even pragmatism can be taken too far.’

Dom looked up, grinning despite himself. ‘And we’ve found it.’

‘Yes, we have,’ said Carlyle, exhaling deeply. ‘What are you playing at?’

‘The thing is, there are more opportunities than ever. After this Royal Oak thing, there’s a lot of unmet demand out there.’

‘Operation Eagle?’ Carlyle asked. The Met’s PR machine had been busy talking up the arrest of fifty-odd criminals accused of conspiracy to supply cocaine, money laundering and firearms offences, by forces under the command of the Special Intelligence Section (SIS). Their operation had been based out of Royal Oak Taxis, a black-cab repair garage under the Westway, the elevated motorway leading out of West London. Millions of pounds of drugs, smuggled across the Channel and up to London through Kent, moved through the specially fortified garage every month, with the cash being laundered through a nearby foreign exchange for a five per cent commission.

‘Yeah,’ Dom nodded.

‘Good result.’

Dom raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s all very well crowing that you’ve smashed a major Class-A supply network. How long do you think it will be until the next lot move in?’

‘Dunno. Six months?’

‘Six weeks, tops,’ Dom informed him. ‘The investigation has taken years. Cost millions. What’s the point? Everyone worked together well, ran professional operations, with next to no violence. The idea that you have dealt a huge blow to the UK Class-A drug industry is bollocks. It’s just basic capitalism – you can’t buck the market.’

Carlyle wasn’t in the mood for one of Dom’s rants on the stupidity of drugs policy. He might well be right – but so what? Nothing was going to change any time soon. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘think of it as just another wake-up call. The SIS guys have got time on their hands now. Stick your head back above the parapet and they may come after you.’

Dom looked at him suspiciously. ‘You gonna give them a tip-off?’

‘Maybe I should,’ Carlyle replied, holding his gaze.

For a moment, they sat there in exasperated silence, both of them knowing that would never happen.

‘You’ve always played it so well,’ Carlyle said finally, keeping his voice low, ‘for a criminal.’

‘Thank you,’ Dom said tartly.

‘You know what I mean. You had actually managed to quit while you were ahead and now you’ve put yourself in the firing line again.’

Dom shot him an angry look. ‘You know what?’ he hissed, tapping the table with his index finger. ‘I was getting bored. Everything was too easy. There was no one to compete against.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Who were you competing against?’

Genuinely annoyed by the question, Dom slumped back in his chair. ‘Everyone . . . anyone.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you do, Dominic. You are always on borrowed time.’ Carlyle wagged an admonishing finger across the table. ‘There’s always someone younger, prettier, richer, more driven.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘Or in your case,’ Carlyle said grimly, ‘more ruthless, more willing to screw you over.’

Taking his time, Dom looked his friend up and down. ‘So, who do you compete against?’

Carlyle was puzzled. ‘No one.’

Looking genuinely angry, Dom snapped, ‘That’s bullshit. Don’t pretend to be so bloody soft.’

‘Seriously, who would I compete against? Only myself, really.’

Dom let out a bitter laugh. ‘You’re gonna make me puke.’

‘C’mon,’ Carlyle grinned, trying to take the edge off the conversation, ‘who would I compete against? Nobody in the Met. All of my peers-’ he nodded at Dom – ‘including you, have moved up or moved out. Why should I measure myself against them?’

Dom grunted but said nothing.

‘If I did,’ Carlyle went on, lowering his voice, ‘I could only conclude that I was fucked. Look – my card was marked by the Met a long, long time ago, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can do a decent job, but it’s still just a job; if I think of it as anything more than that, then I’m a real mug, aren’t I?’

‘You should have come and worked for me when you had the chance,’ Dom said quietly. ‘You’d have made a packet.’

Carlyle lowered his gaze to the table. Back in the 1980s, not long after leaving the police force, Dom had offered him a job. Carlyle didn’t say yes; he didn’t say no either, he just let it slide. The whole thing had been a non-starter. Instinctively, Carlyle knew that, while he could live with Dom being on the wrong side of the law, it was not a move he could ever make himself. Not if he wanted to sleep at night.

‘That was a long time ago. And we both knew I wasn’t up for it.’ He looked up. ‘Anyway, we’d have probably both ended up in jail.’

‘Maybe.’ Dom laughed, easing the tension.

‘I don’t compete against you,’ Carlyle went on, ‘and I don’t compete against anyone in the Met. It’s the only sensible way.’

Dom’s eyes narrowed. ‘But you compete against yourself.’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle was worried that he really was beginning to sound like a total plonker. ‘I want to be a good husband and a good father.’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Well,’ said Carlyle gently, ‘that’s another reason for not putting yourself into the middle of this mess.’

Dom grimaced. ‘Too late for that now.’

TWENTY-FIVE

When Carlyle finally returned to the station, Angie Middleton was waiting for him behind the front desk.

‘Why haven’t you gone to Paddington Green?’ she demanded.

Carlyle gave her what he hoped was a confused look.

‘Commander Simpson wants to speak to you,’ Angie boomed, ‘urgently.’

‘Okay.’

‘In her office.’

As he headed down the corridor, Middleton shouted after him, ‘There’s good news as well!’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle turned, but made no effort to move back to the desk.

‘The Everton’s guy,’ Angie explained. ‘Clive Martin. He’s dropped his complaint.’

‘That’s not much of a shock,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘given that he didn’t have a bloody leg to stand on, but welcome news nonetheless.’

‘And,’ Angie’s face broke into a toothy smile, ‘there’s a message from Christina O’Brien. She says she’ll be working from ten if you want to pop round to Everton’s for your private dance.’

‘What?’ Carlyle scowled. ‘I thought she was being deported.’

‘Those charges have been dropped too. Martin’s brief came round earlier and we had to release her.’

That damn lawyer, Abigail Slater. ‘But she assaulted a police officer,’ Carlyle protested.

Amused by his annoyance, Middleton chewed the end of her biro. ‘PC Lea’s very happy about it. Everyone’s been taking the mickey out of him something rotten.’

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I’m just saying . . .’ Middleton began doodling on the pad in front of her. ‘The word is,’ looking past Carlyle, she lowered her voice, ‘that she was allowed to skate in exchange for Martin going away.’

Carlyle made a disgusted noise and turned back towards the stairs.

‘So,’ Middleton called after him, ‘are you going to get your dance?’