‘Twat!’ one of the players hissed after the boss as the door shut behind him.
‘Yeah,’ another laughed, ‘surely they’ve got to sack the bastard now.’
Keeping his gaze on the floor, Umar tried not to be too obvious in his eavesdropping.
Finally, Groom appeared from the showers. Umar recognized him from his picture on the club website. Naked, he was drying off his hair with a towel, which only served to draw the sergeant’s attention to the goalkeeper’s most celebrated asset. And, sweet Jesus, it was most certainly worthy of celebration. He cleared his throat but kept his voice low. ‘Paul Groom?’
The keeper eyed Umar with dull resentment. ‘Yeah?’ He began drying his genitals with the towel.
‘I’m . . .’
‘I know who you are,’ Groom said sullenly. He nodded at the door. ‘Give me five minutes to get dressed and I’ll meet you outside.’
The civilians who worked the scanning machine in the post room at Charing Cross police station had long since gone home. Scratching his head, Carlyle tried to convince himself that it couldn’t be that difficult to use. Basically, it looked like a smaller version of the X-ray machines at airports. On the side of the tunnel was the legend: ‘Threat Protection Systems: Next Generation X-Ray Screening Solutions’.
Sounds good, Carlyle thought. Now all I’ve got to do is work out how to switch the bloody thing on.
‘Inspector?’
Looking up, Carlyle saw a mixture of amusement and concern on Angie Middleton’s face.
‘Hi.’
‘What are you doing?’ the sergeant asked. ‘I thought you’d gone home.’
‘I came back. You’re on late tonight.’
‘My replacement called in sick. I had to pull a double shift.’ Middleton carefully took a bar of milk chocolate from her shirt pocket and placed it on the top of the machine. ‘I was just on my way back from the canteen.’
The inspector said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where the “on” switch is, by any chance?’
Middleton crossed her arms over her more than ample bosom. ‘Only properly qualified personnel are supposed to operate this machine.’
‘I know.’
‘And everything that goes through it needs to be logged.’
‘Of course.’ Carlyle gestured at the packet that he had carefully placed in the middle of the conveyor belt. ‘But I just need to look at something quickly.’
Sighing, Middleton stepped round the back of the machine and flicked a switch. ‘Come here.’
Carlyle did as he was told.
‘See?’
‘Mm.’
At the back of the machine was a monitor next to a control panel with four buttons. Middleton switched on the monitor and an image of inside the machine appeared on the screen. ‘It’s very simple,’ she explained, running her finger down the buttons. ‘Start. Stop. Backwards. Magnify.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine from here. Thanks, Angie.’
Angie gave him a weary shake of the head. ‘I’ll be at the desk if you need any more help. Remember to switch everything off when you go.’
‘I will,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Thanks again.’
Retrieving her chocolate bar, she headed for the door. Once she had gone, the inspector quickly pressed the start button and listened to the machine rumble into action.
By the time Carlyle made it home for the second time that evening, the flat was dark and silent. After brushing his teeth, he had a piss before undressing in the bathroom. Tiptoeing naked into the bedroom, he slipped under the duvet.
Rolling into the middle of the bed, Helen pulled him towards her. ‘So what was in the envelope?’ she asked sleepily.
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘Anything like that has to go through the scanner at work. The scanner guys knock off at six, so I logged it in and they’ll check in the morning.’ He had composed the lie on the way home; it sounded good enough.
Helen slipped a hand between his legs and he felt a pleasing tingle in his crotch. ‘Couldn’t it have waited until the morning, then?’ she asked, sounding rather more awake now.
Her hand slid away from him and Carlyle pulled it gently back. ‘I won’t be at the station first thing,’ he murmured, ‘so my sergeant can get on with it.’ He wondered how Umar was doing on the road back to London and stifled a chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’ This time when Helen removed her hand, she did not let him guide it back.
‘My poor bastard of a sergeant had to go up to Middlesbrough tonight to track down a suspect.’
‘Look, John,’ said Helen, clearly not interested in the fate of Umar Sligo, ‘I don’t like Alice being accosted outside the school. Who is this informer anyway?’
‘Eh?’
‘Alice said it was a snitch.’
‘Yeah. He thought he was using his initiative. I’ll speak to him. It won’t happen again.’
‘If he’s someone you know,’ Helen persisted, ‘why do you have to go through such a performance?’
‘He thought he was being helpful.’ It was time to change the subject. ‘How was your meeting?’ he asked.
‘Good. We’ve got the confirmed dates for the Liberia trip.’
‘That’s great.’
Turning to face him, Helen looked her husband in the eye, the way she did when she wanted to steamroller him on something. ‘It’s been moved forward.’ She mentioned some dates.
Frowning, Carlyle thought it through. ‘You’re going next week then?’
‘Alice really wants you to come.’
‘Shouldn’t she be in school?’
‘I spoke to the Headmaster. He’s happy for me to take her out of school for such an educational trip.’
‘For two weeks?’
‘It takes forever to get around,’ Helen explained. ‘It’s not just like jumping in a car and zooming up the M1.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He knew better than to get into an argument with his wife on the subject of Third World countries.
‘You must have plenty of leave you can take.’
‘Mm.’
‘Come on, you never use it all up.’
‘It’s not as easy as that, as you well know. Maybe I could come for the second week. Let me talk to Simpson.’
‘Okay.’ Turning away from him, Helen signalled the end of the conversation. Within a few moments, she was snoring gently. Lying in the darkness, Carlyle stared at the ceiling, coming to terms with the impending trip.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A bored-looking Paul Groom sat behind a desk in the interview room, flanked by two men in suits. Both of the suits, dwarfed by the young goalkeeper, looked old and shrunken. Carlyle recognized the one on his left, an ambulance-chasing lawyer called Kenneth Moynahan, but the other, he had never seen before. Better dressed than either Groom or Moynahan, the third man ignored the inspector’s entrance as he tapped away ostentatiously on his iPad.
Carlyle nodded at Moynahan and glared at Groom, who made a half-hearted attempt to hold his eye, giving up almost immediately.
‘Who are you?’ Carlyle asked the man with the iPad.
The man finished what he was typing and put the tablet down on the desk. He then offered the inspector a limp hand. ‘Wayne Devine, pleased to meet you.’
Ignoring the man’s hand, Carlyle glanced at Moynahan but the lawyer’s expression was giving nothing away.
‘And what are you doing here, Mr Devine?’
Devine grinned as if that should be obvious. ‘I’m Mr Groom’s agent.’
Moynahan began doodling frantically on a notepad on the desk in front of him. He looked as if he was trying hard not to smile.
Getting ready to work himself up into a state of aggravated annoyance, Carlyle planted his hands on his hips. ‘Excuse me?’
Slipping a business card across the table, Devine sat back in his chair. Looking Carlyle up and down, he decided that he would have to take things slowly with the stupid plod. ‘I represent-’