Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Yeah. Alain Costello will get sent down for a good stretch but will probably get transferred back to a French prison fairly quickly . . .’
‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘And the vacuum created by the Special Intelligence Section and their Operation Eagle will make London a complicated place to operate in for a while, especially if you are struggling for product.’
‘How are people dealing with the market disruption?’ Carlyle asked casually.
‘As I said, it will be filled soon enough,’ Dom replied, ‘but inevitably there will be some blood spilled along the way.’
Carlyle shot him a questioning look.
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Okay.’ Carefully folding the sheet of paper into quarters, Carlyle got to his feet.
‘What did you want to talk about?’ Dom asked.
‘It can wait.’ Carlyle waved the square of paper at Dom before putting it in his trouser pocket. ‘Let’s sort this out first.’
Dom nodded. ‘They need to move today.’
‘Understood,’ Carlyle said briskly, heading for the door.
Carlyle had been sitting in the Vida Sana juice bar on Glasshouse Street, just round the corner from Silver’s office, for more than half an hour, still trying to decide what best to do with Dom’s tip-off, but without coming to any conclusion. Looking out of the window, he watched a pretty, hippy-looking girl and her grungy boyfriend stroll past. Deep in animated conversation, the boy took a long drag on a monster joint, holding in the smoke as he handed it to the girl. Apropos of nothing, The Clash popped into Carlyle’s head and started up a spirited rendition of ‘Julie’s Been Working for the Drugs Squad’. Smiling, Carlyle tossed his empty beaker of Cactus Detox (Organic cactus, pineapple, lime, banana, pineapple juice and 98 per cent fat-free probiotic yoghurt) into a nearby trash can.
‘Brilliant,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Problem sorted.’
Turning into Agar Street, Carlyle skipped up the steps of the station. He had barely reached the top when he was accosted by his sergeant.
‘He’s confessed!’ Umar cried. Carlyle made a point of looking theatrically towards the unsettled grey heavens.
‘Groom,’ Umar added, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘He signed a written confession a couple of hours ago.’
You could have called me, Carlyle thought angrily.
‘I tried calling you,’ Umar continued. ‘Did you not get my message?’
Carlyle grunted. Doubtless the voicemail would turn up in a couple of days. ‘Presumably he acted on the advice of his sodding agent.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Umar gave him a funny look. ‘Anyway, he admitted he tried to force the girl into having sex with him and says he lost his temper when she refused. Things got a bit out of hand.’
‘Didn’t they just,’ said Carlyle, distinctly unconvinced.
‘According to Groom’s version of events,’ said Umar, picking up on his boss’s sceptical tone, ‘Swann tried to stop him, there was a fight and Sandy Carroll got accidentally smacked in the face.’
Trying not to get too angry, Carlyle said, ‘Do we have any forensic evidence?’
Umar shook his head. ‘Nothing we can use, apparently.’
Fuck. Two men, one body, how fucking hard could it be? Surely they could give him something? ‘I’ll call Susan Phillips.’
‘I’ve read through her preliminary report,’ Umar protested.
‘I’ll call her anyway. Groom, where is he now?’
‘They’ve moved him to Belmarsh.’
‘That’s just great,’ Carlyle complained. If he wanted to quiz the prisoner himself, a trip to Belmarsh, in the arse end of Greenwich, would take the best part of a day. Parking Groom in Brixton or Wormwood Scrubs or, indeed, just about any of London’s other jails, would have made his life a lot easier.
Umar shrugged. ‘Not my call, boss.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle sighed.
‘I’m off to get some kip,’ Umar mumbled. ‘I’ll be back later.’
‘Let’s speak later, then.’ Carlyle patted him on the arm. ‘And well done.’ He coughed to try and mask the obvious lack of conviction in his voice. ‘You’ve done a good job on this one.’
Umar nodded. ‘Thanks.’ Zipping up his jacket, he jogged down the steps.
TWENTY-NINE
Carlyle stood at the door of the station and watched Umar walk down the street until he reached the Strand and disappeared amongst the crowd. Pulling out his mobile, Carlyle called Susan Phillips’ work number. Tapping his foot impatiently against the edge of the top step, he listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity before her voicemail message finally kicked in.
‘Susan,’ he jumped in too quickly and was silenced by the beep. ‘Fuck . . . Susan, it’s John Carlyle. Give me a call.’
Heading inside, Carlyle tried to convince himself that he wasn’t really bothered by the lack of forensic evidence in the Sandy Carroll case. After all, he had never been the kind of copper who relied on the test tube and tweezer brigade to bail him out. Indeed, the fact that forensics remained so fashionable made him uncomfortable. He had a lot of time for diligent and expert colleagues like Susan Phillips and also for the Met’s Scientific Support Unit, which coordinated crime scene activities. But popular expectations of forensic science, especially crime scene investigation and DNA testing, were way too high. This put everyone under huge pressure to solve everything in the blink of an eye.
The word ‘forensic’, Carlyle was never slow to point out, came from the Latin forensis, meaning before the forum. Basically, back in Roman times, accuser and accused would make their case to the authorities. Whoever gave the best pitch would win and the facts rarely got a chance to speak for themselves.
The truth was that some cases just didn’t get solved. Those that did were usually down to the basics – luck, confession, betrayal or, Carlyle’s own personal favourite, simple basic incompetence on the part of the criminal. Covering up a crime that was bad enough for anyone to bother to investigate seriously was a very difficult task. It required determination, stamina and considerable attention to detail. Most people didn’t think that far in advance. Or they couldn’t be bothered with the hard work required. The police, on the other hand, did it for a living. Carlyle knew who his money was on.
He also knew that, out of eight million people, London managed less than a hundred and thirty murders in the previous year. As always, more than half of those were domestics – when the victim usually knew the killer- so you always knew where to look first.
Then there was the fact that around 90 per cent of murderers are men.
In any given year, the murder clean-up rate was 90 per cent plus, often as high as 97 or 98 per cent; you either find them, or they come to you.
Those were good odds, statistics that gave Carlyle a great sense of wellbeing. It told him that he lived in a very safe city. Of course, some places in London were safer than others. And some people were safer than others. But most people – by a very, very big majority – had nothing whatsoever to worry about.
Sadly for Sandy Carroll, she was not most people.
The inspector had never been a ‘let’s do it for the victim’ kind of guy. The victim was dead, what did he or she care? Do it for the family? Maybe, but in Carlyle’s experience, the family sometimes cared, sometimes didn’t. No, his primary motivation was catching the perpetrators. He just hated the thought of the bastards getting away with it. Maybe Paul Groom landed the fatal blow on Carroll’s jaw, maybe not, but there were two men involved, and in his book, they were both responsible. It was Gavin Swann, with his poisonous mix of money, arrogance and stupidity that had put them all in that room, and it was Swann who thought his money could buy him a free pass.