You’re a bloody mug, you are, WPC Heather Wilson said to herself. Trying to ignore the taste of the disgusting tea that she had been given, she gazed out of the window of the homeless men’s hostel in Limehouse and across the Thames. It was her day off and Heather should have been enjoying a trip to Westfield with her mum. She thought about the lovely French Connection dress she’d had her eye on for ages and sighed. She should never have let that cute new sergeant sweettalk her into schlepping round some of the scummiest hostels in London, trying to find someone who knew that dead tramp, even if he had intimated that he might take her on a date. The more Heather thought about it, the less sure she was that he had actually promised to do so. She felt a knot of frustration in her stomach; he was very cute.
‘I’ve met this guy . . .’
Startled, Wilson turned around, knocking her tea all over the table. She jumped up quickly before it ended up on her jeans.
‘Sorry,’ said the young woman who had appeared behind her, ‘that was my fault. Give me a minute; I’ll get some tissues.’ Before Heather could reply, the woman scuttled off in the direction she had come from. It was only when she had disappeared into the toilets that the WPC realized what she had said.
‘Are you sure you don’t want another cup of tea?’ Susie McCarthy asked as she cleared up the mess that Heather Wilson had made with the last one.
‘No,’ said Heather, shuddering inwardly. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Checking that the chair was dry, she sat back down. ‘You were saying – about the picture?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Piling the damp tissue-paper on the far side of the table, Susie tapped on the photograph of Adrian Gasparino’s lifeless face with the index finger of her right hand. Wilson noticed that the nail had been bitten all the way down to the quick. ‘He was here. Didn’t stay for long; just upped and left one day.’ She looked a bit sad. ‘We were sitting here having a conversation, just like now, and he suddenly got his bag and left. Not that uncommon, really. Was he the guy killed near Trafalgar Square?’
‘Yes.’
‘I read about it in the papers. What a shame. Some people are horrible.’
‘Yes, they are.’
‘Really horrible.’
You’re supposed to be a social worker, Heather thought grimly, get used to it. However, she smiled sympathetically. ‘Do you have his details?’
Susie waved at a young man walking past. ‘Yeah. We’ll have the information he gave us when he arrived.’ Pushing the chair back, she got to her feet. ‘It’ll be in the office. I’ll go and get you a copy.’
‘Thank you,’ Wilson said politely. Pulling her mobile from the pocket of her jacket, she began searching for Umar’s number. ‘Dinner’s on you,’ she smiled to herself, ‘and it’s gonna be expensive.’ Her smile broadened as she realized that she knew exactly the dress for the occasion.
THIRTY-ONE
Standing ramrod straight, the old fella waiting by the door to the Uzmanov Suite reminded the inspector of his neighbour in Covent Garden, Harry Ripley. Wearing a dark navy blazer and a white shirt, he had what Carlyle presumed was the official club tie pulled firmly up to his throat in a half-Windsor knot. The inspector nodded at him pleasantly as he headed inside.
But the doorman stepped nimbly into his path. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you cannot go in.’
‘What?’ Carlyle said irritably. He noticed the man had a name-tag on his lapeclass="underline" Edward Hopkins.
‘I’m afraid you have not followed the dress code.’ Wrinkling his nose, Hopkins gestured at the inspector’s dishevelled appearance. ‘A jacket and tie are required – and jeans are strictly not allowed.’
What is this, Carlyle wondered, the Royal Opera House or a bloody football ground? Sighing loudly, he pulled his warrant card from the pocket of his coat. ‘Police.’
Hopkins gave the ID the briefest of glances. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Rules are rules.’
Gritting his teeth, Carlyle told himself to take a deep breath and wait for the temptation to arrest the annoying old bugger to subside. Apart from anything else, it wasn’t worth the paperwork. Be calm, he told himself. ‘Mr Hopkins,’ he said quietly, ‘I am here on official business – not so I can eat your prawn sandwiches and watch your shitty football team get beaten.’
Standing his ground, Hopkins bristled but did not rise to the bait.
‘You are obstructing me in the conduct of my duties,’ Carlyle told him.
‘There are rules,’ Hopkins smiled widely as he nodded a couple of properly attired gentlemen into the room, ‘and everyone else here has complied with them.’
Fuck the paperwork, Carlyle thought, I’m gonna arrest you anyway. ‘This is your last fucking chance,’ he hissed.
Hopkins’s smile grew wider. ‘Swearing is also not allowed.’
‘Right, sunshine.’ As Carlyle reached for his handcuffs, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘John, what are you doing here?’ Flustered, he turned to see Commander Carole Simpson standing behind him. She was wearing a quilted duvet coat that reached down almost to her ankles, with a club crest over the right breast.
‘Nice coat,’ he complimented her, happy to be able to ignore the doorman.
‘It gets very cold sitting watching,’ she explained, ‘especially for these night games. I can’t believe that Dino forces me to come along. The least he can do is make sure I’m warm.’
‘I was after a word with him,’ Carlyle told her, ‘but Jobsworth here wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Dress code,’ Hopkins said stiffly.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Hopkins,’ Simpson laughed. ‘The inspector lowers the tone wherever he goes.’ ‘But . . .’ the doorman complained.
‘You can make an exception just this once,’ Simpson said politely but firmly. ‘I will take full responsibility.’ Signalling that the conversation was at an end, she took Carlyle by the arm and ushered him past the fuming doorman.
‘What a dick!’
‘Edward is a bit of a stickler for standards. He’s been here more than thirty years. You just have to get used to it.’
Let it go, Carlyle told himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said gracelessly.
Steering him towards the bar, Simpson chuckled. ‘How else am I going to get my most troublesome inspector to talk to me?’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ Carlyle protested.
‘Yeah, right.’ Catching the eye of the girl behind the bar, Simpson ordered a large glass of Chardonnay. Carlyle wistfully eyed the bottles of spirits lined up at the back. Nestling in the middle was his favourite tipple, Jameson’s. A nice whiskey would hit the spot right now but with his boss standing beside him, it made sense to abstain. With a heavy sigh, he asked for an orange juice.
Simpson lifted the glass to her lips. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I don’t recall seeing any reports on your progress.’
Carlyle took his glass from the bartender. ‘Umar Sligo . . . he’s taking his time to get up to speed. I will have a word.’
Simpson looked at him doubtfully. So,’ she asked, ‘what progress are you making?’
Carlyle scanned the room.
‘Don’t worry,’ Simpson chided him. ‘Dino will be here soon, Inspector, and you’ll be able to pursue whatever agenda you’ve got going. In the meantime, I would appreciate a catch-up.’
‘Of course.’ Without articulating his suspicions, Carlyle explained where they were with the Sandy Carroll case and then gave the Commander an update on the second killing – the ‘tramp’, now known as a former soldier called Adrian Gasparino.
Well aware that she only ever got part of the story from Carlyle, Simpson nodded politely. If she was either happy or unhappy with his reported progress, she didn’t let it show. Finishing her wine, she handed the empty glass back to the girl behind the bar and asked for a refill. ‘You know that you shouldn’t be covering both of these cases at once.’