Carlyle resumed walking towards the stairs. ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ he commented drily. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Shivering under his official team blanket – a bargain £29.99 in the club shop – Christian Holyrod gazed sullenly at the electronic scoreboard in the far corner of the ground. There were still more than ten minutes to go to half-time and the prospect of a nice double measure of Highland Park that would ease the pain of watching this rubbish. The crowd groaned as another simple ten-yard pass went astray. At least Abigail, sitting to his left in her replica shirt, seemed to be reasonably enthralled by it all. He was amazed by the way his girlfriend could develop new passions at the drop of a hat. He was fairly sure that Abigail had never been to a football match in her life before he had taken up this job. Now she behaved as if she’d been a season-ticket holder in the main stand for thirty years. The Mayor couldn’t work out if it was really quite impressive or just rather sad.
Just then, the referee called a foul against the home side, much to the anguish of the crowd. Abigail promptly gave the official the kind of gesture usually seen from the cheaper seats.
Sitting to the Mayor’s right, Dino pointed at a block of empty seats in the opposite stand. ‘I reckon we are about ten thousand down on capacity tonight.’
‘Mm.’ Holyrod scanned the ground; there were clumps of empty seats at regular intervals all the way round.
‘The locals aren’t happy,’ Dino grumbled, ‘and they’re starting to vote with their feet.’
‘Isn’t this about the time when you’re supposed to sack the manager?’ Holyrod asked, drawing on his non-existent knowledge of the football business.
‘If only we could,’ Dino replied. ‘It would cost north of ten mill to get rid of the son of a bitch and all his support staff. That’s ten million more than we can afford.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know.’ Dino pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘We just have to hope that Swann comes back all guns blazing. A couple of good results and the fans will be happy again.’
‘Referee!’ Slater and thirty thousand others rose in unison to protest at an unpunished assault in the centre circle.
Dino elbowed Holyrod. ‘At least Abigail is getting into the spirit of things.’ He allowed himself the smallest of leers. ‘And that shirt looks very good on her.’
For the first time in the evening, the Mayor allowed himself a smile. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Does she wear it in the bedroom?’
Holyrod glanced at the scoreboard. Five minutes and he would be at the bar. ‘Amongst other things.’
‘You are a very lucky man,’ Dino congratulated him.
‘You know what? It can be very exhausting.’
‘Ah.’ Dino gave him a knowing wink. ‘I have just the thing to help you with that.’ Not waiting for the half-time whistle, he struggled out of his seat. ‘In the meantime, let’s go and get a bloody drink.’
THIRTY-THREE
‘I haven’t been able to track down Kelly Kellaway.’ Umar looked almost sheepish.
Kelly Kellaway? Carlyle had forgotten all about her. ‘Why the fuck not?’ he barked.
‘Well,’ Umar said stiffly, ‘for a start, that number you gave me doesn’t work.’
Carlyle’s face crumpled in annoyance. ‘Go back and hassle Blitz then. She can’t have disappeared into thin air. What about her family?’
‘I spoke to her parents. They haven’t seen her in two years, apparently.’
‘ATM records? Mobile records?’ Carlyle threw his hands up in the air. He knew that Umar didn’t have the time or resources to do what he was asking any time soon, but he didn’t feel like being reasonable about it. ‘What do they tell us?’
Umar stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I haven’t been able t-’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle exploded. ‘Just fucking find her!’
‘Did you get anything from Dino Mottram?’
Good question. The inspector had been too focused on the malt whisky in Dino’s office to remember why he’d been there in the first place. ‘Nah,’ he said guiltily, forcing his anger to dissipate. ‘He wasn’t any help at all.’
‘Did you stay for the game?’
‘I wouldn’t waste my time watching those berks.’
‘Nil-nil,’ Umar mused. ‘Sounds like it was a good game to miss.’
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t got much time. What are we doing here?’ He looked around the New Belvedere hostel, in Limehouse, East London, unimpressed.
‘We’re seeing Dr Ian Bell. CEO of Veterans United.’
‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle suspected that this would be a waste of time. In his experience, anyone who called themselves ‘Chief Executive Officer’ of anything was not likely to have much of interest or relevance to say.
‘He’s also Visiting Senior Research Fellow in the Department of War Studies at King’s College,’ Umar added. ‘He has a PhD in the causes of homelessness among veterans and wrote a book that came out last year on the war in Afghanistan.’
Over-achieving bastard, Carlyle thought.
‘It’s a good read,’ the sergeant said. ‘I can lend you a copy if you want.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle mumbled, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.
‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ A small, smiling man dressed in grey jacket over a button-down blue shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of freshly pressed jeans, appeared at Umar’s shoulder and shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘You must be Inspector Carlyle.’
‘I’m Sergeant Sligo,’ Umar grinned.
‘I’m Carlyle,’ the inspector interjected abruptly, offering his hand.
‘Ah, my apologies, gentlemen.’ Bell gestured at some chairs clustered around a low coffee table in the corner of his office. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘So,’ said Carlyle when they were all seated, ‘it looks like you’ve got a lot on your plate here.’
The smile that had seemed permanently plastered on to Bell’s face faded somewhat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we do a very important job, even if I say so myself. Veterans United has a uniquely holistic approach when it comes to trying to deal with the serious problems that ex-military personnel face in modern Britain. At the most practical level, it’s about homelessness prevention; we provided more than thirty-five thousand nights of accommodation last year. At the moment, we provide a home to around a hundred and fifty-two veterans here at the hostel. We don’t judge people. What we do is help them deal with the complexities of the welfare system and other aspects of state bureaucracy including, fairly regularly, the police.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘If you have any problems in the future, please call Sergeant Sligo. He will be delighted to try and help you.’ Catching the grimace that flashed across Umar’s face, he added, ‘Any time of the day or night.’
‘Thank you.’ Bell bowed slightly. ‘We also do our own original research, looking into the effects of military service on the health and wellbeing of personnel when they leave the military and take up civilian careers.’
‘Or not,’ Carlyle interrupted.
‘Or not.’ Bell’s smile faded even further. ‘Civilian careers are hard enough to find at the moment, even for civilians.’
‘Adrian Gasparino,’ said Carlyle, ‘seems to have fallen through the net very quickly.’
‘It doesn’t take long,’ said Umar.
Carlyle glared at him to shut up. He didn’t schlep all the way out to Limehouse to listen to the thoughts of his bloody sergeant.
‘Soldiers, sailors, airmen and -women are the same as everyone else,’ Bell went on. ‘They fall victim to homelessness for various prosaic reasons ranging from psychological disorders to alcohol and drug abuse or family breakdown. Once you are on the street, however, for whatever reason, it is hard to get back to something approximating what we might think of as a “normal” life.’
‘Very true,’ Umar nodded.
‘Aside from the cold and hunger,’ Bell continued, ‘violence is commonplace. Those on the streets are either prey or predators.’