The garage was empty apart from three black bin liners which sat on a workbench running along one wall.
‘Here.’ Dom grabbed one of the bin bags and dropped it at Carlyle’s feet. ‘New clothes. Put the old stuff in there. Everything we were wearing on our little trip gets dumped.’
Dom and Gideon began to strip. Emptying out the contents of his bag, Carlyle contemplated his new outfit. There was a pair of boxer shorts, socks, some cheap trainers, jeans, a red sweatshirt and a brown parka with a furry hood.
‘Hurry up!’
‘Okay, okay.’ Slowly, he did as he was told.
‘Get rid of the new gear when you get home,’ Dom instructed him. ‘Put the underwear in the rubbish.’
‘Not taking any chances, are you?’
‘Of course not, you berk.’
Carlyle slipped off his boxers. Shivering against the cold, he dropped them into one of the bin liners. ‘Maybe I’ll just go commando.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Dom said gruffly. ‘Give the rest of the stuff to Oxfam if you want – but not the one on Drury Lane. Understood?’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle dressed quickly, stuffing his previous clothes into another bin liner. A thought suddenly crept across his brain. ‘What did you do with the guns?’
With one leg stuck in a pair of fresh jeans, Gideon tutted at the stupidity of the question.
‘Stripped down and scattered in the middle of the English Channel,’ Dom explained as he pulled on a grey T-shirt. ‘Nothing to worry about on that score.’
‘Nothing to worry about on any score,’ Gideon muttered.
‘No, indeed,’ Dom agreed.
Gideon shot Carlyle a threatening look. ‘Just make sure you keep your fucking mouth shut.’
‘He will.’ Smiling, Dom put his arm round Carlyle’s shoulder. ‘Of course he will.’
They drove back towards London in silence. Pulling in at the Pease Pottage motorway services, Dom donned a West Ham baseball cap, disappearing inside while Gideon stuffed the bin liners containing their soiled clothes into the trash.
Sitting in the back of the SUV, Carlyle rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Twenty yards away, a woman was shouting at a screaming child as she dragged the unhappy girl across the car park.
What should he make of the last twenty-four hours? Closing his eyes, the inspector tried to think of something suitably profound but nothing came to mind.
After a while, the car door reopened and Dom placed a tray of coffees on the driver’s seat. ‘Hungry?’ he asked, offering up a bag of doughnuts.
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Nah. Thanks.’
Dom frowned. ‘John Carlyle refusing a doughnut! Whatever next? Are you ill?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Hungover?’
‘Amongst other things,’ Carlyle replied dolefully.
‘It was a tough night,’ Dom reflected, ‘but it’s over now.’ He stuck a hand in the bag, pulled out a doughnut and took a large bite, sending raspberry jam all over his chin. Groaning, he grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the mess. ‘Job done.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘It’s over,’ Dom repeated. Dropping the remains of the doughnut back into the bag, he began wiping his fingers clean. ‘I know you’re worried that you’ve crossed some kind of Rubicon here. Gone over to the dark side. Whatever. But it’s not like that. Think of all the shit you’ve had to deal with over the years. It’s all one big grey area. This is no different.’
A very dark shade of grey, Carlyle thought as he watched Gideon reappear from behind the service station.
‘In difficult situations you have to make choices.’ Handing Carlyle the coffees and the bag of doughnuts, Dom settled in behind the wheel, ready to resume the journey home. ‘And you have to live with them.’
Balancing the tray on his knees, Carlyle peeked inside the bag and felt his mouth begin to water. Maybe he could manage a nibble after all.
‘We’re big boys,’ Dom continued. ‘We can live with the decisions we make. We have to live with them. Above all else, we owe it to our families.’
Amen to that. Carlyle stuck his hand inside the bag and pulled out an iced ring as Gideon opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.
‘All good?’ Dom asked.
Gideon nodded. ‘Just one thing.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got jam all over your chin.’
FORTY-SEVEN
‘Where have you been?’ Umar asked.
Hiding behind his plastic cup, Carlyle mumbled something about the flu.
‘Simpson’s looking for you.’ The sergeant grinned.
‘She’s always looking for me.’
‘She’s very . . .’
‘. . . pissed off?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Eh? Why not?’ Carlyle was stumped.
Umar’s grin grew wider. ‘She’s very pleased that we’ve wrapped up the Gasparino case.’
Carlyle took a mouthful of orange juice while he slowly recalled the basic points of the Gasparino case. It seemed a long time ago now. Everything that had happened before he stepped on El Nino seemed an extremely long time ago. How the hell did that get solved when he was away? ‘We did?’
‘Yes,’ Umar folded his arms and sat back in his chair triumphantly. ‘We – I in other words – tracked down Clive Martin’s granddaughter and got her to confess and give up all her mates within two hours.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘It was a girl who attacked him?’
‘Yeah, nasty little character. She was proud of being the ringleader of her little gang. Clive is really cut up about it. More so than her parents, it seems to me.’
Clive? Carlyle thought. So, he’s Clive now, is he? ‘Why did they do it?’
‘God!’ Umar snorted. ‘You don’t think there’s anything as straightforward as a rational explanation, do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Anyway, well done.’ A cheeky thought popped into his head. ‘Have you taken that WPC to Nobu yet? The one who got us,’ he corrected himself, ‘the one who got you the ID?’
‘Not yet.’ Umar looked around nervously. ‘She’s stalking me.’
‘She seems like a nice girl,’ said Carlyle, amused. ‘You never know . . .’
‘The thing is,’ putting his hands on his knees, Umar leaned forward and lowered his voice, ‘I’ve started going out with someone else.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah.’ He hesitated before coughing up a name. ‘Christina O’Brien.’
Carlyle looked at him blankly.
‘The girl from Everton’s.’ Umar lowered his voice even more, so it was barely more than a whisper. ‘The one who twatted PC Lea.’
After a moment of stunned silence, Carlyle burst out laughing. ‘You’re kidding!’
Umar shook his head.
The inspector gave his sergeant a nudge on the arm. ‘You lucky bastard!’
FORTY-EIGHT
Typing in the PIN number for his credit card, Carlyle felt almost physically ill. Printing off the receipt, Denzil Taleb looked at him with sympathetic glee.
‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’
‘Eight p.m.,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I need to be at the airport by six, so I will need to be on the tube about half four.’
‘That should give you plenty of time,’ the optician agreed. ‘I’ll make sure that your new glasses are ready by two at the latest.’ He handed Carlyle the receipt. Three hundred and fifty-eight fucking pounds. ‘Thanks.’ Stuffing it in his pocket, he turned and headed for the door.
Out in the street, he paused, unsure where he wanted to head next. When his mobile went off, he answered it immediately.
‘Carlyle.’
‘John, it’s Maria March.’
He smiled. ‘And how is Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs today?’
‘Fine,’ said Maria briskly, suggesting that she didn’t have time for small talk. ‘I just thought you’d want to hear about Gavin Swann.’