‘Don’t start, John, for God’s sake!’ she hissed.
You sound like my wife, Carlyle thought. Realizing that was not an idea he wanted to pursue any further, he killed it quickly and concentrated on his job. ‘What am I supposed to do with this lot?’ He had counted almost thirty uniforms standing around joking and laughing, waiting for the fun to start. At most, he reckoned he needed eight.
Ignoring the question, Simpson looked at her watch and muttered, ‘I’m going to be late for dinner.’
Carlyle wondered what he was going to have for his own tea; probably just a couple of fried eggs on toast and – assuming that Alice hadn’t already emptied the packet – a handful of Jaffa Cakes. He was not the kind of bloke who felt the need to extend himself in the kitchen. ‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked.
‘Maze.’ Simpson mentioned the name of a famous chef, almost instantly regretting her shameless name-dropping.
‘Nice,’ Carlyle murmured. He had never heard of the place but he knew it would be expensive.
‘It will be,’ said Simpson through gritted teeth, ‘if I ever get there.’
Carlyle grinned. ‘How is the new boyfriend?’
Did he imagine it, or did she redden just a little? ‘He’s fine,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you for asking.’
Carlyle thought about prolonging her embarrassment and decided, for once, that discretion was the better part of valour. Then his mouth overrode his brain, as it was wont to do, and the grin became a smirk. ‘I saw you both in the paper last week, in ES magazine.’
‘Ah yes.’ Simpson stared at the floor. She was definitely blushing now.
‘At the Harper’s Bazaar Women of the Year Awards, if I remember correctly,’ he went on, after a moment’s contemplation, ‘in association with Estée Lauder.’
Simpson gave him a crooked smile. ‘My, Inspector,’ she said coolly, ‘what a good memory you have.’
‘I find that it’s very handy in my line of work.’
‘Not that I was up for an award, of course,’ she said hastily. ‘I only went along because . . . Dino got an invite.’
‘Of course,’ Carlyle nodded. For reasons that he couldn’t now recall, he had cut the photo and associated caption out of the magazine and stuck it on to the door of the fridge at home. Simpson looking very glamorous in a knee-length navy dress, smiling at the camera on the arm of Dino Mottram, an old-style entrepreneur, ten years or more her senior. Was he in line to become Mr Carole Simpson number two? Carlyle wondered idly. He was rather embarrassed to admit it – even to himself – but he rather hoped so.
If anyone deserved a bit of domestic bliss it was Carole Simpson. Simpson’s first husband, Joshua Hunt, had died of cancer a few years earlier, following a spell in prison. Joshua, an insider-dealing City spiv, had managed to make his wife a widow and crater her career prospects at the same time. Before the wheels had come off her home life, Simpson had worked her way through the ranks of the Metropolitan with determination and, to the inspector’s mind, a rather unpleasant efficiency. Carlyle knew that Simpson had harboured hopes of rising still further, perhaps as far as Assistant or even Deputy Commissioner. But having a crook for a husband ended all that. When Joshua was arrested and sent to trial, the press, of course, had a field day. Although not involved in any wrongdoing herself, Simpson came under considerable pressure to resign and walk away, in order to spare the Force any further embarrassment. When she refused, Simpson was effectively blackballed by those higher up and was told in no uncertain terms that there would be no more promotions. It was even suggested that, if she was to hang around, her pension might be under threat. Refusing to buckle, she simply got on with her job, showing a quiet dignity that Carlyle, never previously one of her greatest allies, had not seen before.
In the face of widespread hostility from her fellow officers, Carlyle had been mightily impressed by the Commander’s continued commitment to the job in the difficult years that followed. Always the type of man to trust his own judgement, Carlyle had ignored the gossip and the backstabbing. He had been amazed and delighted to find in the humbled Simpson a true friend and colleague. Indeed, she had saved his bacon on more than one occasion when other bosses would have happily hung him out to dry. As a result of their rapprochement, he would be the last person in the Met to begrudge his boss another shot at domestic happiness. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘And how were the Laurent Perrier champagne and Russian Standard Vodka cocktails?’
‘John,’ she frowned, looking slightly worried now, ‘are you stalking me?’
Now it was his turn to feel embarrassed. ‘No, no,’ he said innocently. ‘It was Helen who pointed it out to me.’ The lie was smooth and simple. ‘She likes to keep up with how the other half live.’
Simpson moved away from him. ‘I very much doubt that,’ she said, in a voice not totally devoid of a sharp edge, ‘and if you continue baiting me, I might just take it up with your wife directly.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Carlyle, somewhat contritely, knowing that, not for the first time, he had pushed the joke too far. It was time to get back to the matter in hand. ‘Did you know,’ he pointed out, ‘that the number of lap-dancing clubs in Britain has grown more than tenfold in the last decade?’
Simpson gave him a look that said: my, you are a repository of useless information. ‘Is that so?’
‘Three hundred new lap-dancing clubs have opened; at the same time, more than a hundred and sixty police stations have closed.’
‘Is there a correlation?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle said. ‘But that’s the kind of country we’ve become: more strip clubs, betting shops and nightclubs; fewer cop shops, post offices and swimming pools.’
‘Fascinating,’ Simpson yawned.
‘Interesting factual information,’ Carlyle said, rather miffed.
‘Look at it this way, John,’ Simpson said. ‘Would you rather raid a strip club or a swimming pool?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘I was never really into swimming.’
Simpson sighed, ‘Shall we just get on with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got to get rid of most of this lot.’
‘Okay.’
Simpson looked around the room once again in the vain hope that some of the uniforms might have disappeared. ‘Christ! There are even bloody PCSOs here,’ she snorted, failing to keep her irritation in check.
Carlyle glanced at the trio of pimply boys in the corner under a poster that proclaimed the Met’s slogan: Working together for a safer London. As slogans went, it was not hugely inspiring; the inspector thought it was long overdue a change. His preference would be for something a bit more thought-provoking, along the lines of: London – it’s bloody safe, so stop moaning and enjoy it. It was not an idea he had shared with the PR department.
One of the pimply boys in the corner said something and the other two began sniggering. Carlyle tutted. ‘Where do we bloody get them from?’
‘You tell me,’ Simpson grumbled.
Police Community Support Officers, known as ‘plastic policemen’, were volunteers who were universally disliked by ‘proper’ officers. Always given the lowest and the grubbiest jobs, they had about as much chance of being allowed to take part in a stripper hunt as Carlyle had of making Chief Inspector.
After a short pause, Carlyle banged the empty mug on a nearby table. ‘Okay, you lot!’ he shouted, taking a couple of steps forward. ‘Listen up. I don’t need all of you tonight.’
A groan went up from the back.
Carlyle stared at the ceiling. ‘So,’ he said airily, ‘thank you all for coming. Your . . . enthusiasm is gratefully acknowledged,’ he allowed himself a cheesy grin, ‘and I hope that it can be sustained into some of this evening’s other duties.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the PCSOs slip out of the door, knowing that they would be the first to be dismissed. Turning his attention to a burly, middle-aged man at the front of the group, Carlyle took another step forward, lowering his voice to a normal level. ‘Sergeant Bishop, choose half-a-dozen officers for this job and let the others go back upstairs.’ He nodded at Simpson. ‘Then the Commander will give us a briefing.’