Carlyle studied the screen intently. The man currently stuffing bamboo worms into his mouth bore only a limited resemblance to the haggard bureaucrat who had been last seen leaving New Scotland Yard by the back door, hounded by journalists, with the scorn of his political masters ringing in his ears. Osgood’s previously messy hair had been cut short, bleached (to hide the grey) and spiked with gel. He sported a tan that bordered on orange and, although it was hard to tell on the television, Carlyle thought that there was a suggestion of some plastic surgery to remove the lines around his eyes and to make his lips fuller. ‘His mid-life crisis just gets worse,’ he sneered.
As Commissioner, Osgood had never impinged much on Carlyle’s working life, but his subsequent behaviour had caused some surprise. Barely two months after getting the sack, he left his wife and kids, announced that he was bisexual, and set up home with a twenty-five-year-old ballroom dancer who had arrived in London from Bergamo. Now the ‘pink policeman’ had a weekly column in a Sunday newspaper, and seized every opportunity to go on television or the radio to criticise Christian Holyrod, the Mayor who had sacked him, or else his former colleagues and his successor, Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker, a self-proclaimed ‘copper from the old school’.
Carlyle didn’t know anyone on The Job who didn’t think Osgood should have just taken his money, a pension pot of £3 million, and disappeared into the sunset with his mouth firmly shut and his newfound sexuality kept firmly hidden in the closet. How can anyone get to fifty and suddenly decide that they’re gay? For once, Carlyle found that he was in step with the majority view of the rank and file across London’s police stations, which was that Osgood could have no complaints if someone was to drag him down a dark alley and kick the living shit out of him for being such a pathetic, ego-crazed tosser.
‘They’ve got his boyfriend waiting for him at a nearby hotel,’ Helen replied. ‘He’s quite cute.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Luke Osgood? Cute?’
‘No!’ Helen giggled. ‘The boyfriend. He’s called Gianluca.’ She arched her eyebrows theatrically. ‘Quite the Italian stallion.’
Carlyle chose to ignore his wife’s professed admiration for the hunky Gianluca, keeping his focus on Osgood, who was now well on the way to finishing his wormy snack. ‘But why is he bothering with all this?’ he asked. ‘He can’t need the money.’
‘I think he’s got a taste for it.’
Carlyle frowned again. ‘For what? Worms?’
‘No,’ Helen gave him a firm poke with her foot, ‘for being a celeb. His ego is finally being allowed to run free. He’s unleashed his frivolous side after a lifetime of being submerged in the system.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle. He made a grab for her foot, but she pulled it away. ‘Just be happy that I manage to stay submerged in the system. Letting my ego run free wouldn’t put any bread on the table.’
‘If you could make as much money as Sir Luke,’ Helen grinned, ‘you have my permission to eat as many bugs as you like. You can even take an Italian boyfriend.’
Carlyle gave her a funny look.
‘Only joking. But there’s plenty of money in all this for Lucky Luke. Apparently, he’s getting paid a hundred and twenty thousand to do this show. With all his other work, he’s making something like three-quarters of a million a year now.’
‘Jeez.’ Carlyle let out a long, low whistle. Seven hundred and fifty thousand would be three times what Osgood was getting as Metropolitan Police Commissioner. What a world, he thought; what a fucking stupid world. You could earn £250,000 a year, be responsible for 50,000 people and a budget of £3.5 billion, not to mention having to deal with the politicians and all their crap – or, indeed, the safety of some 7 million Londoners. Alternatively, you could triple your money for sitting about talking rubbish and eating worms. He had to admit that it was not really such a difficult decision. ‘But what about his dignity?’ he asked lamely.
‘What about it?’ Helen snorted, tiring of the repeated interruptions. ‘How much did he have left when the Mayor sacked him? Anyway, how much is your dignity worth?’
Carlyle didn’t need to think about it for long to conclude that the answer was a lot less than £750,000. ‘God, all that cash! Could you imagine?’
‘Don’t feel too bad about it,’ Helen said. She gave him another poke with her toe, but this time it was gentler. ‘Osgood’s only got a limited window of opportunity.’ She disengaged her foot from his ribs and waved it at the screen. ‘How many times can he do stuff like this? It’s downhill all the way from here.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Carlyle.
‘Before you know it,’ Helen said, ‘he’ll be reduced to selling security shutters on late-night TV.’
‘And opening supermarkets in Croydon,’ Carlyle laughed.
‘Do they do that sort of thing any more?’ Helen asked.
‘I dunno,’ said Carlyle. ‘You would assume so. Opening supermarkets and churning out z-list celebrities are probably the only things that this country is good at any more.’
On the other side of the world, Luke Osgood swallowed the last worm and raised his arms in triumph. ‘Will he win?’ Carlyle asked.
‘No,’ Helen said with certainty. ‘Gay ex-policeman is too niche to win. He’s also too middle-class. People like him are the ones who get halfway on shows like this: not complete losers who get voted straight off, but not popular enough with the masses to get through to the very end. To do that, you either have to be a cheeky chappy soap star who gets the mums’ vote or a model with big boobs and a tiny bikini who gets the lads’ vote.’ She mentioned the names of a couple of people that Carlyle had never heard of. ‘One of those two will win.’
As they watched Osgood return to his jungle camp in triumph, Alice appeared in the doorway. She deftly tossed a mobile towards the sofa and retreated to her bedroom without saying a word. Carlyle caught the phone before it hit him on the head. He felt it vibrating in his hand and automatically hit the receive button. ‘Hello?’
‘Inspector, it’s Amelia Jacobs.’
Shit. He could immediately tell from the tension in her voice that it wasn’t good news. ‘Hi.’
‘That bastard’s taken Jake.’
That bastard. Michael Hagger. The bloke he was supposed to talk to. The bloke he was supposed to sort out.
‘He picked him up from the nursery.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
‘I was ten minutes late,’ her voice cracked slightly, ‘and they were gone.’
‘Uhuh.’ The inspector kicked out at the coffee-table in frustration. You fucking idiot, he told himself, why didn’t you just warn the guy off? They were depending on you.
‘John?’ Helen gave him a quizzical look but he just shook his head.
‘It’s been on the TV,’ Amelia continued.
Not the kind of stuff we’ve been watching, Carlyle thought angrily.
‘On the news,’ she explained.
‘Yes.’
‘God knows what will happen to that poor boy. You’ve got to get him back.’
He took a moment to compose himself. ‘Who’s in charge of trying to find him?’ Amelia gave him a name. ‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘I’ll have a word and see what I can find out.’
‘You were supposed to have a word with Michael,’ she snapped.
‘I know, I know, I know,’ he said sharply. ‘Let me see what I can do. I will get back to you asap. Sit tight. It will be okay.’ Not waiting for a reply, he ended the call.
‘What’s the matter?’ Helen asked.
‘The matter is,’ he groaned, ‘I’ve fucked up.’ As he said it, the mobile started vibrating again in his hand. ‘Shit!’ He lifted the handset to his ear. ‘Amelia . . .’ He tried not to sound too exasperated.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
Carlyle recognised the voice and his heart sank even further. For the second time in less than five minutes, he should have let the call go to voicemail. ‘Yes?’