A Man of Sorrows (12 page)

In the event, it was almost 9.15 when the door to Dugdale’s office swung open and the Commander glared at him to come in. Slowly, Carlyle got to his feet and stepped inside. As the door clicked shut behind him, he registered the other man in the room.

‘Inspector,’ Dugdale said dully, ‘I believe that you already know Mr Holyrod.’

Christian Holyrod got up from his chair and extended a languid hand. ‘Inspector.’

What the hell?
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Mr Mayor,’ he said, shaking hands, ‘very nice to see you again.’

‘Sit.’ Dugdale gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk.

Carlyle did as requested, his brain going into overdrive as he quickly ran through Holyrod’s history of interfering with – and trying to block – police investigations.

Dugdale started to speak, but Holyrod held up a hand. The Commander looked peeved but sat back on his chair, arms folded, while the Mayor had the first word.

‘Thank you for meeting with us this morning, Inspector,’ he said mechanically, holding Carlyle’s gaze with a casual stare. ‘I am sure we do not need to take up much of your time.’

Carlyle glanced from one man to the other. ‘What can I do for you?’

The Mayor launched into his pitch. ‘I am responsible for helping to organize,’ he glanced at Dugdale, ‘and also for financing, the London leg of the Pope’s upcoming visit to the UK.’

Carlyle, who neither knew nor cared that the Pope was coming to visit
his
city, nodded sagely. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘In that capacity,’ Holyrod continued, ‘it has come to my attention that the Catholic Church is currently considering taking legal action against the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Because you couldn’t keep your bloody hands off that priest,’ Dugdale hissed, able to keep out of the conversation that was taking place in
his
office no longer.

Carlyle gave his boss a gimlet eye. ‘The statements you have received from various members of staff,’ he said tartly, ‘make it clear that the McGowan arrest and interviews were conducted in an entirely proper manner.’

Dugdale’s face started to redden and it looked like he might explode with annoyance. ‘What is
clear
, Inspector, is that you have a problem with authority in general and with the Church in particular.’

‘That is simply not the case,’ Carlyle replied calmly.

‘For whatever reason, you have jumped on the anti-clerical bandwagon. The Catholic Church is such an easy target, but it is a surprising and perverse attitude for a Metropolitan Police Officer to take, especially at a time when we have to be extremely focused on the threat of Muslim extremism.’ Dugdale glanced at Holyrod. ‘It’s those buggers we need to chase! God knows, if they’re not planning suicide bombings, they’re stoning women for having sex!’

For a second, Carlyle was thrown by Dugdale’s grasp of current events. Then he allowed himself the smallest of grins. ‘If I see anyone trying to organize a stoning in the Covent Garden piazza,’ he said, ‘I will, of course, take appropriate action.’

Holyrod raised his eyes to the ceiling as Dugdale smashed an impotent fist on to the desk. ‘Don’t be flip with me, Carlyle,’ he snapped. ‘Get on the right page here; fight the right enemy or you’re out!’

Carlyle glared at his superior with ill-concealed loathing. ‘I am not fighting any “enemy”,
sir
. I am simply doing my job, which is to uphold the law. I take people, cases and institutions as I find them, and I do not let any political or other judgements get in the way of performing my duties.’

For a moment, it looked as if Dugdale was having difficulty breathing. ‘This is intolerable. You are the most conceited, arrogant bastard I have ever met in my entire life!’

Dismayed by the complete lack of professionalism on display in the room, the Mayor held up a hand: ‘Gentlemen, please. This is no time for a philosophical debate. And I do not care what happened in that interview room. What I
do
care about is that this issue is resolved quickly and quietly, and that it does not interfere with the smooth running of the Papal visit.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which was considerably greyer and thinner than Carlyle remembered it from their previous encounters. ‘It is incumbent on us to give the Catholic Church confidence in our good faith. If we can do that, we can resolve this issue and move on to everyone’s satisfaction.’ Holyrod contemplated the inspector as if he could read the policeman’s every thought. ‘Knowing you as I do, Inspector, I would never dream of trying to get you to back down in the case of Father McGowan.’

‘It’s not as if we have much room for manoeuvre there, anyway,’ Dugdale said sourly.

Folding his arms, Carlyle said nothing.

Holyrod picked an invisible piece of lint from the shoulder of his navy suit. ‘So, what I am proposing is this: in order to demonstrate that we,’ he pointed a crooked index finger at Carlyle, ‘and in particular
you
, are not prejudiced in matters relating to the Church, you will take charge of the handling of the Roger Leyne situation.’

‘I have agreed with the Mayor that you will take this on,’ Dugdale interjected. ‘Leyne is—’

‘I know who he is,’ Carlyle said quickly. He turned to face Holyrod. ‘What I didn’t realize was that he had anything to do with the Pope or that he was involved in any police investigation.’

‘He is not, at the present time, subject to any enquiry,’ Holyrod said carefully, as if talking to a rather slow child. ‘However, his absurd plans to have His Holiness arrested for crimes against humanity relating to alleged child abuse by members of his Church are, inevitably, bound to fall foul of the law in due course.’

And what am I supposed to be?
Carlyle thought angrily.
The fucking Stasi?
Staring at the worn carpet, he took his time before responding. Then he looked up at Holyrod. ‘If you have any information, sir,’ he said, deliberately aping the Mayor’s condescending tone, ‘regarding either a breach of the law or a potential breach of the law, then of course I will look into it as a matter of urgency.’

Glaring at Dugdale as if to say
this is your problem
, Holyrod got out of his chair. ‘Deal with this matter properly, Inspector,’ he said firmly, ‘and I am sure that there will be no need for any party to pursue the McGowan complaint. Any alternative outcome will have very serious consequences . . . for both yourself and your colleague Sergeant Roche.’ He nodded at Dugdale, who seemed glued to his seat. ‘You can keep me posted on developments via the Commander.’

As the door closed behind Holyrod, Carlyle turned to Dugdale and quipped grimly: ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent atheist?’

A blank look passed across Dugdale’s face before it reverted to its usual expression of constipated disgust. ‘You’ve got work to be getting on with, Carlyle,’ he said angrily. ‘I suggest that you stop being such a fucking smartarse and get on with it.’

EIGHTEEN

Looking up from her computer screen, Roche said. ‘We’ve had another memo from the Police Federation.’

‘Jolly good.’ Carlyle thought about mentioning his letter offering voluntary redundancy, but decided against it.

Roche scanned down the text. ‘It says . . . “
investment in policing has gone up by over 47 per cent in the last decade, but just over 10 per cent of police are visibly available to the public
”.’

‘ “Visibly available”,’ Carlyle harrumphed. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Yada, yada, yada . . . “
We accept that in the current fiscal climate
,
economies need to be made
,
but everything must be done to protect frontline services which ensure the public gets the service the public wants – more police officers on their streets.
” Yada, yada. “
There are challenging times ahead, and all those who have a genuine interest in ensuring that the British Police Service remains the envy of the world must work together; to ensure we do not make short-term rushed financial decisions to make small savings which could have a detrimental impact on the service we are able to provide. Losing police officers is not an option where public safety and security is concerned
”.’

Carlyle started humming the tune of a long-forgotten punk song about the British police being the best in the world. Roche looked at him blankly before closing down the email with a click of her mouse. ‘Did the Commander give you a hard time?’

‘How did you know I’d been in to see Dugdale?’ Why was it that everyone seemed to know what he was up to in real time?

‘The front desk told me that he’d been looking for you,’ Roche shrugged, ‘so I assumed that’s where you were.’

‘Fair enough.’ Perching on the side of her desk, he glanced around to check that no one was eavesdropping. ‘But the meeting wasn’t just with Dugdale.’ Lowering his voice, he recounted the conversation with the Mayor.

When he’d finished, Roche said, ‘I read a piece about Roger Leyne in one of the Sunday papers a couple of weeks ago. He seems a bit of a twat. I mean, who has a job as a “philosopher”? What do you do? Sit around all day with your hands down your trousers?’

Carlyle laughed.

‘And as for arresting the Pope, come on, it’s just a stupid publicity stunt.’

‘Whatever.’ Carlyle yawned, a wave of tiredness washing over him.

‘It’s not something we should be wasting our time on,’ she chided him.

‘Feel free to tell the Mayor that he can fuck right off,’ Carlyle suggested tartly. ‘We’ll go and have a chat with this guy, keep it light and, hopefully, minimize the chance of any unpleasantness further down the line.’

‘It’s not like we don’t have anything else to do,’ Roche moaned, unconvinced by her boss’s newly found willingness to do what he was told.

‘I know. But Dugdale’s interest in the diamonds case seems to have evaporated. He didn’t even ask me about it.’

‘Well,’ Roche grinned, ‘whether he’s interested or not, we’ve made some progress.’

‘I know,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘I got your voicemail about the earring.’

Roche’s grin grew wider. ‘I’ve got more than that. Much more.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

‘Forensics gathered various hairs from the bathroom. One of them gave us a hit on the National DNA Database.’

Carlyle punched the air, all weariness gone. ‘Thank You, God!’

‘I thought you’d like that. We got a partial match to a woman who was done for drink-driving two years ago, name of Tracey Hearst. She drove her Mini into a tree near Clapham Common. Turns out she is the sister of Colin Dyer.’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Colin Dyer . . . Colin Dyer. Why does that name ring a bell?’

‘Dyer has six previous convictions for robbery and assault. One of them was for his part in a raid on a jewellery store in Hatton Garden seven years ago.’

‘Yes, I like it! Do we have an address?’

Roche gestured at the notepad on her desk. ‘We have an address for his mother, a council flat in Somers Town.’ Somers Town was a particularly unlovely part of Camden, just north of St Pancras station.

‘Nice,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘When you go up there to see Mum, make sure you take a couple of uniforms with you.’

She gave him a questioning look. ‘Are you not coming?’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got another meeting. I’ll do that, then I’ll go and pay a visit to the philosophical Mr Leyne. Let’s meet back here and compare notes this afternoon.’

If Roche was put out at being sent to Somers Town, she didn’t show it. ‘All right,’ she nodded.

‘Good,’ said Carlyle, heading for the lifts. ‘Well done. I’ll see you later.’

Sitting in another waiting room, the inspector listened to the traffic noise outside while his mind wandered.
What was Dr Wolf
’
s first name?
He realized that he had no idea. Not that it really mattered.

Carlyle had been coming to see the psychiatrist roughly once a fortnight for over a year now, ever since Carde Simpson had insisted on him getting some ‘help’ when an earlier case had spiralled out of control. Once he’d got over the fact that it was a slovenly process, with no timetable and no specific goals, it was easy enough just to write the time off and play the game.

The door to Wolf’s office opened and the shrink beckoned him inside. There being no couch, Carlyle took a seat in his usual armchair and smiled blandly.

‘Good morning, Doctor.’

‘Good morning to you, Inspector,’ Wolf replied, somewhat uncertainly, as he plopped into the chair opposite. Opening a hardback A4 notebook, he flicked through the pages until he came to the notes of their last meeting. Running an index finger down the page, he scanned them carefully, as if they were ancient hieroglyphic texts from the tomb of some long-forgotten king.

Wolf was a short, wizened gent of indeterminate age, with long grey hair, and watery blue eyes that invariably displayed a mixture of amusement and disappointment. The wall clock showed that they were already more than ten minutes into their allotted hour, which, in reality was fifty minutes. Past experience suggested that most of the rest of the time would be taken up with the doctor reading his notes, making random observations, or staring at his brown brogues. Carlyle estimated that the amount of time he had to spend actually talking in each session rarely topped fifteen minutes.

Closing his notebook, the shrink looked up with a satisfied smile. ‘So,’ he said, in an accent that Carlyle had never been able to place, ‘how are we today?’

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle noncommittally. ‘You?’

‘What shall we talk about?’ Wolf asked, ignoring the question.

And so began another session. It was always the same. He doubted if Wolf had changed his patter for decades. Not for the first time, Carlyle wondered just how much these sessions cost; he had asked Simpson several times exactly how much the Met was paying to secure his mental health. She had always refused point blank to discuss it, which only served to strengthen his suspicion that where the good doctor was concerned, talk was definitely not cheap.

‘There are some interesting things going on at work,’ he said casually. It was one of the things he’d learned over the last year; always have a topic of conversation ready.