A Man of Sorrows (26 page)

The girl reappeared with the food and placed it in front of him. Nodding his thanks, Carlyle added some ketchup and shovelled a forkful of egg into his mouth. It was too hot for him to taste properly and he swallowed quickly. The woman in the gym gave the punchbag one last kick and stalked off to attack some free weights. The place was beginning to fill up now as the post-work crowd arrived and Carlyle began to feel somewhat undersized as a procession of over-developed guys with shaven heads made their way past him en route to the changing rooms. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized that he was already late. Attacking his plate with gusto, he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Rose would have to wait until tomorrow.

‘Jesus!’ Leaning against the frame of the living-room door, Carla Dyer placed a hand on her chest. ‘You gave me a hell of a fright! I almost didn’t recognize you.’

Standing in the hallway, the man in the Arsenal baseball cap smiled. ‘Have the police been round?’

Folding her arms, Carla nodded.

‘Did you speak to them about Colin?’

Carla looked at her visitor carefully. ‘What do
you
think?’ Her face broke into a scowl. ‘I didn’t tell them nuffin’. I’m looking at a charge of obstruction, or summink worse. Fuck ’em.’

The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’

Of course that’s why I’m here, you silly cow
. ‘I just wanted to speak to you and understand where we are with all of this.’ Sticking his hands into his trouser pockets, he forced himself to smile. ‘It’s always better to do these things face-to-face.’

The woman shrugged; like she could give a shit.

‘It would be a shame to blow it now,’ the man said, ‘not when it looks like we could be getting away with it.’

‘Getting away with it?’ Carla laughed. ‘You’re taking the piss, ain’t you?’

‘Things are going . . . relatively well.’

‘Don’t talk bollocks. Colin’s going down, for sure.’

The man spread his arms wide. ‘At least there’ll be something put aside for him when he gets out.’

‘Which ain’t gonna be for a helluva long time, not with that girl getting killed.’

‘That,’ the man sighed, ‘was very stupid.’

Standing up straight, Carla jabbed an angry finger at the man’s chest. ‘Well, maybe you should have planned it a bit better, shouldn’t ya?’

‘Maybe,’ the man shrugged.

Carla’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, what are you gonna do about it now?’

‘That’s a good question.’ Taking another step forward, he pulled a heavy sap from his pocket and gave her a firm backhand across the face.

Carla’s knees buckled but she didn’t go down. ‘Awww!’ she squealed. ‘You bastard!’

‘We can’t have you talking now, can we?’ On top of her now, he grabbed her by the arm, grunting as he smashed the sap across her skull, once, twice, three times. Finally she went down, blood oozing from her scalp, a long moan rising from her chest as she lay on the grubby carpet. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed, giving her a sharp kick in the ribs. ‘Keep your gob shut or there’ll be more where that came from.’ There were some more indistinguishable groans and finally she fell silent.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he put the sap back in his pocket and waited for his heart-rate to return to normal. Had he made his point? Had she got the message? Looking down at the body in front of him, Carla’s breathing seemed shallow but regular, the wound on her head superficial. In the distance, he heard a siren, but he knew that it wasn’t for him. In a dump like this, you could commit bloody murder and no one would lift a finger.

In a sudden moment of clarity, he knew what he should do. Turning round, he headed to the front door; once out on the landing, he looked around in the gloom. The place was deserted. He could see only one CCTV camera and that was pointing away from where he was standing. Returning inside, he left the front door open, marched down the hallway and stood over the prostrate Carla Dyer. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the hair.

‘Argh!’ she cried weakly.

‘Shut it!’ he hissed, giving her another kick for her trouble as he tried to pull her towards the door. Grunting with effort, he pulled too hard and went stumbling backwards, left holding nothing but a fistful of her badly bleached locks. ‘Shit!’ Regaining his footing, he grabbed Carla by the collar of her polo shirt and dragged her small frame along the hall at a reasonable speed.

Out on the landing, he propped her up against the low wall and quickly looked round again to check that there were no witnesses. As he started to lever her over the edge, Carla’s eyes popped open.

‘No!’ she wailed. ‘What are you doing?’

Despite himself, he had to laugh. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’

‘I won’t say anything,’ she whimpered. ‘Not to any copper. You know I won’t.’

With a grunt, he gave her a final push and she disappeared over the wall. He paused, waiting for a scream, or at least a thud. ‘
I do now
,’ he said to himself, not looking down.

Sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of spaghetti, Alice looked up from her vampire novel and smiled sweetly. ‘Gran, is it true that Dad was a junkie when he was a teenager?’

‘What?’ With her back to the sink, Lorna Gordon took a mouthful of tea and glanced over at her son.

Standing in the kitchen of the small Fulham flat where he had grown up, Carlyle sipped his own mug of green tea. ‘It’s your granddaughter’s idea of a joke,’ he told her.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Alice sternly. ‘Dad gave a talk at school and said that he used to do drugs.’

‘I was just making the point,’ Carlyle said, equally sternly, ‘that not everyone who tries drugs becomes an addict.’

Lorna shook her head. Thirty-odd years ago, she would have given him a firm clip round the ear and stopped him going out for a month. Now she just sighed.

‘Anyway,’ said Carlyle, ‘my talk was a great success.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Alice sarcastically.

‘They’ve asked me back to do another one,’ he grinned.

‘What?’ Alice screamed in mock horror. ‘You have to be kidding!’

‘Not at all. I got a call from the Headmaster’s office asking me if I would be happy to do it again.’

‘And are you going to?’ Alice asked.

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Great,’ Alice groaned, returning to her book. ‘At least try not to be so embarrassing next time.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Carlyle laughed.

‘Maybe,’ said Lorna, ‘you could be a bit more circumspect about your own misspent youth.’

‘Yes, Ma.’ Well into her seventies, she retained the steely determination that had always been at the core of her being. His mother never let anyone put her down; she was the first in a long line of strong women who had kept Carlyle in his place all his life and he knew that it had been the same for his father too. Which was why his dad was currently living in a bedsit a couple of miles away, having been kicked out of the family home after a row over a decades-old infidelity with a neighbour.

‘So,’ he said, trying to affect an air of insouciance, ‘Helen tells me that the divorce finally came through.’

Lorna glanced over at Alice. ‘Do we need to talk about that in front of the child?’ she asked.

‘It’s fine, Gran,’ said Alice, not looking up from her book. ‘I know all about it.’ She shovelled another mouthful of pasta into her mouth. ‘Anyway, it’s not a big deal. Two of my best friends at school – their parents are divorced.’

‘We don’t know about the grandparents though,’ Carlyle quipped. His mother shot him a sharp look and he involuntarily dropped his gaze to the floor. He had long since given up trying to make some sense of the mess that his parents had got themselves into; it was their business. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

Alice artlessly looked over the top of the book, clearly interested in the answer.

Lorna frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you and Ken . . . ?’ Ken Walton, an amiable if rather dull pensioner, had appeared on the scene the year before as his mother’s new companion.

His mother let out a snort of derision. ‘I intend to remain resolutely single,’ she harrumphed.

‘You could still live together,’ Alice suggested helpfully.

‘Ken and I,’ Lorna turned to face her son, lowering her voice. ‘Ken and I are no longer seeing each other.’

Jesus Christ
, Carlyle thought glumly.
The soap opera continues.

‘Ooh!’ Alice squealed, dropping her fork onto the plate, ‘Did you dump him?’

‘No – well . . .’

Carlyle was amazed to see his mother blush.

After a moment, she regained her composure. ‘Let’s just say we have parted company and leave it at that, shall we?’ Placing her mug in the sink, she forced a smile onto her face. ‘Anyway, young lady, what are you up to these days?’

‘Nothing exciting,’ Alice sighed, ‘just the usual.’

‘Come on,’ Carlyle chided her, ‘you’ve got lots going on.’

Alice shot him a dirty look and turned to her grandmother. ‘Well, of course, Mum’s got cancer.’

What?
thought Carlyle.

‘What?’ asked Lorna.

‘Mum’s got cancer,’ Alice repeated.

‘No, she hasn’t,’ Carlyle said hastily, wondering just where all this had come from. Taking a deep breath, he gave his mother a quick summary of the letter from Helen’s aunt and the visit to Great Ormond Street to have the test for the BRCA2 gene.

When he had finished, Lorna reached over and squeezed him on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, John.’

‘It’s not something to worry about,’ he said, talking more to Alice than to his mother. ‘When we get the test results, either it’s a false alarm or it’s an early warning and we can do something about it.’

They both looked at him. ‘Like what?’ Alice asked.

Carlyle took a mouthful of cold tea. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we get to it,’ he said resolutely.

THIRTY-FIVE

Cradling a mug of green tea in both hands, he watched her cross the street, heading towards the café.

You
’
re looking good
,
girl
.

Pushing the door open, she saw him sitting near the window and smiled. ‘What happened to Il Buffone?’ she asked, taking an oversized bag from her shoulder.

Carlyle got to his feet and let Rose Scripps give him a kiss on his cheek. ‘Marcello’s packing it in,’ he said sadly, ‘so I feel it’s time for a change.’

‘That’s a shame,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

‘These things happen.’ Carlyle gestured around the Box café. ‘This place is growing on me. Want a drink?’

‘I’ll have a latte.’

Carlyle gestured at the hovering Myron, and ordered the coffee. ‘So, how’s CEOP?’

‘We’re doing okay.’ She smiled wanly. ‘You know what it’s like; an ongoing struggle against the perverts. But we do our bit. We tracked down a guy in Bromley last week who was on the run from the Canadian authorities. I put him on the plane myself.’

‘Shame they didn’t throw him out halfway across the Atlantic.’

Rose grinned. ‘Interesting point of view, Inspector, as always.’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘I try.’

‘It’s not easy.’

‘Well, you’re looking good on it,’ said Carlyle, meaning it. Rose must be well into her thirties by now, but could have passed for ten years younger which, given what she did for a living, was quite something. Her long dark hair, which he presumed was dyed, was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore minimal make-up. He wondered if she was still single but didn’t feel comfortable asking.

Rose lowered her eyes, trying not to blush. ‘Thank you.’

‘How’s your daughter?’

‘Louise is doing great. She’s almost ten now, so we’re worrying about secondary schools.’

‘You should talk to my wife about that,’ Carlyle said. ‘Alice goes to City, but Helen’s checked out just about every possible school in London.’

‘I might do that, thanks.’

Myron arrived with the coffee. ‘So,’ the inspector said, ‘you mentioned something about one of your investigations?’

Rose took a sip of coffee and nodded her approval. ‘Father Francis McGowan.’

Carlyle’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘Yep.’ Rose beamed.

‘You have got to be fucking kidding me!’

‘No. We have been tracking Father McGowan for almost two years now.’

‘And you haven’t come a cropper with the Catholic Legal Network?’

Rose arched her left eyebrow. ‘Well, like I said, we’ve been tracking him. No one from CEOP has tried to beat him to death in a police station.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘You’ve spoken to Alison Roche?’

Rose nodded. ‘She seems very switched on.’

‘She is,’ he admitted grudgingly.

‘She likes you.’

‘Everybody does,’ Carlyle quipped.

Rose’s expression turned serious. ‘You could have blown it for us.’

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘But, obviously, I had no idea you were on the case. There was no mention of CEOP in any of the stuff that I read in McGowan’s file.’

‘That’s the Met for you. The left hand rarely knows what the right hand is up to.’

‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle, knowing just how true that was.

‘I only knew about your problem with McGowan because of
The Times
story.’

Carlyle took a sip of his coffee. ‘I wasn’t named in that.’

‘Your little . . . moment,’ Rose laughed, ‘is hardly much of a secret. Anyway, I was able to find out because of our own CEOP investigation.’

‘Does Commander Dugdale know about this?’

Rose shook her head. ‘No. I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Good. Keep him in the dark. He would like nothing better than to use this to get me fired.’

A look of concern swept across her face. ‘Is there any chance of that?’

‘Nah. I don’t think so. But it would be nice to save my arse and nail McGowan at the same time.’

‘
That
,’ she told him, ‘is where a kid called Eddie Wood comes in . . .’

Just then, the BlackBerry went off in his pocket. Taking it out, Carlyle looked at the screen. It was Roche. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Rose, ‘I’ve got to take this.’

‘No problem.’ Rose started playing with her own phone.