Sins of the Fathers (13 page)

‘I have my instructions,’ Slater said flatly.

‘This is the best place for her right now.’ Carlyle pointed to the door.

‘Oh, so you’re a child psychologist now?’

‘No. And neither are you.’ He seriously doubted if Slater could manage to look after the child, even for an hour.

‘Are you going to prevent me from going about my business?’ Slater shook her head. ‘You always were such a total arse.’

Carlyle ignored the personal insult. ‘You have no authority,’ he said firmly.

‘And you do?’

‘You need to leave.’

Slater started to say something more, then thought better of it.

Carlyle watched her retreat from the room. ‘Bring your client to Charing Cross tomorrow morning at nine. We can discuss it further then. Until that time, the child stays here.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Slater stomped down the hall and slammed the front door shut.

It took another couple of hours to get things squared off with Social Services and extract a formal statement from Julian Schaeffer’s mother. Anna Connolly was monosyllabic, bordering on comatose. It was clear that she had been heavily self-medicating. Carlyle felt angry at the woman for being so wrapped up in her own grief and disappointment that she took herself to bed rather than look after her granddaughter. But he kept his feelings in check. After all, he told himself, Mrs Connolly was hardly unique. It often seemed that his whole working life was spent watching adults so caught up in their own dramas that they ignored the needs of the children around them.

On the other hand, the inspector’s admiration for the reliable, stoical Ronald Connolly was increasing steadily. As he prepared to leave, he watched the old man sitting at the kitchen table with Rebecca. They were playing a numbers learning game called Ooky Spooky where the object was to get rid of all your cards. Carlyle remembered playing it with his daughter and recalled how Alice used to fly into a rage when she thought she was going to lose. He could tell the old man was trying to let the child win, without making it too obvious, just as he himself had done almost a decade ago.

From the doorway, Carlyle could see Rebecca’s cards. She had a terrible hand and would struggle to win, even if her opponent was deliberately trying to lose. He could only hope that she was a better loser than Alice had been at that age. ‘I will come back to see you tomorrow,’ he said to no one in particular.

The old man nodded, not looking up from his cards. ‘We’ll be fine. Have a good evening, Inspector.’

In the hallway, he passed Anna Connolly sitting on the stairs, staring into space.

‘I will let you know when we have any news,’ he told her.

Lost in thought, she didn’t seem to hear him.

He opened the front door to let himself out.

‘What you’ve got to realize, Inspector,’ she said softly, ‘is that there is only one person who could have possibly wanted Julian dead.’

Carlyle turned back to face her. ‘What?’

Anna Connolly’s eyes shone brightly now, as though she had finally come out of her stupor. ‘Only one person.’

Glancing down the hall, Carlyle stepped closer. He didn’t want the kid hearing this. ‘Who?’

‘Iris.’ The anger on Anna Connolly’s face melted into pure hatred. ‘His bitch of a wife.’

The day was almost done and Umar, close to home, cried off returning to Charing Cross, leaving the inspector to make the journey back to the station on his own. The Northern Line was its usual Third World self, leaving him plenty of time to ponder the merits of Iris Belekhsan. In murder cases, you always looked at the family first. Assuming that she wasn’t the kind of dentist who moonlighted as a professional killer
and
could be in two places at the same time, Iris clearly hadn’t pulled the trigger. On the other hand, she was the obvious person to have hired the hit man. From a purely practical point of view, Carlyle hoped that this was a domestic deluxe. Even with the crazy lawyer Abigail Slater trying to trip him up at every turn, he had no doubt that he would be able to make short work of tomorrow’s interview. The whole thing could be wrapped up before lunchtime, leaving him free to get on with all the other crap currently on his plate.

Turning onto Agar Street, Carlyle saw a small knot of reporters and television crews standing on the steps of the police station.

‘For God’s sake,’ he grumbled, ‘what now?’ Dropping his gaze to the pavement, he walked on.

‘Inspector Carlyle!’

Looking up, Carlyle blinked. His foot had hardly touched the first step and some Amazonian reporter was shoving a microphone in his face. Who was she? And, much more importantly, how did she know who he was?

Her bosom bounced dangerously close to his face, forcing the inspector to jump back onto the pavement. ‘What can you tell me about the arrest of Simon Collingwood?’ she squawked, raising an eyebrow in a manner that suggested there was a lot that could and should be said. Three TV cameras zoomed in on the inspector’s face as the rest of the media pack gathered round to hear his answer.

Who the hell was Simon Collingwood? Trying not to look like a frightened rabbit, Carlyle clamped his jaw shut and attempted to move past the woman.

Shuffling along the step, she refused to let him pass. ‘I just need a comment from you about the current state of the investigation,’ she insisted.

‘Has Mr Collingwood confessed?’ asked another woman.

Confessed to what? Carlyle wondered angrily.

‘Where are the other bodies?’

Why do these muppets know more about what’s going on than me?
Carlyle braced himself. Smile and keep walking – that’s what the Met’s media trainers taught you.

Thinking that she was finally going to get her soundbite, the Amazon smiled back. Her teeth were white and even, and she looked like a shark preparing for lunch. Exhaling, Carlyle ducked under the microphone and onto the steps. Once again, she tried to block his path, but this time he extended his right arm to fend her off. Placing the flat of his hand just below her neck, he gave a gentle shove.

‘Hey,’ the reporter cried as she dropped her microphone and fell backwards into the TV cameraman behind her. All around them, camera motors whirred as snappers caught the moment for posterity.

‘He hit me!’ Sitting down heavily on the step, the reporter fumbled for her microphone.

Not nearly hard enough
, Carlyle reflected. Keeping the rictus grin on his face, he pushed his way roughly through the remaining hacks until he was safely inside.

Approaching the front desk, the inspector’s fake smile was quickly replaced by a real one as he came across the reassuring figure of Angie Middleton. Busy scolding an errant Community Support Officer, the desk sergeant was oblivious to his approach. Carlyle waited until the unfortunate volunteer had taken his lecture and had scuttled off before catching her eye.

‘What’s that all about outside?’ he asked, gesturing back towards the front entrance.

Angie looked at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance that suggested he was next in line for a good telling-off. ‘Sergeant Savage is upstairs,’ she replied curtly. ‘He’s been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

Carlyle moved to check his mobile but thought better of it. All it would tell him was that he’d somehow managed to miss another half a dozen calls. Just how did he get to be so totally useless in the mobile communications department? It was one of life’s great mysteries.

‘Your phone’s no good if you don’t bloody answer it,’ Angie snapped. There was no malice in her voice. Both of them knew that he was a hopeless case.

‘You need to get some uniforms out there,’ he said grumpily, ‘to sort that lot out.’

‘You try getting those bloody PCSOs to get off their arses.’

No, thanks
, thought Carlyle as he stalked off to find Savage.

*   *   *

Lying back in the dentist’s chair, the man looked up at the LCD screen stuck to the ceiling directly above his head. On the BBC News Channel, a vacant-looking blonde presenter was talking about floods somewhere or other on the Indian sub-continent. God, wasn’t going to the dentist enough of a pain already? Couldn’t they choose something more fun to watch while you were stuck in the chair?

The door opened and he caught sight of a white coat out of the corner of his eye.

Iris Belekhsan stepped over to the chair, placed her hand on his crotch and gave him a gentle squeeze. That was one of the things he liked about Iris – she didn’t mess about.

Immediately he began to stiffen as his pulse ticked up.

‘We’ll have to be quick, George,’ she whispered, tugging at his zip. ‘My next patient is due in ten minutes.’

That
, he smiled to himself,
is not going to be a problem
. Undoing the button, he yanked at his trousers. ‘Aren’t you going to lock the door?’

‘That would take the edge off it, don’t you think?’ She stepped into his line of vision and opened her coat. The white blouse underneath was buttoned almost to the neck. Similarly, her pencil skirt fitted the
professional woman at work
look. But when she hitched it up to display her new Brazilian, he gasped in appreciation.

Climbing on to the chair, she slipped him inside her. He was disappointed to discover that she wasn’t wet, but her first thrust immediately ended any thoughts of pleasure other than his own.

After wiping herself, Iris Belekhsan dropped the tissues in a waste-bin and pulled a pair of fresh white panties out of the pocket of her coat. Stepping out of her pumps, she slipped on the knickers. In the corner, the intercom burbled into life.

‘
Your next patient is here
,
Doctor.
’

Stepping back into her shoes, Belekhsan looked up at the clock on the wall and buzzed the receptionist. ‘They’re early,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and get them in a minute.’

‘
Very good.
’

She watched as he packed himself away. He had that dreamy, self-satisfied look that all men get when they’ve shot their load and have all their short-term needs catered for. Men were so simple – cretins really. It crossed her mind, as it often did, that it would make more sense to be gay, or maybe just be a nun. She crossed to the bench to check the notes of her next patient.

‘The police will want to interview me about Julian,’ she said casually.

‘That’s inevitable. Don’t worry about it – they won’t have anything. The cops are hopeless. They’ll give up and the whole thing will be forgotten in a week or two.’ Zipping himself up, the man gave her a sheepish grin. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘See you later, George.’ She let him plant a kiss on her forehead.

‘I’ll give you a call,’ he called over his shoulder, before disappearing through the door.

Alone in the surgery, Belekhsan buzzed the receptionist again. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Show the next one in.’

Carlyle found his mood deteriorating sharply in the ten minutes or so it took him to find the sergeant. Far from being ‘upstairs’, as Middleton had suggested, a tour of the station finally located Savage in the basement, tucking into a plate of fish and chips in the canteen.

At least this gave the inspector the opportunity to get his hands on a king-sized Mars Bar. After handing over his cash to the guy at the till, Carlyle wandered over to Savage’s table and took a seat.

Pushing away his empty plate, Savage let out a satisfied burp. ‘Nice of you to turn up.’

Carlyle tore the wrapper off his bar and took a large bite, chewing quickly. ‘What’s all that bollocks upstairs?’ he asked, careful not to spit any bits of chocolate onto the table.

Savage lifted a cup to his lips and loudly slurped his tea. His gaze went past Carlyle to a couple of other sergeants who were walking past, their trays groaning with food.

One of them grinned at Savage. ‘Well done, Robbie.’

Savage’s smirk grew into a full-blown smile. ‘Thanks.’

Annoyed further by their love-in, Carlyle scowled. ‘Robbie?’

‘My nickname,’ Savage explained, placing his cup back on its saucer, ‘after the ex-footballer.’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘The gobby sod with the ponytail? Went on that dancing show. Used to play for United when he was a kid.’

‘Yeah.’ Savage eyed him coldly. ‘Although I don’t think he’s got the ponytail anymore.’ Carlyle wondered if Savage might be a United fan. The possibility was enough to have him slipping down Carlyle’s list of possible Umar replacements at a steady rate of knots. Supporting United was an extremely serious character flaw in the inspector’s book.

‘The journalists,’ the inspector repeated. ‘What are they chasing? There’s loads of them.’

‘Yeah.’ Savage’s face brightened again. ‘They found out about our axe murderer.’

Before I bloody did
, Carlyle thought angrily. ‘How?’

Savage shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

Carlyle did indeed. Most police officers would sell bits of information to journalists in the blink of an eye.

‘Lots of people would have known about it,’ Savage said, somewhat defensively. ‘We brought him in hours ago.’

‘So this guy . . .’

‘Simon Collingwood.’

‘Who is he? Some kind of celebrity?’

‘He’s a rugby player.’ Savage mentioned a team that played on the outskirts of London.

Carlyle made a face. As far as he was concerned, ‘sport’ meant football. Everything else was just pissing about, especially rugby, which was just a way for emotionally stunted middle-class boys to sublimate their homoerotic tendencies. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘And he was in the papers recently for going out with some bird from one of those talent shows on TV.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I get the picture.’ He took another bite of his Mars Bar. ‘How did you find him?’

‘A bloke walked up to me at the scene just after you left and gave me the name.’

Damn. Carlyle thought back to the conversation he’d had just before leaving the crime scene. He’d told the bloke to speak to Savage. He’d given it to him on a plate. What a total berk. Robbie’s collar meant Robbie’s glory.

‘Told me where I could find him, too.’