Sins of the Fathers (22 page)

Back behind the front desk at Bethnal Green, he was a sitting duck. A furious Gevorkyan berated him for not getting his man, much to the amusement of Carlyle’s passing colleagues. Standing behind his lawyer, Daniel Sands had looked on, the expression on his face growing increasingly bemused.

‘This is not justice!’ Gevorkyan thundered, a comedy Cockney accent at odds with his swarthy features.

Not looking at either man, Carlyle could only shrug. ‘It was a matter for the court. All I did was to serve the papers.’

Calming down slightly, Gevorkyan placed a meaty hand on his client’s shoulder, as if to stop him floating away on a current of despair. ‘I will never give up on this,’ he said solemnly. ‘Never.’

Gevorkyan had kept his promise. When he died – crashing a motorbike while on holiday in Greece – he was still working on the case.

And Daniel Sands? Carlyle realized that he didn’t know if the man was still alive. Six months after the Munich debacle, the distraught father had been arrested trying to buttonhole the German Ambassador at a charity event being held at the Café Royale on Regent Street. Shirley Bassey had been providing the entertainment. When the Ambassador, a nasty little man with a highly dubious CV, had blanked him, Sands made a grab for the microphone halfway through ‘Diamonds Are Forever’. For his trouble, he ended up with two broken fingers, a nasty cut under his right eye, a night in the cells at West End Central and a police caution. The story had merited two paragraphs in the
Evening Standard
. That was the last he had heard of the unfortunate man.

Firing up his computer, the inspector began searching one of the media databases used by the MET. A couple of minutes later he was fully up to speed with developments. Sands was still alive, still chasing Fassbender.

For his part, the German doctor was still a trouble-magnet.

Ten years after Lillian’s death, Fassbender had been accused of raping a fifteen-year-old girl in his surgery. At his trial, according to the press reports, he remarked: ‘
I would not say that she was particularly enthusiastic but I did
,
however
,
believe that she was consenting.
’

Found guilty in that case, Fassbender had received a three-year suspended sentence and was banned from practising medicine. He unsuccessfully appealed the decision twice.

The publicity that the case generated led to three other women coming forward to claim that he had also assaulted them as teenagers. None of those cases came to trial.

When he was finally imprisoned, it was for illegally practising as a doctor. After serving nine months in a German prison he retired to Italy. According to a couple of brief newspaper reports, Samantha Sands was still with him.

And now he was downstairs.

According to Middleton, Fassbender had been found chained to the railings outside the police station at 2 a.m. He had been beaten and was rambling and incoherent. The duty desk sergeant had decided to put him in a cell for his own safety.

‘What does the CCTV show?’

A pained expression crossed Middleton’s face. ‘It’s broken.’

‘Still?’ Carlyle made an effort to sound outraged.

‘Someone’s supposed to come take a look at it next week.’

‘That’s handy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Not your fault.’ Carlyle closed his eyes and began thinking it through.

How had Fassbender arrived downstairs?

That wasn’t too hard to guess.

How could an injured old man be chained to the railings of a police station without anyone noticing, never mind intervening?

Best not to dwell on that.

So what should he do next?

The original warrant had long since expired. That didn’t mean a new one couldn’t be issued. There was no statute of limitations on murder. Technically, Fassbender was still a wanted man.

Could they hold him?

Leaning across his desk, the inspector hit a few keys on his keyboard and watched as the phone number he required popped up online. Then he picked up the receiver and carefully punched it in.

The call was answered on the second ring. ‘Criminal Team.’ The voice on the other end of the line was young, female and harassed.

‘Nathalie Kelvin, please.’

‘I’ll just see if she’s around. Who’s calling, please?’

Carlyle identified himself and settled in for a long wait.

Nathalie Kelvin QC was the joint head of the Criminal Team at 48 Doughty Street Chambers, one of the top legal outfits in London. The Criminal Team comprised sixty-two dedicated specialist criminal practitioners, including twenty-two Queen’s Counsel. For more than thirty-five years they had represented defendants in some of the most difficult and demanding cases, appearing at every level of the domestic courts and in all of the international tribunals. The team combined substantial forensic expertise with specialist knowledge of every category of national and international crime, from terrorism and homicide to money laundering and sexual offences.

Kelvin herself had represented a broad range of high-profile clients, including internet activists accused of publishing US military secrets, and environmental protestors who exposed the illegal work of undercover police officers. Carlyle had first come across her when she had been a member of Paul Fassbender’s UK legal team. In the years that followed, he had watched her career take off with some interest.

After five or maybe six minutes, someone finally picked up the phone.

‘This is Nathalie Kelvin.’ The QC’s tone was even more brusque than that of her colleague.

Carlyle, who had been busy surfing football news online, almost dropped the handset. Recovering his poise, he patiently explained who he was for a second time.

‘What can I do for you?’ There was nothing in the woman’s voice that suggested she remembered him.

‘I am ringing about a Mr Paul Fassbender.’

There was a pause.

‘It was a case you were involved in a while ago,’ Carlyle offered. ‘He was a client.’

She recognized the crucial distinction in less than a heartbeat. ‘Past tense?’

‘Yes.’

‘What timeframe are we talking about?’

‘Something over twenty years ago.’

‘Inspector,’ Kelvin said crossly, ‘do you realize how many cases we handle here? I deal in the law, not ancient history.’

‘I know, but—’

She cut him off in mid-sentence. ‘How do you spell the surname?’

‘His? Or mine?’

‘Both.’

Carlyle duly obliged.

‘Let me check my records. What is your interest in Mr . . . Fassbender?’

‘He’s in one of my cells, downstairs.’

There was a pause that suggested the name was more familiar than Kelvin was letting on. ‘Has he asked for me?’

Carlyle adopted a relaxed tone. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet.’

Kelvin’s tone became even sharper. ‘It’s a bit premature to be ringing me then, don’t you think?’

‘I was—’

The line went dead and he sat there listening to the dial tone.

After a while, he returned the phone to its cradle, slowly got to his feet and allowed himself an extended stretch.

‘Well,’ he said aloud to himself, ‘I suppose it’s time to go and see the man himself.’

Listening to the retreating steps of the desk sergeant, Carlyle leaned against the cell wall while Fassbender eyed him warily. Sitting on his bed, with the remains of his breakfast at his feet, the old man was wearing a navy fleece and a pair of grey jogging pants. On his feet were a pair of box-fresh New Balance running shoes. His face was tired, grey and unshaven. His thin silver hair was in need of a comb. There was a cut on his left cheek and his right eye was puffed up. His dishevelled state made him hard to age but Carlyle assumed he was somewhere north of seventy.

‘Paul Fassbender?’

‘Who are you?’ The accent was harsh but the voice hardly wavered. ‘Why am I being kept here?’

‘Mr Fassbender—’

‘Dr Fassbender.’

Folding his arms, the inspector adopted his most official monotone: ‘You are wanted for questioning in connection with several serious alleged offences.’

The old man shook his head dismissively. ‘This is England.
I
am the victim here. I was abducted and violently assaulted.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘What does it look like? They kidnapped me. Brought me here from Italy.’

‘But how did they get you into the country?’

Fassbender scowled. ‘Why don’t you ask the people who did it?’

Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘There was a young guy. I’d never seen him before. He must have had help.’

‘Can you give me any more details?’

‘Pah!’ Fassbender dismissed the question with an angry hand. ‘They don’t matter. I know who put them up to it.
You
know who put them up to it.’ It was almost as if the words were choking him before he managed to spit them out. ‘You should have arrested the old fool already. Or do you not enforce the law in this country any more?’

‘If you want to make a complaint—’

‘I do. You can be sure of that.’

Nodding, Carlyle pushed himself off the wall. ‘Then it will, of course, be investigated thoroughly. However, I would also like to ask you a few questions.’

Fassbender stared at him with his good eye. ‘Am I under arrest?’

Carlyle trotted out the answer that he had rehearsed upstairs. ‘Not at this time, sir. But if you decline to speak to me I will have to review that situation.’ It was as far as he could go without laying himself open to a raft of potential charges himself, starting with wrongful arrest and false imprisonment.

For a moment, Fassbender contemplated the floor. Finally he looked up. ‘I want to speak to my wife.’

Carlyle nodded.

‘And get me my lawyer.’

Angie Middleton smiled at him as he appeared at the desk. ‘How did that go?’

‘Fine.’ Carlyle made a face. ‘He wants his lawyer.’

‘Fair enough.’ They both knew that only a total idiot would consent to helping the police with their enquiries without having their brief present. Whatever else he was, Fassbender was not stupid. Next to Middleton’s computer was a half-eaten jam doughnut sitting on a paper plate. Looking at it longingly, she dipped her right index finger into the sugar on the plate and lifted it to her mouth.

‘Part of the diet?’ Carlyle teased.

‘I told you,’ she said sharply, ‘I’m not on a diet, I’m on an exercise regime.’

‘Oh yes.’ Carlyle smiled benevolently, knowing that – whatever she called it – it wasn’t going to work.

Middleton licked the last few grains of sugar from her finger. ‘Want me to sort out the lawyer for your guy downstairs?’

Carlyle glanced at his watch. He would have to be ready to start any questioning as soon as the lawyer arrived; otherwise Fassbender would be out of that cell faster than Middleton could make her doughnut disappear. Once that happened, the only thing stopping the doctor heading straight back home would be his lack of a passport. Presumably, being the efficient bastards they were, the Geman Embassy could sort that out in a matter of hours.

He looked enquiringly at Middleton. ‘How long do you think we can realistically leave it?’

Now it was her turn to make a face. ‘A couple of hours, max. I certainly couldn’t go off shift without having sorted it.’

‘Okay. Give me two hours. I need to go out but I will be back by then. Let me know
immediately
if there’s a problem.’

‘Will do,’ Middleton said obediently. But she was looking at the doughnut, not at the inspector. Shaking his head, Carlyle headed for the door.

On his way out, the inspector popped into the gents. Standing at the urinal, he felt his phone start to vibrate in the breast pocket of his jacket. Fishing it out with his free hand, he hit the receive button.

‘Carlyle.’

Down the line came the sound of muffled sobs. In one of the stalls, a toilet flushed.

‘Hello?’

More sobs.

Jamming the handset between his shoulder and his ear, Carlyle gave his tool a quick shake and zipped himself back up. ‘It’s okay,’ he said quietly, ‘take your time. I said I would do what I can to help.’ Not stopping to wash his hands, he stepped out into the corridor.

The sobbing stopped.

‘Mrs Collingwood?’ The inspector was fairly sure he knew who he was talking to.

‘I have an address,’ she whispered.

‘Hold on.’ Carlyle fumbled in his pockets for a piece of paper and something to write with. To his relief, he came up with one of his own tattered business cards and a badly-chewed school pencil belonging to Alice. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

It was a house in a place he’d never heard of. Scribbling it down, he read it back to her but the line had already gone dead. Dropping the phone back into his pocket, he rushed for the exit, all thoughts of Paul Fassbender now gone.

The address he had been given was for a cottage on the edge of a village on the South Downs, a couple of hours’ drive from London. Carlyle quickly commandeered a Range Rover from the garage at Charing Cross and told the driver, a constable called Andy Grayson, where he wanted to go.

‘And put your foot down,’ the inspector barked.

‘Yeah right,’ said Grayson as he rolled out of the station and into traffic that was at a standstill. ‘There are roadworks all the way round Trafalgar Square and down Whitehall. It’s totally buggered.’

‘Great.’

Ten seconds ticked past. twenty. The lights along the road turned green. Still nobody moved. Some genius, three cars in front, was blaring rap music out of his stereo so loudly, it felt like the road itself was vibrating.

‘For God’s sake.’

Grayson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Want me to roll the sirens?’

Carlyle scratched at the back of his hand. Inappropriate use of sirens was frowned upon, if only because the practice was both widespread and the source of regular public complaint. To do it only five yards from the station was not smart. On the other hand, he was in a hurry.

‘Do it.’

‘Cool.’ Grinning, Andy cranked up the volume and wound down his window. He stuck his upper body out of the car and waved his arms around. ‘Get out the way, you berks.’