Sins of the Fathers (25 page)

This time tomorrow you might not be
, Carlyle mused,
if you’re stuck in a cell and Fassbender is sitting happily back at home
. ‘Who helped you on this?’ he asked. ‘I want to speak to your accomplices. Apart from anything else, they need to explain how they managed to smuggle Fassbender into the country.’

Sands lifted his head to reveal a sad smile. ‘I am sorry, Inspector. You will have to forgive me. I simply am not able to answer any of your questions on this occasion.’

‘Fine.’ The inspector pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Sands. ‘Brian Sutherland is a journalist on
The Times
. He knows about the case and is expecting your call. Whatever happens with your legal fight, I think you’ll have to argue your case in the court of public opinion.’ He patted the old man on the arm. ‘Thanks for the tea. I need to get going.’

Sands showed him out.

‘Someone will be round to see you tomorrow,’ said Carlyle, opening the door.

‘Thank you.’

What could you possibly be thanking me for?
Standing on the doorstep, the inspector waited for his eyes to adjust to the light.

Sands hovered on the doorstep. ‘I just wondered . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘What would you do? In my situation, I mean.’

Carlyle turned to the old man and frowned. ‘It’s impossible to know that. I cannot begin to imagine—’

‘Your best guess,’ Sands interrupted politely, ‘based on what you know. If you found yourself being tested like this, how do you think you might react?’

‘My best guess,’ the inspector smiled wearily, ‘is that I honestly don’t know.’

On the way home, Carlyle stopped off at Jubilee Hall for a workout. He tried to make up for his lack of diligence in the exercise department by putting in a brutal half an hour on a cross-trainer, driven by a concentrated blast of Stiff Little Fingers’ new album on his iPod.

Pleasantly surprised not to have incurred a cardiac arrest, Carlyle finished his session and took a long, hot shower. On the way out, feeling shattered but virtuous, he nodded at a famous actor who was sitting at a table in the café and tried not to gawp as he passed the studio where a belly-dancing class was in full swing. Approaching the exit, he took out his work phone and called Umar.

‘Hey,’ his sergeant said cheerily. ‘I hear that you’ve been having fun in the sticks.’

Carlyle grunted. ‘I’ve already had Simpson on.’ Pushing his way through the turnstile, he nodded at the girl behind the reception desk and started down the stairs to the exit, careful not to trip over his feet as he did so. ‘She was relatively sanguine by her standards.’

‘I think she’s got other things to worry about than you,’ Umar commented. ‘The word is that she’s dumped Mottram. The wedding’s off.’

‘Makes sense,’ Carlyle observed. ‘A bloke like that, with all that cash, is always going to play away.’ Pushing through the front door of the gym he stepped onto the Piazza. It was almost 10 p.m. but there were still plenty of tourists milling about, and a busker outside the Transport Museum who was busy murdering Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’ had attracted a half-decent crowd. The inspector immediately executed a 180-degree turn, nipping down an alley to get away from the racket. Turning east on Tavistock Street, he belatedly remembered his conversation with his wife about Umar’s upcoming nuptials. ‘Oh, by the way, Helen is very excited about
your
wedding. We are looking forward to it.’

‘Great,’ Umar replied, but there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice that made Carlyle wonder if he’d found someone else to do the honours. There was just no pleasing some people. ‘Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Julian Schaeffer.’

‘Yeah?’ Carlyle’s stomach rumbled and he wondered what he would find in the fridge at home. Maybe he should pick up a pizza on Drury Lane. Or some filled pasta.

‘We’re not making much progress, I’m afraid.’

Big surprise, Carlyle thought glumly. It was a thoroughly professional hit. Professionals, as a rule, don’t get caught.

‘So I’ve decided to re-interview all of Iris Belekhsan’s work colleagues tomorrow,’ Umar continued, ‘and I was hoping you would come along, to see what you make of them.’

A trip to the dentist’s. Great. Crossing Bow Street, Carlyle decided against the pizza. ‘What time?’

‘Ten.’

‘Okay.’ He should be done with Fassbender by then – assuming the guy actually turned up. ‘Where is it?’ Umar gave him an address just off Wigmore Street, near Oxford Circus. ‘Fine. I’ll see you there.’

In the fridge at home he found enough smoked cheese to make a sandwich and enough orange juice to half-fill a tumbler. He was enjoying his feast when Helen appeared in the kitchen.

‘I’ve booked you in to see Father Maciuszek at ten thirty tomorrow,’ she said by way of introduction, ‘at the church.’

‘What?’ Carlyle dropped the last of the sandwich into his mouth, chewing carefully before swallowing.

Leaning against the frame of the door, his wife folded her arms. ‘He’s the priest.’

‘That doesn’t work for me,’ he snapped, cutting her off. ‘Tomorrow is a total nightmare.’

‘For Christ’s sake, John.’ Helen took a step forward, looking like she wanted to thump him. ‘Your mother is due to be buried in three days and you haven’t even phoned him.’

Three days? Urgh. He was completely losing track of time. Still hungry, he wondered what else he might find to eat.

‘I explained to Father Maciuszek that you are a policeman. He understands that things are really busy but this has to come first.’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Now was clearly not the time to argue.

Helen looked at him suspiciously. ‘So you’ll go? It should only take a half an hour.’

Plus the best part of an hour to get there and another hour to get back
, he thought sourly.
My day will be totally ruined.
Opening a cupboard, he found a packet of Jaffa Cakes. Lifting it off the shelf, he gave it a shake. Plenty inside. He smiled.

The Lord may taketh, but the Lord giveth as well.

‘He just needs some background about your mum,’ Helen continued, ‘some bits and pieces he can use in the service.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle stuffed a Jaffa Cake into his mouth, whole. Couldn’t his dad do this? Maybe the old bugger was still off somewhere trying to get laid. He grinned at the thought.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ A piece of Jaffa Cake flew out of his mouth and landed on the floor.

Helen gave him a disapproving look.

‘Sorry.’ Bending down, he picked it up and stuck it back in his mouth.

‘John.’

Grinning, he stepped over and gave her a quick cuddle, promising, ‘I’ll see the guy tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ Happy again, she turned back down the hall. ‘I’m going to watch the news. A cup of white tea would be nice. And don’t forget to take the bag out.’

The clock by the bed said 6.19. Snoring gently, Helen pulled the duvet over her head when he kissed her on the cheek. Yawning, Carlyle slipped out of the flat and headed for the station.

It had rained heavily during the night, washing the streets. There was an invigorating chill in the air that helped further improve the inspector’s mood. Walking through the Piazza, he felt that he was seeing the city at its best. Dropping on to the Strand, he managed to arrive at Eat – one of the many café chains that covered London – just as they were opening up for the day. Ten minutes later, he stepped through the front doors at Charing Cross, flat white and brioche in hand, to be confronted by a weary-looking Naohiro Ninomiya.

Pushing himself off the bench, the man extended a hand. ‘Inspector Carlyle.’

Carefully grasping the brioche and the coffee in his left hand, Carlyle shook his hand. ‘Mr Ninomiya.’ He gestured at the clock on the wall with his chin. ‘It’s a bit early.’

The place was empty and silent as the grave but still Ninomiya looked around nervously. ‘I wanted to apologize for the other night,’ he said in a voice so low the inspector had to strain to catch it. ‘I hope your father is all right.’

Now it was Carlyle’s turn to look around furtively. The last thing he needed was his father’s peccadillos being broadcast around his workplace. He took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the bitter taste on his tongue. ‘There is nothing to apologize for,’ he said, smiling kindly. ‘The matter has been dealt with. I don’t want you to worry about it.’

Ninomiya nodded but still seemed far from reassured. Carlyle gestured for him to sit back down and joined him on the bench. Placing the cup beside him, he opened up the brioche and offered a bite to the Japanese. Ninomiya shook his head.

‘No, thank you.’

Good answer
, thought Carlyle cheerily as he took a hearty bite. He let Ninomiya watch him eat for a few moments before asking, ‘Have you seen Miki yet?’

‘Not yet. We are having breakfast in . . .’ Ninomiya glanced at his expensive watch, ‘just over three hours.’

That sounded about right, Carlyle thought as he finished off the brioche. Ms Kasaba didn’t strike him as an early riser. The thought of the nubile Miki happily snuggling in her double bed popped into his brain and he pushed it firmly away. Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, he balled up the rubbish and deposited it next to the cup. ‘I met with a friend of Miki’s,’ he said, thinking carefully about his words. ‘It was a useful conversation which may help me find out some more things about your daughter.’

‘Do you think . . .’

Carlyle placed a hand lightly on Naohiro Ninomiya’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think anything. One conversation leads to another and we may end up with something, we may not.’

Ninomiya stared at his shoes. ‘Should the original investigating officer not have discovered this . . . person?’

Quite possibly, Carlyle thought. Inspector Watkins and Sergeant Savage were sinking in his estimation faster than the bloody
Titanic
after it hit the iceberg. Lifting his cup, he sucked every last drop of coffee from inside. ‘As far as I can see, the initial investigation was done properly. In accordance with all relevant protocols. It is not uncommon for other things to come up at a later stage. Anyway, I still need to make a few more enquiries.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘I don’t know, a couple of days, maybe a little longer.’

Ninomiya scratched his head. ‘I was thinking of going home.’

Carlyle got to his feet. He had a nice caffeine buzz going. Another coffee – not to mention another brioche – was in order. ‘Given that you’re here, I would suggest holding on for a few more days. Talk to Miki and I will see what I can do today. We will talk again and take a view on what else can be done.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ Ninomiya stood up and once again offered his hand. ‘I am very grateful for your assistance.’

‘It is nothing.’ Carlyle gently ushered him towards the door. ‘Just do me one favour?’

‘What?’

‘Stay away from the hookers.’

The second coffee was good, if not quite so good as the first. There was no such problem with the brioche. Feeling happily full, if a little guilty, the inspector trotted up the stairs and headed into the station to start his day for the second time that morning.

‘I am looking for an inspector called . . . Carlyle.’

Approaching the desk, he saw a tall, grey-haired man hovering over Joe Rowan at the front desk.

I’m Mr Popular this morning
, the inspector observed unhappily as he took a step forward, saying, ‘I’m Carlyle.’

The man turned and jabbed him in the chest with a rolled-up copy of
The Times.
‘And I suppose you had nothing to do with this?’

Resisting the temptation to arrest him on the spot, Carlyle took the man’s paper. Opening it up, he had to keep a straight face. Brian Sutherland might have only managed two hundred and fifty words – rather than the five hundred promised – but he had got them on the front page. With a photo of Fassbender, the 20-point headline read:
SEX CRIME FUGITIVE DUMPED OUTSIDE POLICE STATION.
‘Sex crime fugitive’ – Sands would doubtless like that. After scanning the story, he folded the paper up and tossed it back to his accuser. ‘And who are you?’

The man seemed vaguely offended not to be recognized. He stuffed
The Times
into the side pocket of a briefcase overflowing with papers. ‘Sidney Hardy. I’m Paul Fassbender’s lawyer.’

Carlyle looked around. ‘So where is your client?’

Hardy was clearly intent on working himself up into a state of high dudgeon. ‘As you well know,’ he spluttered, ‘there is no requirement for Mr Fassbender to present himself to the police at this time. He is not suspected of any crime. In fact, he is the victim here.’

Carlyle could have taken issue with any of the lawyer’s points. Instead, he let them slide. ‘Our investigations are continuing,’ he said evenly. ‘If your client is not here at the appointed hour I will make an application for a warrant for his arrest.’

‘Which you won’t get,’ Hardy snorted.

‘We’ll see.’ Carlyle shrugged.

‘You’d better be careful, Carlyle.’ The lawyer poked a gnarled index finger towards the inspector’s face.

Rowan looked on, curious as to how his colleague would react.

‘You are encouraging a sad, delusional old man to play the role of vigilante,’ the lawyer continued. ‘You’re condoning home invasion, assault, false imprisonment, kidnapping and malicious prosecution. You might even be considered an accessory after the event.’

Looking past Hardy’s left shoulder, Carlyle caught Rowan’s eye. ‘Looks like I’m going to need that warrant.’

Rowan picked up the phone. ‘Shall I get hold of de Castella?’ Judge Evan de Castella was the first port of call whenever anyone at Charing Cross needed a warrant in double-quick time. User-friendly, he was always available – the kind of guy who gave the legal profession a good name.

Unlike Mr Hardy.

‘Thanks.’

‘There are journalists camped outside the German Embassy,’ Hardy said coldly. ‘This is further harassment of my client. If you delay Mr Fassbender’s return to Italy by as much as one minute, I can guarantee, at the very least, that we will launch a civil action.’