Sins of the Fathers (26 page)

Rowan dialled a number and began speaking, sotto voce, into the receiver.

‘There is no need for all this hostility.’ Carlyle gestured at his watch. ‘Your client still has time to make his appointment.’

‘You are incredible.’ Grabbing his bag, Hardy pushed away from the desk, heading for the door.

‘So I’m told,’ Carlyle laughed.

Hitting the lock release mechanism, Hardy turned and gave the Inspector one final glare. ‘Given that you like to play games with the media, you should also know that if you drag Nathalie Kelvin’s name into this, she will make it her mission to have your job.’

I’ve never heard that threat before.
Carlyle wondered about the connection between Hardy and Kelvin. Maybe they worked together.

‘Inspector,’ He looked over to see Rowan offering him the handset. ‘I’ve got the judge on the phone.’

Resisting the temptation to give Hardy a smack, Carlyle turned to take the call.

After finally escaping the station, the inspector headed west. Arriving early for his appointment at St Wulstan’s, he took up a seat on a bench under a listing oak tree outside the church. Thinking about his mother, he considered what he might say to the priest. The sun was shining and the small courtyard provided an oasis of calm that seemed, somehow, to keep even the relentless hum of the city traffic at bay. If it hadn’t been for the fact that his phone started ringing, the place would have been perfect. The caller ID told him that it was Umar. With some reluctance, he answered it just before it went to voicemail.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where are you?’ the sergeant asked.

‘Sorry, something came up.’

‘But I’m here at the Wimpole Dental Surgery with a dozen people to interview,’ Umar whined. ‘I wanted you to check them out.’

Stop moaning. It’s not like I’m trying to muck you about.
Carlyle said, ‘I know. Look, I should be able to make it over there in an hour or so. Get started and I’ll join you as soon as I can.’

‘Okay.’ Umar sounded like a sulky teenager, which made the inspector smile.

‘Is Belekhsan there?’ he asked.

‘No. Funnily enough, she isn’t coming in today.’

‘Big surprise,’ Carlyle grunted. He wondered if he should give Abigail Slater a call, if only to yank her chain. Maybe later. ‘See you later.’ Ending the call, he pulled up another number. Before he could hit call, however, he was conscious of someone coming towards him. Putting the phone away, he looked up.

‘Mr Carlyle?’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. Not many people called him ‘mister’. Nodding, he got to his feet, extending his hand.

‘I am Father Maciuszek.’ The fresh-faced young man had a firm handshake and an easy smile. With curly brown hair, brown eyes and a dimple on his chin, he looked about sixteen but presumably was somewhere in his mid-twenties. In his free hand was a small spiral notebook and a red pencil. He gestured for the inspector to sit back down. ‘My condolences for your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ Carlyle mumbled.

The priest sat down beside him. ‘I have spoken to Alexander and to Helen,’ he said, his voice betraying only the slightest hint of an accent. ‘They tell me that . . . erm . . .’

It took Carlyle a moment to realize that the priest couldn’t recall his mother’s first name.

‘Lorna.’

‘Yes.’ Father Maciuszek smiled apologetically. ‘They told me that Lorna was a good woman.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she a practising Catholic?’

‘To be honest,’ Carlyle replied, clearing his throat, ‘well, obviously, I haven’t lived with my parents for a long time, so . . .’

The young priest touched him gently on the arm with long, feminine fingers. ‘But she was a good woman.’

Meaningless platitudes. ‘Yes.’

‘When I get up to speak about her . . .’

Carlyle launched into his spiel. ‘I would simply say that she came from Scotland to London to work hard and try to make a better life for her family. Back in the 1950s, that was a big deal. These days, you would hardly think about it but then, there was a lot of pressure to stay put. I don’t think that the rest of the family in Scotland were very happy about the move. Especially her own mother. But that’s the way she was, a woman capable of taking – er – difficult decisions.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the priest nodded enthusiastically, making notes in his notebook. ‘That’s good.’

‘She and my father were together for a long time.’ Carlyle wondered if Alexander had mentioned the divorce; probably not. He ploughed on, listing a few randomly chosen facts – jobs, hobbies, friends. Not much of a life really but without it, he wouldn’t exist. Running out of things to say, he came to an abrupt halt.

Father Maciuszek looked at him expectantly for a moment or two before closing his notebook and shoving it into his pocket. ‘That was very helpful. Thank you.’

‘Good.’ Glad it was over, Carlyle quickly got to his feet.

Smiling, the priest got up. ‘I will see you before the service.’

‘Yes.’

‘In the meantime, I hope that your father is bearing up.’

‘He is bearing up well, thank you,’ Carlyle replied stiffly.

‘Good. He should know that he can call on me at any time, should he need to talk.’

‘Thank you.’ Carlyle began shuffling back towards the real world. ‘I will let him know.’

Heading back into Covent Garden, it would have been quicker to take the tube. However, the inspector didn’t feel like going underground, happy instead to sit at the back of a number 19 bus as it made its way through an infinite set of roadworks towards the West End. Stuck in a traffic jam on the King’s Road, he called Brian Sutherland at
The Times
.

‘I saw it made the front page,’ said Carlyle after Sutherland had picked up the phone.

The Crime Editor grunted in a manner suggesting that old news was of no particular interest to him.

‘Any developments?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I’ve spoken to Sands. Is he going to get arrested?’

‘Dunno.’

‘It would be helpful if you could find out.’

Carlyle sighed – once you feed the beast, it always comes back for more. He told Sutherland: ‘Fassbender didn’t turn up to the station this morning. He’s refusing to co-operate with our investigation.’

‘That’s a surprise.’ Sutherland laughed shortly. ‘I’ve had his lawyer on threatening me with all sorts.’

‘Sidney Hardy? He’s a twat.’

‘He’s a lawyer. Anyway, I’ve got a snapper down at the German Embassy to see if Fassbender turns up. No sign of him yet.’

‘He’ll need to go there sooner or later to get his passport.’

‘You would have thought so,’ Sutherland replied. ‘But he seems more scared of us than he is of you.’

‘Most people are.’

There was the sound of voices in the background. ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ the journalist said.

‘Just one thing,’ Carlyle added hastily. ‘Ask Hardy what his connection is with Nathalie Kelvin QC.’

There was a pause while Sutherland placed the name. ‘Kelvin’s a heavy hitter,’ he said finally. ‘What’s she got to do with all of this?’

‘She was on Fassbender’s legal team when he originally got off. She doesn’t want anyone making the connection.’

‘Interesting. I’ll see what I can find out.’ Sutherland ended the call and Carlyle looked up. The bus had moved less than ten yards during the course of his conversation. No skin off his nose. Given that he was going to the dentist, he was in no particular hurry.

The Wigmore Dental Surgery occupied the ground floor of a new glass and steel development two blocks north of the John Lewis department store on Oxford Street. It was bright, clean and friendly and stocked the biggest range of toothbrushes that Carlyle had ever seen in his life. Next to the reception desk was a waiting area for patients which was dominated by a large aquarium running the length of the back wall. Off to the left, a corridor led to a number of treatment rooms. Carlyle listened carefully for the sound of drilling but none was forthcoming. Somewhat disappointed, he gave his full attention to the fish.

‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ The inspector turned to face a petite blonde woman with a healthy tan and sparkling blue eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing a crisp white smock and white trousers. A name tag attached to the smock told him that her name was Celina Morrow-Jones.

‘Huh?’

‘The fish.’

‘Ah, yes.’

She pointed at a yellow fish with black spots. ‘This one is a Dwarf Puffer.’ There was a trace of a foreign accent but he couldn’t place it. ‘They come from Kerala in India.’

‘I see.’ His interest in things aquatic more than sated, the inspector moved away from the tank. ‘I’m—’

‘I know,’ she said cheerily, pointing down the hall. ‘Your colleague is in the blue room.’

‘The blue room?’

‘Third door on the left. Follow me.’

‘Thanks.’

Stepping into the consulting room, he was surprised to see Umar sitting in the dentist’s chair with a paper bib under his chin and a sheepish look on his face.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

The sergeant finished gurgling with mouthwash and spat it into the bowl attached to the arm of the chair.

‘Sergeant Sligo was overdue a clean,’ Celina explained cheerily, ‘especially as he has his wedding coming up.’

Carlyle shot Umar a disgusted look. ‘Nice to see you two have been getting acquainted,’ he said grumpily.

Celina stepped over to a workbench behind the chair and picked up a small dish containing a pile of what looked like orange mud. ‘He just needs a polish and then he’ll be done.’

Christ
, thought Carlyle,
if Simpson could see us now
.

Umar pointed at a pile of papers on a chair in the corner. ‘Take a look at those. I’ll be out in a minute.’ A terrible whirring noise filled up the room as Celina advanced on Umar’s open mouth. Grabbing the papers, Carlyle beat a hasty retreat.

It took him little more than five minutes to scan through the information that Umar had gathered. It basically consisted of two lists: one was the detailed information of the people who worked at the surgery – names, contact details, work history, National Insurance numbers; the other contained simply the names of each patient, with a set of initials next to each, which presumably denoted whose patient they were. Focusing on those with ‘IB’ next to their name, the inspector went up and down the list a couple of times. Nothing jumped out at him, so he went back to staring at the fish. After about thirty seconds, he grew bored with that, so he started up a game of Word Mole on his BlackBerry. He had reached Level 14, with a score of 1,523 when Umar finally reappeared, flashing his new, improved smile.

‘Save it for the ladies,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’

Repairing to Bar Remo on Princes Street, Carlyle ordered Pasta Napolitana and a bottle of sparkling mineral water.

After much deliberation, Umar went for egg and chips and a cup of tea. He watched the waitress shuffle off and turned to his boss. ‘Can you cover lunch? Celina wiped me out. The clean and polish cost me £115.’

‘It’s an expensive business.’ Carlyle tried to think back to the last time he had been to visit his dentist. It had to be a couple of years, easily. The thought of having someone root about in your mouth and then paying through the nose for the privilege was just too much to bear. He tapped the pile of papers that were sitting on the table. ‘How did you get this?’

Umar made a face. ‘We’re not supposed to have them. Patient confidentiality and all that. Celina printed them off for me as a favour.’

‘Nice girl.’

Umar grinned. ‘Yeah.’

‘Shame you’re getting married. Pretty girls will just have to pass you by from now on.’

‘Hm.’ The waitress arrived with their drinks. Umar sipped his tea and contemplated his fate.

Carlyle poured some water into a glass and gulped it down. ‘Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be much here.’

‘In the end, I got to speak to eight of the staff. Three of them told me that Iris Belekhsan’s new boyfriend was one of her patients.’

‘I thought we knew that already.’

Umar shrugged.

Carlyle flipped back through the lists. ‘Which one? There are about two hundred names here.’

‘A guy called George McQuarrie.’

‘M, M, M . . .’ Carlyle ran his finger up and down the list until he found him. G.W.P. McQuarrie. The inspector stared at the name for several seconds.

George William Peter McQuarrie.

Well, well, well.

At last, they could be on to something. The inspector sighed happily as the waitress placed Umar’s plate of food in front of him. The sergeant hesitated, waiting for his boss’s food to arrive, but Carlyle signalled for him to get on with it. ‘Dig in, smiler,’ he grinned. ‘You’ve got a busy afternoon ahead of you.’

Ivor Jenkinson bent forward and squinted at the video playing in a small window in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Shot in night vision it was green and grainy, but he could still make out what was going on. Just about. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘Yeah.’ Sitting in front of his computer, Joe Donnelly let out a small, embarrassed laugh. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, Donnelly turned to face his boss. ‘That guy: is he really shagging that donkey?’

Now it was Ivor’s turn to laugh nervously. You saw a lot of weird stuff on the internet but there were some things that could still make you squirm, especially if you watched them with your staff. ‘Is there any sound?’

‘Nah.’ Donnelly scratched his left nipple under the Jesus and Mary Chain T-shirt he was wearing. ‘They reckon this was shot by American Special Forces on patrol in Iraq or something.’

Ivor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Amazing.’

Joe pointed at the screen. ‘The donkey looks a bit bored, to be honest.’

Sam Gilzean appeared at Joe’s other shoulder to see what all the excitement was about. She had arrived for work an hour late this morning – looking seriously hungover to boot – but had clearly decided to brazen it out. ‘What kind of donkey is it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Is it male or female?’

‘Dunno.’ Joe contemplated the question. ‘Why?’