Sins of the Fathers (33 page)

‘The usual.’

The news moved on to a report about a games console launch. Helen shot him a look that said,
Is that it?
Normally, Carlyle was quite keen to discuss his cases with his wife – she was insightful and he valued her advice. But occasionally, when things got too much, he tended to clam up. Not good. He knew he should force himself to outline at least one of the problem cases he was currently facing. But which one?

‘The thing with the kid isn’t getting any better.’ Draping his feet over the end of the sofa, Carlyle dropped his head into her lap. Pulling off his glasses, he glanced at the blur of the TV screen. It was impossible to make out what was going on. He liked it better that way. ‘It’s a total mess.’ Helen listened intently, gently stroking his hair, while he explained his unsuccessful attempts to insulate Rebecca Schaeffer from the mess that her parents had created. ‘The frustrating thing is that I can see exactly how it’s going to play out but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘You just don’t have any leverage.’

‘I know, but—’

‘So you’ll just have to wait and see what happens.’ Helen leaned over and tenderly kissed him on the crown of his head. ‘Maybe the mother had nothing to do with it.’

‘Right.’ Carlyle snorted.

‘If she’s a successful dentist,’ Helen went on, ‘it doesn’t sound as if she needs the money.’

Better double-check that
, Carlyle thought. He’d never heard of a dentist who wasn’t rolling in cash – why else would you spend your whole life looking in other people’s mouths? But you never knew. ‘Maybe. Whatever. She and the boyfriend are the only suspects we’ve got.’

Helen resumed stroking his hair. ‘And what’s the boyfriend like?’

‘He’s a right thug.’ He explained about George McQuarrie resisting arrest and his ruck with the two sergeants.

‘Poor Umar. Will he be okay for the wedding?’

Carlyle let his eyelids droop. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘What should we get them for a present?’

‘God. I’ve no idea. What do you think?’

‘Why don’t you speak to him about it? There are always things you need when you’re first starting out.’

‘I suppose,’ Carlyle conceded. ‘They’ve been living together for a while, though.’

‘Even so.’

‘I’ll ask him. You know, I had a funny thought today.’

Helen stopped stroking his hair. ‘Oh yes?’

Hearing the wariness in her tone, Carlyle hesitated. But it was too late to go back now. ‘I wondered if we should think about leaving London.’

She pushed him up. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘It was just a thought; I wasn’t—’

Helen jumped to her feet, an annoyed look on her face. ‘What the hell would we do out,’ she waved her arm in the direction of the window, ‘out
there
?’

‘It was just a—’

‘Don’t mention this to Alice, she’d have a fit.’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘For God’s sake, John,’ she huffed, heading for the door, ‘you really do come out with some really stupid stuff sometimes.’

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Carlyle lay back on the sofa, wondering if he should put his glasses back on. After a while, he decided against it.

‘Helen was wondering – what should we get you for a wedding present?’

Stuffing the remains of a croissant into his mouth, Umar chewed for a regulation six, seven, eight seconds before swallowing. Washing it down with a mouthful of coffee, he let out a satisfied sigh.

‘Any thoughts?’ Carlyle persisted.

‘I dunno, really. Maybe I should talk to Christina.’

Christ, how complicated could it be? ‘Why don’t you email me her mobile number and I’ll get Helen to speak to her direct?’

‘Good idea.’

‘Is everything sorted?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Umar recited the time and the place. ‘All you guys have to do is turn up. We’ll do the ceremony and then grab some lunch.’

‘Sounds good.’ Taking a sip of his espresso, Carlyle gave his sergeant the once-over. In the gloom, he looked fine. The bruising had already gone down quite a bit. There shouldn’t be a problem on the big day. Even if there was, presumably he could be Photoshopped back into shape.

They were sitting in a cramped booth at the back of the Monmouth Coffee House, just off Seven Dials in the north-west corner of Covent Garden. Carlyle scanned the room, watching a single barista expertly work the trio of red Gaggia Deco machines lined up against the back wall. Feeling the caffeine begin to kick in, he tried to summon up his usual enthusiasm for London life. He feared he would fail – and then he caught the eye of a devastatingly pretty Asian girl, tall and dark, with her shoulder-length black hair swept back into a ponytail. Under a cream mac, with a large black patent-leather handbag slung over the left shoulder, she wore a charcoal-grey business suit and cream blouse, buttoned at the neck. Her heels clacked loudly on the wooden floor, demanding attention. The inspector was not the only man in the place who had clocked her, but he alone had her eye as she made her way towards them.

Maybe London wasn’t so bad, after all.

The look on the woman’s face hardened as she approached their table. Before he could turn to see what the boss was gawping at, Sergeant Umar Sligo felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Umar?’

Looking up, he jerked away from the woman, spilling coffee all over the table. Carlyle began taking remedial action with a stack of napkins.

‘They told me I might find you here,’ the woman continued, pulling up a stool and plonking herself down on it. She had a clear Manchester accent. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over the place.’ Carlyle tried not to appear too interested as he finished mopping up the coffee.

‘Niamh,’ Umar stumbled.

Niamh?

‘This is my boss, Inspector John Carlyle.’

Niamh looked Carlyle up and down. She couldn’t have looked any less impressed if he’d just dropped his trousers. ‘Whatever.’

Trying not to look too apologetic for his existence, Carlyle dumped some sodden napkins on the table and offered a hand. He held it in mid-air for a few seconds until it was clear that she was not going to shake it.

‘This,’ Umar gestured, somewhat embarrassed, ‘is Niamh, my sister.’

A sister, eh? Carlyle edged forward on his seat, wondering if some of his sergeant’s mysterious backstory was about to be revealed. He looked at the woman. ‘Niamh Sligo?’

‘Niamh Grieg, actually.’ She waved a finger at the inspector to show her wedding band. ‘I got married, unlike some people.’

Carlyle turned to Umar, who looked about as comfortable as an endoscopy patient, mid-procedure. The inspector was torn between politeness and curiosity.

As if reading his mind, Niamh Grieg,
née
Sligo, glared at him. ‘I need to talk to my brother.’ It struck Carlyle that she was not one of those women who looked good angry. Indeed, his perception of her attractiveness had plummeted from the moment she had opened her mouth. Despite all his better judgement, he actually found himself feeling sorry for Umar. Sucking the last dregs from his espresso, he returned the demitasse to its saucer. ‘We’re actually on duty at the moment,’ he said smugly.

‘What?’ Niamh glanced around. ‘In here? You’re just having a coffee.’

Umar stared at the floor, in traditional
I wish the ground would swallow me up
pose. Leaning across the table, Carlyle tried not to grin as he said quietly, ‘We’re undercover.’ Still looking down, Umar half-stifled a laugh.

Screwing up her face, Niamh managed to make herself look even less attractive. It was one of the most remarkable transformations Carlyle had ever seen. ‘Bollocks!’ she snapped. ‘You’re just bunking off.’

Carlyle quickly scanned the room. At the table by the door, less than twenty feet away, a pair of white-haired grannies were sitting nattering away in a foreign language over their guidebooks.

‘See those two by the door?’ he whispered.

Niamh followed his gaze. ‘Yeah.’

‘Suspected people traffickers.’

Umar coughed.

‘No way.’ Niamh looked more than doubtful. ‘They’re just two old ladies.’

Carlyle scoffed. ‘It’s a great disguise, don’t you think? They bring in young girls from . . . er . . . Romania, promise them visas, jobs, working in places like this and then make them turn tricks.’
Turn tricks
– a crass Americanism. He stole a glance at Umar who was now gripping the table tightly, looking like he was about to piss himself.
Breathe, boy, breathe
. ‘We’ve been trailing them for over a year now. So far, this is as close as we’ve ever got.’

Umar composed himself enough to chime in, ‘It’s true.’

‘If we lose them,’ Carlyle continued, unable to resist gilding the lily, ‘we’ll be in deep trouble. Thousands of man hours have gone into this investigation.’

Clearly unconvinced, Niamh looked from sergeant to inspector and back again. ‘So,’ she said finally, ‘should I go?’

A wave of relief passed over Umar’s face. ‘Yes.’

But Carlyle hissed to the girl before she could get up: ‘No,
no
. Stay put, for God’s sake. Don’t draw attention to us.’ Umar shot him a dirty look but he ignored it. ‘Keep talking to your brother. What did you want to ask him about?’

Niamh returned her gaze to her brother and the matter in hand. ‘Sandra wants to know what’s going on.’

She’s not the only one
, Carlyle thought. He made a show of staring at the grannies, who were now consulting a copy of
Time Out
.

‘How many times?’ Umar complained. ‘I’ve told her what’s going on.’

‘Well,’ Niamh replied, ‘she doesn’t think that you’ve told her anything.’

‘And you came all the way down here to tell me that?’

‘Tony is down here for a conference. I tagged along.’

Umar looked at the inspector, who kept his own counsel. By the door, the grannies were packing up their books and getting ready to leave.

Niamh followed Carlyle’s gaze. ‘Don’t you have to follow them?’

‘Nah.’ Carlyle watched one of the old ladies wave to the barista as they walked out. ‘The team outside will do that.’

‘Anyway,’ Niamh continued, ‘Sandra still thinks that you and she are getting married.’

‘You what?’

‘So do Mum and Dad.’ Eyes blazing, the bearer of bad news seemed to be rather enjoying her brother’s discomfort.

‘But I’ve told her a million times . . .’

‘Well, Umar,’ she patted his hand patronizingly, ‘she obviously hasn’t got the message. She’s coming round for dinner with Mum and Dad and Tony and me on Saturday night – maybe you should come up and sort it out.’ Getting to her feet, she swung her bag over her shoulder, nearly knocking the head off the guy sitting at the next table. ‘Anyway, I’ve done my bit. Now I can get on with my shopping.’ She shot Carlyle a withering look. ‘And
you
can get back to your white slavery ring or whatever it is.’

Niamh Sligo walked out of the door of the Coffee House, hesitated and then turned left, no doubt heading for the consumerist delights of the West End. Letting out a long breath, Carlyle counted to ten before turning to his sergeant.

‘So that was your sister?’

Umar had to think about it for a moment before nodding. ‘Yeah.’

‘And who’s Sandra?’

‘An old girlfriend, up north.’ Umar stared unhappily into his empty cup. ‘I finished with her ages ago.’

Carlyle stared at him intently.

‘Well, a while ago.’

‘What about Christina?’

‘What about her?’

‘Does she know about all this?’

Umar shook his head.

‘Well,’ said Carlyle, happy to adopt the elder statesman role now that the opportunity had presented itself, ‘I suppose there’s no need to trouble her with that, what with everything else that’s going on.’ He tried not to grin, failing miserably. ‘Even so, it looks like you’ve got a few loose ends to tie up before your wedding.’

*   *   *

Abigail Slater gave Carlyle her standard ‘look’ – a noxious mixture of disgust and amusement that made her nostrils quiver. The inspector thought back to the untimely demise of her erstwhile boyfriend Christian Holyrod and his lips twitched.

‘Is something amusing you?’ Slater demanded.

Carlyle’s grin grew wider. ‘Not really.’

‘Good.’ Slater straightened the papers on the desk in front of her. ‘Then maybe we can begin.’ They were sitting in the offices of Stiff, Smithers & Mongolsson, in a room identical to the one he’d been in before, maybe even the same one. Slater was flanked by Iris Belekhsan and Kieron Sterling. Today, the young assistant, resplendent in an Ozwald Boateng two-button mauve suit, had passed on the earring.

Out of the window, Carlyle watched a trio of red cranes hauling some iron girders into position at a building site in the City. Despite the travel eating up more of his day, he had been happy to schlep back to SS&M. This was a conversation best not had at the station. He rolled his pre-printed ID badge into a tube and tapped it on the table. ‘First things first,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Your client has to surrender her passport or she will be deemed a flight risk.’

‘That is completely unnecessary,’ Slater scoffed, ‘as you well know.’

The inspector focused on Belekhsan. She held his gaze with a cool look that gave little away. Two, three seconds passed before she reached over and opened the zip of her handbag on the floor.

‘Iris.’ Slater put a hand on her arm. ‘That will not be necessary.’ Belekhsan shrugged it off with more than a hint of irritation.

‘It is nothing.’ After several seconds of rummaging, she pulled out one of the new-style British passports and tossed it across the table. ‘Here.’

Carlyle stuck out his left hand to stop it skidding off the table and onto the floor. ‘Thank you.’ Opening it up, he checked the details.

Iris Ada Morin Belekhsan.

Thirty-four years old.

The passport had only been renewed six months earlier.

He looked at it carefully. It told him nothing. ‘Did you get this for your holiday?’

A brusque nod was all he got in reply.

‘Okay.’ Carlyle shoved the passport into his jacket pocket. ‘Let’s get down to it.’ He knew that he couldn’t trust Slater one inch. But he could appeal to her self-interest and that of her client. ‘We will need to have a formal conversation at the police station very soon.’ Carlyle paused as Sterling began scribbling on a yellow A4 pad. ‘First, however, I wanted to discuss some things off the record.’