James Craig - Then We Die

‘Hindsight,’ Carlyle scoffed.

‘I know, I know,’ Simpson sighed. ‘But that won’t stop the press and the politicians from coming on board and giving us a good kicking. Did you really have to stick her in that cell?’

‘She was a drug-trafficker,’ he protested. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘She was a vulnerable young girl who you picked up with a large quantity of cocaine about her person.’

His patience snapped. ‘Don’t start trying to spin it.’

‘Plenty of other people will. Then there’s the question of why you didn’t hand this over to the Drugs Squad?’

‘It was my tip,’ he explained. ‘I was supposed to go to that fashion show with Joe.’ Carlyle sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Almost immediately, he decided that gesture could be interpreted as defensive body language, so he unfolded them again. All of a sudden, he didn’t know what to do with his bloody limbs. Finally, he clasped his hands as if in prayer and forced them down into his lap. He looked up, to give Simpson some good eye-contact: ‘My tip, my arrest.’

Simpson sniffed. ‘Never were much of a team player, were you, John?’

Knowing she was right, Carlyle shrugged.

‘Anyway, you will be contacted about the IPCC investigation within the next couple of days.’

‘That’s fine.’ Carlyle knew he had done everything by the book. The Independent Police Complaints Commission investigated deaths that occurred in custody as a matter of routine.

‘You might want to speak to your Union rep.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘No need.’

Simpson looked at him. ‘It would be a good idea — if not for the IPCC, then maybe for the Middle Market Drugs Project investigation.’

Carlyle made a face. ‘What the hell’s that?’

‘It’s a new joint venture between the Met and Customs and Excise, aimed at targeting dealers acting as the link between smugglers and street-sellers. After a successful trial, it has been given a mandate by the Home Office to disrupt criminal networks, stifle supply, arrest traffickers and seize their assets.’

Fuck , thought Carlyle. I don ’ t like the sound of that. I don ’ t like the sound of that at all . He had a big problem when it came to any kind of internal police investigation — and that problem was called Dominic Silver. How do you explain your thirty-year relationship with a successful drug dealer to someone trying to winkle out even the merest whiff of corruption on the police force? The simple answer was that you can’t. Hell, most of the time, he couldn’t even explain it to himself. Did Simpson know about Silver? He had no reason to believe so; certainly he had never discussed his contact with her. And, despite the fact that his relationship with his boss had improved significantly over the last few years, he wasn’t going to start now.

‘Apparently,’ Simpson continued, ‘they had Charlotte Gondomar already under surveillance when you arrested her.’

Ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach, Carlyle smiled blandly. ‘I’m perfectly happy to talk to them at any time.’

‘Good.’ Simpson looked down at her desk, as if surprised to see it bare of paperwork. ‘Anything else?’

‘The usual.’ Running through the list of his current cases, it took a moment for Carlyle to recall the skeleton in the park. After his run-in with Spy Boy and now Simpson’s unwelcome news, that discovery seemed years ago now. ‘The council dug up a skeleton in Lincoln’s Inn Fields this morning,’ he said flatly. ‘An adult male, shot in the head.’

He paused to let Simpson give him a funny look.

‘Susan Phillips reckons that the victim has been in the ground for more than fifty years.’

‘That’s a bit of a turn-up for the books,’ Simpson observed. ‘Okay. Make sure the paperwork is dealt with, and then move on to more pressing matters.’ She lifted a large shoulder bag onto her desk and started rummaging inside. ‘And ask my PA to come in on your way out, will you?’

Helen had spent the early part of the evening working herself into a state. ‘You don’t mess with bloody Mossad!’ were the first words out of her mouth as Carlyle stuck his head through the living-room door.

Alice wandered in from the kitchen, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a sandwich in the other. ‘Mum says you’d better be careful or they’re going to kick your arse,’ she said cheerily, before stuffing half of the sandwich into her mouth and flopping down on the sofa beside her mother.

‘What the hell are you two talking about?’ he asked, stepping into the middle of the room.

‘It’s all over the bloody television!’ Helen replied angrily, waving the remote control at the screen.

The television was tuned to News 24, with the sound muted. The anchor, a middle-aged Irishwoman with big hair who always looked like she was reading someone’s obituary, was talking to some politician about tax rises. What’s that got to do with me? Carlyle thought irritably. Then his eye caught the ticker running across the bottom of the screen.

BREAKING NEWS: Intelligence sources have told the BBC that Israeli Secret Service Agents are suspected of being behind the double murder at a top London hotel .

That ’ s great , Carlyle thought. Just fucking great! Can no one in this country keep their bloody mouth shut for more than two minutes?

He sat down on the sofa, prompting Alice to jump up and head for her room, mumbling something about ‘homework’. Careful not to make eye-contact with his wife, he stared intently at the screen.

‘Well, John Carlyle,’ she said finally, once it was clear that he wasn’t going to volunteer any information unprompted, ‘have you not got something to tell me?’

Sighing, he braced himself for another political lecture. Helen worked for an international medical charity called Avalon. After several years as a senior administrative manager, she had recently been promoted to the role of Chief Operating Officer. That meant she was directly responsible for a budget of almost?40 million and a team of 200 people working in 30 countries, including the Palestinian Territories. Carlyle was well aware of her views on the Israeli checkpoints, roadblocks and border closures that made it difficult for ordinary people to access healthcare. He knew her mantra off by heart, how the recent violence in the Gaza Strip had left more than 1,300 people dead and over 5,000 people wounded. The safety of Avalon health educators, nurses and volunteers was a constant source of concern to his wife.

She looked at him with fury in her eyes. ‘It could have been you.’

‘What?’

‘It could have been you, bleeding to death on that dirty pavement.’

‘Joe didn’t bleed to death.’

‘You know what I mean, you stupid man.’

Clumsily, he reached out to hug her but she shied away and punched him hard on the arm.

‘Hey! That hurt!’

‘You bloody deserve it,’ she sniffed, half-crying, half-laughing, then hitting him again, not quite as hard this time.

‘Look,’ he said, finally getting close enough to slide his arm round her. ‘It was a very strange situation. Maybe it could have been me. But it wasn’t. I’m okay.’

The expression of anguish on her face almost broke his heart.

‘Look,’ he repeated gently, ‘I’ve been a cop now for — what? Almost thirty years. Nothing like that has ever happened before. Nothing like it will ever happen again. It was a once-in-a-lifetime event, at the very most.’

Helen blew her nose on her sleeve, desperately wanting to be convinced.

However, they both knew, deep down, that such assertions were all just talk.