James Craig - Then We Die

‘Also, she was due to return to Brazil the following morning. Therefore I acted in an expeditious manner, by taking advantage of the limited window of opportunity available to me.’

Despite having seen my sergeant shot down in the street only a few hours earlier .

Hooper finished his note-taking and dropped his pen on the desk. ‘And how did you get to know all about that?’

‘Like I said,’ Carlyle repeated, ‘I was fortunate enough to have my source.’

‘One you are not prepared to share?’

Carlyle made a face that suggested that the question was a long way past unreasonable. ‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I have to protect my sources, just like you do. Just like everyone does.’

Hooper looked doubtful.

‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, ‘we got a result — a good result. If you’re feeling pissed off that it doesn’t go down on your Project’s scorecard, I’m sure we can arrange to sort that out.’

A cunning light appeared in Hooper’s eyes. ‘You think we should fiddle the stats?’

‘No,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘I’m not saying that.’ He cursed himself for having given Hooper something to work with. ‘What I am saying is that it was a successful arrest, and you should be pleased about that.’

‘The girl subsequently died.’

‘The IPCC investigation into that is well underway. I have already spoken to them.’

Hooper scratched his head. ‘Don’t you feel responsible for what happened to her?’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. He knew nothing about Lottie Gondomar, other than the fact that she trafficked drugs and had truly wonderful breasts. He did not know why she was smuggling drugs (for the money, he presumed) nor had he any idea why she’d decide to kill herself in one of his prison cells. He had stuck her in that cell, it was true, but it wasn’t his job to check on her during the night and make sure she was okay. Ultimately, however you looked at it, he had only been doing his job. Lottie Gondomar’s fate was one of the few things in recent days for which he didn ’ t feel responsible. ‘Everything was done properly. Everything was recorded properly. I left the girl in the care of the duty officer. So, no, Inspector, I don’t feel responsible.’

‘That’s handy,’ Hooper smirked.

Fuck off , thought Carlyle.

‘What about Rollo Kasabian?’ Hooper asked.

‘What about him?’

‘Was he your informant?’

‘No, he wasn’t. I’d never even met him before the other night.’ Carlyle was happy to talk about Rollo. Maybe getting some accurate facts into the conversation now would help him later on.

Hooper picked up the pen and started doodling on his pad.

‘No?’

‘No,’ Carlyle said, ‘Rollo was not the source of my information. I will give you that, but I’m not going to play Twenty Bloody Questions about who it was.’

‘Interesting.’ Hooper thought about his next move. ‘We have had him under investigation for some time.’

‘Rollo?’

‘Yes.’

You ’ re bluffing , thought Carlyle. You haven ’ t been watching him. You don ’ t have shit . ‘Based on what information?’

Hooper smiled. ‘We have our sources too, Inspector.’

‘I’m sure that you do,’ Carlyle smiled back. ‘Just not as good as mine.’

Carlyle walked into Il Buffone still deep in thought. In some ways, the fact that Hooper hadn ’ t mentioned Dominic Silver was even more troubling than if he had. At least, that way Carlyle would have had a better idea of what the Middle Market Drugs Project knew. If they didn’t know about Silver they should do, since he was exactly the type of dealer that they were trying to target. And if they did know about him, they clearly didn’t trust Carlyle enough to tell him the whole story. What was it some politician had said about known unknowns ? Well, he would just have to wait and see — keeping his guard up in the meantime. Sighing, he slipped onto a stool at the counter and stared vacantly out of the window.

After a minute or so, Marcello appeared at his shoulder and placed a double macchiato on the counter. ‘We’re out of pastries,’ he said. ‘Do you want anything else to eat?’

Having been looking forward to the sugar rush, Carlyle felt a pang of annoyance. He carefully considered his options: he didn’t really care for croissants and the only other cakes on offer — stodgy Bakewell tarts wrapped in plastic with sell-by dates well into next year — were only to be resorted to in times of emergency. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘it’s okay, Marcello. Coffee’s fine.’

Nodding, Marcello pulled a copy of the Evening Standard from under his arm, unfolded it and placed it carefully on the counter, in front of Carlyle.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked quietly.

Carlyle took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the front page. The headline screamed THE FACE OF A KILLER above a grainy black and white picture taken from a CCTV camera. The image showed the pavement outside the front entrance to the Ritz, moments after Joe Szyszkowski had been shot. Joe himself already lay on the pavement, while Carlyle, turning away from the camera, was looking towards his fallen colleague. The gunman, his face blurry and indistinguishable, appeared to be staring right into the lens.

Carlyle took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Avoiding Marcello’s gaze, he scanned the text: The murdered officer was last night named as Sergeant Joseph Szyszkowski. . wife and two children. . the authorities say that they are pursuing several leads. .

At least there was no mention of Carlyle’s name. He handed the newspaper back to Marcello.

‘I’m sorry. It’s been a tough time.’

‘Sure, sure.’ Marcello gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. ‘It’s a terrible thing to happen.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Carlyle nodded, finishing his coffee.

Marcello lowered his voice. ‘It could have been you.’

‘That’s what Helen said.’ Carlyle smiled weakly. ‘What can you do? It’s a bit like the lottery in reverse.’

Marcello poked him gently in the chest. ‘You have to be careful.’

‘Marcello,’ said Carlyle, more tired than peeved, ‘I get more than enough of this type of talk at home. I am careful. And, by and large, London is a very safe city.’

‘Not for Joe, it wasn’t,’ said Marcello, crossing himself. ‘God rest his soul.’

‘Yes, well. .’

Marcello took the empty cup and waved aside Carlyle’s offer of payment. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll make sure to keep some Danish pastries for you, even if you don’t deserve them.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, heartened by this use of the plural.

‘And give his family my condolences.’

‘I will,’ said Carlyle. Assuming that they ever speak to me again .

Tapping his hands on the steering wheel, Ryan Goya sat gazing at the long line of vehicles leading up to the traffic-lights on Lisson Grove. Heading north into St John’s Wood, he was singing along quietly to Rihanna’s ‘Rude Boy’ on the radio.

For the hundredth time that afternoon, Goya glanced down at the newspaper folded on his lap, then looked up to check his reflection in the cab’s wing mirror. Yet again, he concluded that it was impossible to identify him as the man pictured in the paper. A fresh number-one buzz cut under his beanie hat, and several days’ worth of stubble had changed his appearance well enough. Anyway, given the extremely poor quality of the CCTV image, it was going to be impossible to identify anyone as the man in the picture.