James Craig - Then We Die

‘Was he really any good?’ Carlyle asked. ‘I mean, how difficult can it be to design a shirt? Or a pair of jeans? It’s not like it’s never been done before.’

‘I know, I know,’ Dom agreed. ‘I don’t understand it either. But I’m not complaining. Rollo did me a big favour by shuffling off this mortal coil so quickly. The business might even move into profit this year.’

Carlyle let a mouthful of whiskey lie on his tongue before swallowing it. ‘Of course,’ he said casually, ‘that would have given you a pretty good motive for having him killed.’

Dom took another gulp of his beer. ‘Is that a question or an observation?’

‘No one has ever been charged with the murders of Kasabian or Sam Hooper,’ Carlyle observed matter-of-factly.

‘These things happen.’

Carlyle emptied his glass and said, lowering his voice, even though there was no one else within earshot: ‘We have an unusual relationship.’

Dom smiled, knowing where the conversation was going. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we do.’

‘But we can only stretch things so far.’

‘That is understood.’

Carlyle exhaled slowly. ‘So — there are certain lines that cannot be crossed.’

Dom nodded. ‘That has always been not only understood but respected.’

‘So, I need to know. .’

‘What do you need to know, John?’

‘Were you responsible for the deaths of Kasabian and Hooper?’

‘Responsible?’

‘Did you have them killed?’

‘Bloody hell!’ Dom laughed. ‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘I need to know,’ Carlyle said grimly.

Dom’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you really want to know?’

No , screamed a voice in the inspector’s head. Absolutely not. Never in a million fucking years . ‘Yes.’

‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Grabbing Carlyle’s empty glass, Dom got to his feet. ‘Let me just nip to the bar and I’ll be right back with an answer. Same again?’

Feeling sick to his stomach, Carlyle merely nodded.

Dom handed Carlyle the double whiskey and sat down with a fresh bottle of beer. ‘Cheers!’

‘Cheers,’ Carlyle repeated, without enthusiasm.

‘Remember the night you arrested Lottie?’

‘Yeah.’ That seemed a hell of a long time ago now, but even if he couldn’t remember her face, he could recall what the rest of her looked like, standing naked, backstage.

‘And remember I told you about Marina and Cockayne Syndrome.’

‘Yup,’ Carlyle said.

‘Well, since then, there have been more tests and the news isn’t getting any better. The other day, the child even asked me “When am I going to die, Dad?” ’ He shook his head. ‘Five years old. What kind of a fucking question is that?’

‘What did you say?’ Carlyle asked, wondering where Dom was going with this.

‘What could I say?’ Dom cleared his throat. ‘I told her that we loved her and we would look after her and that we wouldn’t lie to her, but that we didn’t know the answer to everything.’

‘How did she react to that?’

‘She went off to play with her dolls.’ Dom said in a low voice, ‘It drives me insane, worrying about what’s going on inside her head.’

‘It must be tough.’

‘That’s the understatement of this or any other fucking lifetime.’ Dom waved his beer bottle in the direction of Carlyle’s face. ‘But you are doubtless wondering what this has to do with your question.’

Carlyle shrugged.

‘It means that Marina is a brutal reminder to me of which way is up,’ Dom said forcefully. ‘Of what’s important.’

‘Certainly,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘Family is the most important thing. That’s true for you, just as it is for me. That’s why we have managed to work together so well over the years. Both of us have our priorities right. We do our jobs and we go home to our families. We do what we have to do in order to make sure, as far as we can, that they are safe and sound.’

‘Maybe so.’ Carlyle rubbed his temples. ‘However, that does not mean that you can operate outside of the law.’

‘John, just listen to yourself! You were standing next to me when I took down those crazies in Sol Abramyan’s house.’

‘There’s a difference between that and killing a copper, for fuck’s sake,’ Carlyle argued.

‘Hooper was bent.’

‘And Rollo, what was he? Just collateral damage?’

Dom raised his eyebrows.

Carlyle knocked back the rest of his whiskey. ‘I knew it, I fucking knew it. Have you gone crazy?’

Dom gave him a hard stare. ‘I was crazy enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you when that Browning was being waved in my face,’ he hissed. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’

‘Fuck. . fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Dom reached over and gave Carlyle’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said soothingly, ‘it’ll be fine. After all, we’re in this together.’

Simpson’s office at Paddington Green still looked as if no one had occupied it for many months, if not years. There was not one thing — book, file, photo or piece of office stationery — to suggest that it was in use. Staring at the grime on the window, Carlyle did a mental inventory of his current workload: there were a couple of expensive car thefts from a garage in Drury Lane; a home invasion in Bloomsbury; and a couple of cases of ID theft — all in all, nothing very exciting. That made for a nice change. Roche, now happily ensconced in Charing Cross for the foreseeable future, could take the lead in most if not all of them. Meanwhile, he himself could enjoy some downtime, get home at a reasonable hour every evening and put the horrors of recent weeks behind him. Maybe he could even persuade his mother-in-law to come up to London and look after Alice, allowing Carlyle and Helen a couple of days by the sea.

Carlyle smiled at the prospect of having a more ‘normal’ existence. That would be fine, for a while. But he knew perfectly well that, after a fortnight or maybe a month at the most, he would need to find something to occupy both his brain and his time. Otherwise he would start feeling restless and grumpy. Helen and Alice would start to find him annoying, and would be relieved to get him out from under their feet. Not for the first time, it struck him that he needed the bloody criminals to help keep him sane. Well, some of them, anyway. Did that make him a bit mad? Maybe it was something that he should be discussing with the shrink?

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Eh?’ Carlyle looked up at Simpson, who had suddenly materialized behind her desk.

‘You seemed deep in thought,’ she said, placing a mug of steaming coffee on the blotter in front of her, and then slipping into her seat.

‘I was just looking forward to things being a bit quieter for a while.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ she grinned.

‘I thought I might take Helen to Brighton.’ Immediately the words were out, he cursed himself. Being recently widowed, Simpson wouldn’t want to be hearing about his domestic plans.

If the remark caused her any upset, however, she didn’t show it. ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ she said warmly, taking a sip of coffee.

‘There’s nothing hugely pressing to deal with back at the station,’ he added, keen to get back onto matters of work, ‘and Sergeant Roche is very much on top of things.’

Simpson nodded. ‘I’m glad that it’s working out so well with her. It’s good that you have been able to deal with that aspect of the Joe situation so. . professionally.’

‘It’s difficult to get the balance right,’ Carlyle explained. ‘You can’t go to pieces, but you don’t want to appear a heartless bastard either. I did try to reach out to Anita, but, well, you know what happened there.’