James Craig - Then We Die

Simpson stared at her sensible shoes for a long time. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘he’s lasted longer than they thought he would.’

‘That’s good.’

She looked at him defiantly. It was the kind of Don ’ t patronize me, John Carlyle expression that he was more than familiar with from receiving it regularly at home.

‘The end result is always going to be the same, though, isn’t it?’

Mumbling something meaningless, he quickly retreated back into his own thoughts and fears.

From the corridor outside came a woman’s scream. It was soon followed by a generalized commotion. The inspector knew only too well what that meant.

For as long as he dared, he sat still, staring vacantly into space at the floor, refusing to move. Finally he got to his feet. As he did so, the door opened and a small, dark-haired woman in a white coat stepped into the waiting room. Turning to Simpson, she offered her hand. ‘I’m Dr Victoria Taylor, one of the consultants in Emergency Medicine.’

Simpson stood up sharply and shook her hand, gesturing in the direction of her subordinate as she did so. ‘Commander Carole Simpson and this is Inspector John Carlyle. We’re colleagues of Sergeant Szyszkowski.’

Carlyle knew what was coming but held his breath anyway. He had been on the other side of this conversation many times before, and knew that there was no point in messing around.

Taylor nodded. ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Joseph Szyszkowski died approximately ten minutes ago. He went into cardiac arrest after suffering considerable blood loss.’

Staring at the floor, Carlyle kept his jaw clamped firmly shut as he again tried to fight back the tears.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Simpson said. ‘How are the family?’

‘The wife has been sedated,’ Taylor said matter-of-factly. ‘She was in quite a state.’

Carlyle needed to get out of there. Bringing his emotions under control, he thanked the doctor and walked out.

In the corridor, he walked straight into a large Asian bloke, six-foot-plus, with the over-developed torso of a bodybuilder. He had clearly been crying, and a flash of anger sparked in his eyes when he saw Carlyle.

‘You’re the bastard who got Joe killed!’

Before Carlyle could say or do anything, the guy took half a step backwards and unleashed a thunderbolt left hook that hit Carlyle squarely on the chin. For the second time that day, the inspector’s lights were well and truly extinguished.

Carlyle pushed away the smelling salts that Dr Taylor held under his nose. I ’ m far too old for this , he thought unhappily. Getting beaten up once was unfortunate — but twice in the same bloody day! His headache was now so bad that he could barely open his eyes under the harsh strip-lighting. Forcing himself to his feet, it took him a moment to realize that Simpson was still beside him in the corridor, while his assailant, staring defiantly into space as if he had nothing to do with any of this, was in handcuffs.

‘How did you manage that?’ Carlyle asked groggily, gesturing at the cuffs.

Simpson shrugged.

As the nausea passed, Taylor handed him a small bottle of Scottish spring mineral water and he took a large gulp. Screwing the lid back on the bottle, he turned again to Simpson. ‘Let him go.’

She gave him a frown. ‘There’s a van on the way to pick him up.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘Stand them down.’

‘But-’

‘Let him go. It’s been an unbelievably shit day. . for everyone.’ He gingerly felt his jaw. ‘It’s not a big deal. No one wants any more hassle. And he needs to help look after his sister and the kids.’

Sighing, Simpson did as he requested. After the cuffs were removed, the big guy glared at Carlyle before walking off slowly down the corridor without saying a word.

Carlyle watched him disappear round a corner.

‘Time to go home,’ he said.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ Taylor asked.

‘Yeah, fine.’ He turned to Simpson. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow. I need to go up to West End Central first, to give Chief Inspector French my statement, so I’ll swing over by Paddington after that.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Meantime, I’ll make sure all the necessary arrangements are being taken care of regarding the family.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, already turning away and heading off in search of an exit and some cold, fresh air.

He was vaguely aware of a phone vibrating somewhere in the bedroom.

‘Yes?’ Helen enquired. ‘Hold on.’ She bowled the phone underarm onto the duvet, where it landed next to his head. ‘It’s for you.’ It was an accusation rather than an observation.

You didn ’ t need to answer it , he thought grumpily. Slowly, he opened his eyes to acknowledge another grey London morning. He looked at the alarm clock: 8.05 a.m. He had been asleep for barely two hours.

He picked up the phone. ‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector, it’s Kevin Price from the station.’

Carlyle grunted. Price was the third desk sergeant they’d had working at Charing Cross police station in less than nine months. That kind of staff turnover was a real pain; it meant you never really got to know who you were dealing with. When Carlyle had first arrived at Charing Cross, Dave Prentice was the main man working the desk. He had been doing the job for ever, but once he’d retired, they couldn’t get anyone else to stay for more than two bloody minutes. All in all, Prentice had been a lazy so-and-so, but even Carlyle was beginning to miss him.

‘We’ve found a body.’

Fuck me , Carlyle thought, what is this? Wild West Week? He pushed himself up into a sitting position. ‘Where?’

‘Are you still in bed?’ Price asked.

‘Where’s the fucking body?’ Carlyle said irritably, ignoring the question.

‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ Price replied.

Lincoln’s Inn was one of the Inns of Court where barristers worked. The ‘fields’ referred to the park next door. ‘Maybe it’s a lawyer,’ the inspector quipped, ‘if we’re lucky.’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind.’

‘They need you over there,’ Price persisted.

‘Okay.’ Carlyle jumped out of bed, scratching his balls with his free hand. He looked at Helen, who was in the middle of applying some lipstick, and realized that she was considering his naked form with something that seemed closer to amusement than admiration. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

The park was a short walk away from Carlyle’s flat in Covent Garden. After pulling on some jeans and a sweatshirt, he kissed his wife goodbye, grabbed his North Face Lightspeed jacket, and headed outside. Picking up a latte and an outsized raisin Danish from Marcello in Il Buffone, the tiny 1950s-style Italian cafe situated opposite his block of flats, he walked on down Macklin Street, eating his breakfast and wondering why he still couldn’t feel anything about Joe’s death. They had worked together for more than eight years. Standing in the middle of the roadway, he lifted his polystyrene coffee cup in a mock toast.

‘God bless you, Joe Szyszkowski,’ he roared, ‘you stupid bastard!’

A woman walking past gave him a concerned look.

Carlyle sucked down more coffee and walked on.

The chill wind helped bring him back to the land of the living. It was the kind of unpleasant, all too bloody common London day that made you fantasize about emigrating to Australia. Pulling up the hood on his jacket, he dropped into Parker Street, and then on to Kingsway. Waiting to cross the road, he attacked the remains of his pastry with gusto, relying on the trusty mix of sugar and caffeine to get him properly going.