James Craig - The Circus

‘Not really.’

Joe shot him a look that indicated it wasn’t really a question.

‘Okay, in a minute. But first I need some caffeine.’

A double espresso had improved his mood somewhat by the time Sonia Claesens was brought into interview room seven. Dressed in black jeans and a pearl cashmere sweater over a grey T-shirt, she looked tired but composed.

‘Why am I still here?’ she demanded.

‘There are various charges-’ Carlyle began.

Claesens spoke over him. ‘I have meetings.’

Good for you, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe when your lawyer gets here-’

Once again, she cut him off. ‘The useless sod has switched his mobile off. So, God knows when he’ll turn up.’

‘In that case,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘I’m afraid that you’ll have to wait.’

‘That’s impossible!’ Irritated by this stupid policeman’s refusal to comply with her demands, Claesens angrily slapped the palm of one hand on the table. ‘I’ve got too many things to do.’

The inspector’s grin widened.

Claesens’s face darkened, and for a moment he thought she might jump up and hit him. ‘What’s so funny?’

Carlyle tossed Joe’s copy of the Daily Witness on to the table. ‘You’re in your own newspaper today.’

‘Not an uncommon occurrence,’ she snapped, grabbing the tabloid and tearing it open.

‘Top of page four.’ Carlyle eyed her maliciously. ‘Nice picture. The story says you’ve been sacked by the Zenger Corporation.’

‘What?’ Claesens shrieked. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding!’

‘It’s there in black and white,’ Carlyle deadpanned, ‘so I guess that it must be true. After all, newspapers don’t lie, do they?’ Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and turned towards the door.

Finding the article in question, Claesens began scanning the text with a bony finger. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

‘Looks like they’ve cut you loose.’

‘The bastards!’

‘I guess you just became too much of a liability for them,’ Carlyle mused, happy to turn the knife while he had the chance.

Rereading the article, Claesens muttered something under her breath.

‘Look on the bright side,’ the inspector beamed. ‘At least that frees up your day to help us here with our enquiries.’

‘Fuck you!’ she screamed, jumping to her feet and hurling the newspaper in the general direction of his head.

Laughing, Carlyle walked out of the room and headed down the corridor.

Trying not to sound too cheery in front of the nurse, Carlyle pointed at the window. ‘What happened?’

Yawning, the young man scratched at the stubble on his chin before folding his arms. ‘He suffered a stroke. Quite a serious one too. It looks like he was lying on his living-room floor all night. No one found him until the cleaner came in the next morning. You never really know with these things, but I would expect a lot of the damage will be irreversible.’

Maybe there is a God, after all . Carlyle peered through the glass at Charlie Ross lying comatose in the hospital bed, tubes everywhere. It looked like there was enough technology to run a space shuttle being deployed to keep the old bastard alive. ‘Can I talk to him?’

The nurse shook his head. ‘Family only.’ Exhausted, he hopped from foot to foot, desperate to get off shift.

Shit, Carlyle thought, I shouldn’t have shown this little jobsworth my bloody warrant card. ‘I understand.’

‘Sorry,’ the nurse mumbled unconvincingly.

‘To be honest though, I’m the nearest thing he has to family,’ he pleaded, hoping that he looked suitably concerned about the sick man. ‘We worked together on the Force for more than twenty years. He taught me a hell of a lot.’

‘Mm.’

Carlyle gestured towards the private room. ‘He saved my life once.’ It was a blatant lie, but worth a go. When the nurse showed a flicker of interest, he added: ‘Took out a guy who was just about to brain me with an axe.’

The nurse’s eyes grew wide. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded, getting into it now. ‘It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen on The Job.’

‘Wow.’

‘Obviously, it was a long time ago now.’

‘Obviously.’

‘But still. .’

‘Yes.’ The nurse glanced up and down the empty corridor. Unfolding his arms, he held up a finger. ‘One minute. Just talk gently to him, and see if you can get a response.’

‘Thank you.’

The nurse started off down the hallway. ‘I’m going to get a coffee. Once I get back, you’ll have to go.’

‘Understood,’ Carlyle said. ‘Thank you.’

Stepping inside the room, he pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward until his face was barely eight inches from the ex-sergeant’s head.

‘Charlie. .’

The old man’s eyes slowly opened. As he focused on Carlyle’s grinning mug, a palpable look of concern spread across his crumpled features.

Conscious of the CCTV camera high on the wall, focused on the bed, Carlyle kept a fixed smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m not going to put a pillow over your face — tempting though that may be.’

A bony hand appeared from under the covers. Carlyle reached out and grabbed it in his own before it could reach for the panic button. ‘Relax, I’m not going to do you any harm. Unlike your boy, Trevor, you’re not about to go down fighting.’

Ross eyed him anxiously.

‘No,’ Carlyle continued, ‘I don’t have to do a thing. You’re a fucking vegetable now, and that’s never going to change.’ He gestured around the room. ‘Even if you get out of here, the best you can hope for is some kind of hospice: a modern bedlam where they make you sit in your own shit while you’re singing along to Cliff Richard records with all the other nutters.’

Charlie Ross let out the merest whimper. Maybe Cliff wasn’t his thing.

‘You know how we treat old people in this country. We fucking hate them. You become invisible, your human rights go straight out the window; you won’t get washed, you won’t get fed, you won’t get your colostomy bag changed. Some bastard “carer” will steal your money and any possessions you have left, and give you a good slap if you complain.’ The inspector let out a breath. ‘In a lot of ways, I think Trevor got the better deal.’

The nurse reappeared outside, signalling through the window that it was time to go. Carlyle got to his feet. ‘Good luck, Charlie,’ he whispered, patting the old man on the head like he was a dog. ‘I look forward to reading your obituary in the Police Review before too long.’ Smiling broadly, he left the room, strolling past the bemused nurse without uttering another word.

As he returned to the station, there was a buzz of excitement on the third floor that made the inspector worry that some disaster was unfolding: maybe some bastard had just set off a bomb in the centre of the city, or the Mayor had been pelted with eggs by anarchists again.

‘It’s the Commissioner,’ explained Joe Szyszkowski, after catching his eye. ‘He resigned ten minutes ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Carlyle, relaxing again as he flopped into his chair.

‘That story about his free thirty-grand visit to a health farm was what did for him.’

‘Serves him right,’ Carlyle said airily. ‘People like that think they’re entitled to everything they can grab.’ As if on cue, his mobile started ringing. Pulling it from his pocket, he checked the number on the screen, laughing as he hit receive.

‘The man himself.’

‘Have you seen the news?’

‘Yeah. Are you ringing me up so that I can congratulate you?’ ‘No, no,’ Bernie Gilmore chuckled, ‘I was just ringing up to say thank you.’