James Craig - London Calling

‘Hurry up and get him out of here,’ Prentice grumbled to the PCSO, knowing that there was no question of Dog going into a cell tonight. Ever since a report from the Metropolitan Police’s Custody Directorate had calculated that a night spent in the slammer cost a whopping?667, considerably more than the likes of the Dorchester Hotel (?395) and the Ritz (?390), the pressure was on to keep as many of them empty as possible. The hospitality at Charing Cross was therefore reserved for celebrities (C-list and above) and serious criminals only. Definitely no drunks, therefore. Equally, no local hospital would admit Dog, so it was a matter of finding somewhere else to sleep off his stupor.

‘Just get him round the corner and stick him in a doorway,’ Prentice suggested. ‘He’ll find his way home soon enough.’

The PCSO grunted and pulled on the latex gloves. He didn’t even acknowledge Carlyle as he moved gingerly towards the snoring wino. Carlyle mentally wished him luck and headed in the opposite direction.

Prentice eyed him quizzically as he approached the front desk. ‘Back already, John?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘Forgot my bloody keys.’

For a man who could really not care less, Prentice did a good job of managing a small grimace of sympathy. ‘Unlucky.’

‘Yeah, I know. I got almost all the way home before I realised,’ Carlyle replied, sounding suitably sorry for himself. ‘If I buzzed the front door, Helen would go bananas,’ he added, ‘even if I didn’t wake Alice up, too, what with her having school in the morning.’

Prentice nodded sympathetically. He had three kids himself, two girls and a boy, and knew all about the ups and downs of family life. At the same time, he lived near Theydon Bois, a village on the north-east periphery of London, near Epping Forest, which was famous for not possessing any street lights. Fifteen miles from Charing Cross, it took the best part of an hour on the Central Line for Dave to get home, so he would have had no qualms about waking the kids and getting his missus out of bed if he found himself stuck on the doorstep in deepest, darkest Essex.

Conscious of someone behind him, Carlyle turned to see a skinny, blond-haired, twenty-something man approaching the desk. He wore a pained expression – all cheekbones and attitude – and was fashionably dressed in an expensive-looking, two-button, single-breasted black suit and a crisp white shirt. As he reached the desk, Carlyle could read the legend The Garden in tiny grey script on his breast pocket. The Garden was an upmarket ‘boutique’ hotel only two minutes’ walk away, on St Martin’s Lane, just up the road from Trafalgar Square. It was a haunt of minor celebrities and gossip columnists, always full of self-important people doing self-important things.

The young man ignored Carlyle. Without saying a word, he handed Prentice a white envelope and turned to leave.

‘Hold on, there.’ Carlyle placed a gentle hand on the visitor’s shoulder. ‘What is this?’

The man stopped, turned and gave him a neutral look. ‘I guess it’s a letter.’

‘I can see that, sir,’ Carlyle said, with considerable effort, not least because ‘sir’ was not a word he felt comfortable in using. He took the envelope from Prentice and looked at the address in black capitals on the front: BY HAND – FAO THE DUTY OFFICER, CHARING CROSS POLICE STATION. He glanced back at the young man. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘The chief concierge at the hotel.’ The man shrugged, like that should be obvious.

Carlyle felt his mood harden. He could be obtuse himself often enough, when he felt like it, but he didn’t like it in others. Not when he was on the receiving end. He glared at the man, who took a step backwards till he was leaning against the desk.

‘What’s your name?’ Carlyle growled.

‘Anders.’

‘Second name?’

‘Brolin. Anders Brolin. I am from Sweden.’

‘No shit,’ Carlyle looked at Prentice and grunted, ‘straight out of central casting.’ Prentice raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing.’ Carlyle looked the young man up and down. ‘Where in Sweden are you from?’

‘Skane.’

That didn’t mean anything to Carlyle. ‘Where?’

‘It’s in the south of the country,’ the man said slowly, clearly, to accommodate both the geographical ignorance of the English and the fact that he was talking to a couple of policemen. ‘I am from a town called Ystad.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Brolin seemed to perk up a little at the thought of home. ‘It’s nice but very quiet. Nothing ever happens there.’ He almost smiled, then thought better of it. ‘It’s a good place to be a policeman.’

‘Not like London.’

‘Not like London, no. Here there are too many…’ Brolin paused.

Carlyle stepped in: ‘Too many wankers?’

‘Yes,’ Brolin gave a tired smile, ‘far too many.’

‘So,’ Carlyle waved the envelope gently in the air, ‘what about this?’

‘This is nothing to do with me,’ Brolin said, making an involuntary jerk of the head in the direction of the front door. ‘I just do what I am told.’

‘Don’t we all.’ Prentice chuckled.

‘Anyway, my shift is finishing soon,’ Brolin added. ‘Why don’t you just see what it says?’

‘OK.’ Carlyle sighed, recalling that his own shift had finished over an hour ago. This is what happens when you dick around, he told himself. He’d forgotten his keys two or three times recently. Maybe his mind was going: short-term memory loss. Maybe he should start carrying a spare set at all times. That was a good idea. He’d just have to try to remember it.

Into his head popped a mental image of his wife snoring happily under the duvet in his beautiful warm bed. Then it slowly, cruelly, receded into the distance until it faded to black. With a sigh, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Let’s see what this says and then we can both go home,’ he murmured. Dropping the empty envelope on the desk, he unfolded the sheet of paper and scanned the contents.

It was a standard piece of hotel stationery, but good quality, heavy grey paper with the hotel name and email address embossed at the top. The same writing as on the envelope simply stated: BODY IN 329. NOT THE FIRST amp; NOT THE LAST. Beneath the text there was a couple of dark splashes that looked like blood. They had soaked into the paper but hadn’t yet dried.

Carlyle waved the handwritten note first at Prentice, then at Brolin. ‘Know anything about this?’

‘No,’ said Brolin sulkily, ‘I told you I didn’t.’

This note was, Carlyle already knew, 99.9 per cent certain to be time-wasting bollocks. A body in a hotel room, if there even was one, would be suspicious, but not necessarily criminal. Charing Cross Police Station had registered seven ‘suspicious’ deaths last year, five of which were subsequently deemed murder or manslaughter. All of those cases had been duly solved, and none of them had involved tourists or hotels. Halfway through the current year and they had already had six suspicious deaths, five of which were criminal, with the other one still a matter of some debate. The law of averages told Carlyle that this note was someone’s idea of a joke. People, as he knew only too well, did some incredibly stupid things. And, as he knew even better, they usually got away with it, leaving other people chasing their tails or cleaning up the mess.

Of course, bollocks or not, he now would have to go and look for himself, just in case. Carlyle saw several hours of time wasting ahead of him and felt his body sag. He gritted his teeth to help keep hold of his anger.

‘This,’ he said, pointing a finger at Brolin, ‘had better not be one of your fucked-up guests pissing about.’ Aching with tiredness, Carlyle could feel himself starting to go off on one, but he was saved by Prentice putting a hand on his arm, gently telling him to give it a rest. It was a timely intervention, and Carlyle acknowledged it with a nod. He understood the sergeant’s point: don’t shoot the messenger – even if he does appear to be a moron.