James Craig - London Calling

The presenter rushed through the stories, as if not wishing to delay the adverts.

‘The aide to Prime Minister Edgar Carlton, who accidentally drowned in an election night tragedy, has finally been officially identified.’

But William Murray did not even merit a name check.

‘And Spandau Ballet are to regroup for a series of concerts in the autumn.’

Spandau fucking Ballet, Carlyle, thought. Jesus! What is the world coming to? He thanked the girl who handed him his coffee, took a careful sip and smiled. For once it was extremely hot, just how he liked it.

Out on the street again, his phone rang. Seeing Joe’s number on the screen, he punched the receive button. ‘Hi.’

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ was Joe’s opening gambit.

‘I’ll believe anything.’ Carlyle laughed.

‘I’ve just had a call from Commissario Edmondo Valcareggi…’

Carlyle took a mouthful of coffee and felt it scald the back of his throat. ‘Oh yeah?’ he coughed.

‘Apparently Ferruccio Pozzo wasn’t Ferruccio Pozzo.’

‘The liposuction guy?’

‘Yeah, the one who was killed in prison.’

‘But Valcareggi said he had DNA…’

‘The lab messed up, apparently. Either that or someone fiddled with the test results.’

‘So,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘the guy we nicked – who was he, then?’

‘No idea,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘But Valcareggi reckons that the real Pozzo is going to be in London next week. He wants us to help him arrest him.’

Carlyle gave this some thought as he watched a very pretty girl in a very flimsy T-shirt and no bra stroll slowly past him, walking a very small dog on a very long lead. Only by gritting his teeth and summoning up the willpower of ten men did he resist the temptation to turn round and gawp at her backside as well.

‘What do you think?’ asked Joe.

Carlyle unclenched his jaw. ‘Tell him to fuck off.’

Ending the call, he turned round. The girl was already gone. Smiling to himself, he walked into Paddington Street Gardens and squeezed into the small space that was free on a bench in the shade of a tree. Slowly drinking his coffee, he thought about the phone in his pocket with a copy of William Murray’s video nasty on it. Would he ever do anything with it? He had no idea. Would it make any difference to anything, even if he did share it with the world?

His mind went completely blank.

Finishing his coffee, he tossed the empty cup into a nearby waste bin. A car pulled up at a nearby red light, The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ blasting from its stereo. Singing along under his breath, Carlyle watched a young boy happily chasing a pair of pigeons across the grass, oblivious to the couple snogging enthusiastically right in front of him. Behind their heads, a poster stuck to the outside of a phone box proclaimed ‘Capitalism Isn’t Working’. Inside the booth, the selection of cards offering a wide range of services from ‘Japanese schoolgirls’, ‘Indian models’ and pre-op transsexuals suggested otherwise.

After a short while spent contemplating all of the city’s bounty, Carlyle left the shade of the tree, heading for home. Feeling the sun on his back and the stone beneath his feet, he smiled.