James Craig - Never Apologise, Never Explain

Rosanna closed the front door and stood in the entry hall of Reith Mansions, listening for the sound of Ian Dale’s BMW pulling away from the kerb. Peeking through the letter box, to make sure that her unwelcome suitor had finally gone, she let out a drunken squeak of triumph. ‘Good riddance, you odious little man,’ she cackled. ‘Let’s see how you talk your way out of that one when you get home.’ Taking her mobile from her jacket pocket, she pulled up Erica Dale’s number on the screen. For a few moments, her finger hovered over the call button, before she thought better of it. ‘You’ve had enough excitement for one day, girl,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Time for some sleep.’

Recalling vaguely that the building’s lift was out of order, Rosanna slowly staggered up two flights of stairs. Swaying slightly in front of the door to her flat, she began rummaging through her bag in search of her keys. When they were not immediately forthcoming, she tipped the bag upside down, emptying the contents on to the carpet in the corridor. What a pile of crap, she thought. I really must sort it out. Falling to her knees, she began sifting through the debris.

‘Hurrah!’ Grabbing the keys, she slowly struggled back to her feet. Reaching for the lock, it took her another moment to realise that she was not alone. She made a face as her pickled brain tried to process this information.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not looking up. ‘It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning. Plus, I don’t feel well.’ She tried to insert the key in the lock and missed. When she tried again, it fell back to the floor. ‘Shit!’ She bent down and felt woozy.

Then she felt a firm hand on her collar, pulling her backwards. ‘Hey!’ Rosanna tried to stand upright, but her legs buckled. Her stomach surged and she thought she was going to be sick again. She half-fell away from the door, tottering back towards the stairs. One of her shoes came off and she felt the ground disappear from beneath her. The same hand reached out towards her, but she couldn’t grab hold of it as she started bouncing backwards down the stairs.

It was hot and Carlyle was bothered. Standing on the cobbles of Covent Garden piazza, inside the flaccid police tape, he wiped some sweat from his brow and looked at the tourists staring back at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do than gawp at some poor bloke who had keeled over while playing the bongos for their entertainment? Over the last hour, people had come and gone, but nevertheless the crowd had been growing steadily. Now it was easily more than a hundred strong, which was probably a much bigger audience than poor Dennis Felix had ever enjoyed while he was alive. Carlyle was almost tempted to pass the dead man’s hat round and ask for contributions towards the funeral expenses. If nothing else, that would have cleared away the crowd.

Standing next to him, sweating profusely, was Sergeant Dave Prentice. On a rare and unwelcome foray from his usual position behind the front desk at the station, he was reciting the basic facts that had so far been gleaned about the unfortunate musician: ‘Mid-thirties apparently. From Estonia apparently. Lives somewhere in East London.’

‘Apparently,’ Carlyle said, without thinking.

Prentice shot him a dirty look. ‘He’s been playing at this pitch three or four times a week for over a year.’

‘Well done,’ said Carlyle, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘That was quick.’

‘Speak to her.’ Prentice pointed at a woman standing nearby. ‘She knows him.’

Carlyle caught the woman’s eye and beckoned her over. Young and gaunt, she was about 5 feet 4 inches, with dark rings round her eyes that matched her black hair. You need a good feed and some prolonged exposure to sunlight, he thought. She was dressed in baggy green trousers and a cropped pink vest, allowing her to display a selection of rings protruding from her belly button. With too much jewellery and not enough make-up, she looked primed to run away and join the circus. Maybe she already had.

‘I’m Inspector Carlyle and I work with Sergeant Prentice here.’

The girl stepped directly in front of Carlyle, but said nothing. Despite the heat, she was shivering and he could see that she had been crying.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The girl eyed him suspiciously. Then she glanced at the body lying on a trolley, hidden under a blanket, waiting to be taken away by the crew that had edged their ambulance to one corner of the square.

‘It’s not a trick question,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of empathy already exhausted.

‘Kylie.’

How unlucky, thought Carlyle, to be named after a midget Australian pop star. He focused his gaze on a spot an inch above her head. ‘Okay, Kylie, what can you tell me about Mr Felix?’

‘He was from Tallinn, in Estonia.’ She scratched her neck. ‘That’s like, Russia, I think. Somewhere round there anyway.’

‘What else?’

Kylie thought it over at length. ‘I’ve known him for about six months,’ she said finally.

‘How?’

‘How what?’ She gave him a look like an inquisitive puppy.

Carlyle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he thought. Don’t let little things wind you up. You have to try and keep things under control.

‘How did you know him?’ Were you fucking him? Did he try and dump you? Could you have cared enough to try and kill him? How did he die?

‘I work over there.’ She pointed to a fast-food trailer that had been parked by the entrance to the Jubilee Hall gym.

Carlyle realised that he hadn’t been to the gym for almost a week. He felt sluggish. I need a workout, he thought.

‘Dennis would often stop by for a smoothie and a chat. And I would listen to him play. He was good. Did an amazing version of “Wonderwall”.’

Shame I missed that one, Carlyle thought. ‘So what happened this morning?’

‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘I saw him arrive and set up. He started drumming and then I had to get a customer a cappuccino. When I looked again, Felix was kind of slumped over to one side. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.’ Her eyes lost focus. ‘Maybe they thought it was part of his act.’

‘Why would they do that?’

She ignored his question. ‘I knew something was wrong, so I went over to see if I could help. I gave him a shake and then checked for a pulse… but there was nothing.’ She paused and a tear appeared at the corner of her right eye.

Give it a rest, Carlyle thought uncharitably. All you did was sell the poor sod the odd juice.

‘Did he do drugs?’

She looked at him blankly in a way that Carlyle read as: Yes, of course he did, you idiot! ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head. ‘I never saw Felix touch anything illegal.’

I’d need some serious drugs if I had to play the bloody bongo drums all day, Carlyle mused. ‘Okay, was he ill?’

‘No, no, he was very healthy.’

‘What else did he do?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Apart from play for the tourists here?’

‘He loved his music. He often worked with kids doing drumming workshops.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in Hackney. He also had his own band. They’re called Toompea. They play alternative folk rock.’

‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle was switching off; this dead guy was getting less interesting by the second.

Kylie looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for another question, but his mind had gone blank.

‘John?’ He was saved by Susan Phillips, who had appeared from somewhere.

He held up a hand to signal to the pathologist that he would come over in a minute. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Give Sergeant Prentice here your details, and we will be in touch.’