James Craig - Acts of Violence

Folding his arms, the inspector stared in the general direction of the window. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ he asked eventually. ‘Go and beat the truth out of some granny who may or may not have been there at the time?’

‘She’s not a grandmother,’ Simpson observed, ‘as far as we know.’

‘And what proof do we have that she is, in fact . . .’

‘Tosches. Sylvia Tosches. They don’t have any proof – but they can get some. Sylvia has a sister, a retired librarian living in Gelsenkirchen. They want to do a DNA test.’

‘Doesn’t sound legal to me,’ Carlyle grumped. ‘Not without a warrant.’

‘All you have to do, John,’ said Simpson patiently, ‘is to accompany the German police officer who will present himself at Charing Cross tomorrow, on a visit to Mrs Hutton’s home.’ She mentioned the address and he committed it to memory. ‘It will be a preliminary meeting before, inevitably, lawyers get involved.’

A wave of annoyance swept over Carlyle at the thought of being used as a babysitter but he let it pass. ‘Fine.’

Simpson raised an eyebrow.

‘No problem.’

The Commander smiled. ‘But?’

‘But I was wondering if there was something you could do for me .’

The smile evaporated. ‘Why is it,’ the Commander wondered, ‘that everything with you has to be a matter of negotiation?’

‘I’m not haggling,’ Carlyle said evenly, ‘it’s just that I wondered if you could help with something.’ He quickly ran through his conversation with Naomi Taylor and the secrecy surrounding her husband’s death. ‘Maybe you could see why the Counter Terrorism guys are all over this?’

Simpson shook her head. ‘If SO15 are involved, I suggest that you leave it alone. Apart from anything else, the last time you got mixed up with those guys, you almost got yourself killed.’

And almost got kicked off The Job, Carlyle reflected ruefully. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Not that long ago,’ she countered. ‘So keep your distance.’

‘But-’

‘Do as I say.’ Simpson eyed him sternly, then let her visage soften. ‘I haven’t heard something. If I come across anything relevant, I’ll pass it on.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But only if you keep out of it. For once, see if you can surprise me by not causing any trouble.’

Carlyle was dozing in front of the television when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Sleeping?’

‘Not any more,’ he grumped, shuffling along the sofa in order to let his wife sit down beside him.

Helen glanced at the half-empty bottle of Jameson’s sitting on the coffee table, and the empty shot glass next to it, but said nothing.

‘What time is it?’ Carlyle asked groggily.

‘Just after ten.’

‘You’ve had a long day.’

‘Yeah.’ Helen took a sip of peppermint tea from the chipped mug she was holding. ‘There was a Board meeting tonight.’

‘Ah.’ Helen worked for a charity called Avalon. It was the kind of place where everyone had to express an opinion on everything, at considerable length. ‘I suppose you should be grateful that you made it home before midnight.’

‘The whole thing basically degenerated into an argument about whether or not we should take money from Chase Race.’

‘Who he?’

Helen grabbed a cushion, tossed it on the floor and sat down. ‘He’s a rapper who’s got convictions for drug use and also for beating up his girlfriend.’

‘Lovely.’ Carlyle was in no doubt as to which of those offences was the more serious in his wife’s book.

‘On the other hand, he has offered us fifty grand for a project in Liberia which no one else will support. It really needs the cash.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him. ‘Why what?’

‘Why did he offer you the cash?’

‘I dunno. PR, I suppose. Apparently his management is worried that if he doesn’t get his act together his career is toast.’

‘Not exactly a business geared to longevity though, is it?’

‘No,’ Helen agreed, ‘but that’s hardly my problem. Trying to get the Board to agree, that was my problem. Fifty grand . . .’ She heaved a sigh. ‘They’re worried about the risk to our reputation.’

‘Understandable.’

‘As well as the impact on staff morale.’

‘Staff morale?’ Carlyle never paid too much attention to the touchy-feely stuff.

‘People work for us out of principle,’ Helen explained. ‘If they think we’re willing to grab money from anyone, some of them would just up and leave.’

What you mean is that they’re a bunch of highly strung primadonnas. Knowing better than to pass judgement on Helen’s co-workers, Carlyle restricted himself to some sympathetic tutting. ‘Decisions, decisions.’ Helen’s job often made the humble policeman’s lot seem very straightforward.

‘What would you do?’

‘Me?’ Carlyle thought about it for a second. ‘I’d take the money. If you can put it to good use, who cares where it came from? Money is just money.’

‘After four hours, going back and forth, we decided to turn it down.’

‘It must be hell having principles.’

‘I know. It’s not as if we don’t need the money. And I’m the one who has to make sure that everyone gets paid at the end of the month.’ The bitterness in Helen’s voice was obvious. Carlyle wondered if she could do with a change of job. So many years in such a physically and emotionally challenging position was bound to take its toll. He gave her a consoling peck on the cheek.

‘All you can do is do your best.’ Jeez. That was something his father used to say. Inwardly, he groaned.

‘Yeah, right. How was your day?’

‘Pff.’ Carlyle took a moment to recall what had happened and select a suitable highlight. ‘I went to see Carole Simpson. Have you ever heard of a woman called . . .’ he thought he was going to forget the name, but it tripped off his tongue after the briefest of delays, ‘. . . Sylvia Tosches?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘Apparently, she was a member of Baader Meinhof and the Red Army Faction. I don’t remember her in that movie, do you?’

Helen shook her head. ‘It was a movie though, hardly a document of historical record.’

‘I suppose not.’ He repeated what the Commander had told him about the woman. ‘And I looked her up on Wikipedia this afternoon.’

‘So,’ Helen chuckled, ‘you think Jimmy Wales is a more reliable source of information than your boss, do you, Inspector?’

‘Being someone who has to collect and evaluate information for a living,’ Carlyle said airily, ‘I think that multiple sources are a good thing. Especially when they tell me the same story.’

Pulling her legs up under her bum to get comfortable, Helen smiled. ‘Which, in this case, is what?’

‘That it was all a very long time ago.’

‘So why is this woman of interest to the Met?’

‘The German police think she might have turned up in London. Well, not really turned up, more been living here for decades under an alias.’

‘And they want her back?’

‘Of course, assuming it is her.’

‘What if she’s paid her debt to society already?’

‘How?’

‘I dunno. Maybe she’s spent the last forty years working with disabled homeless kids or something.’

‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said doubtfully, recalling the Bloomsbury mansion and the lawyer husband.

‘Hopefully it’s just a case of mistaken identity,’ was Helen’s final observation on the subject. ‘That would save everybody a lot of hassle – especially you.’

‘Quite.’

She gestured at the TV. ‘What are you watching?’