James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘He has a son over here – got him into Eton, God knows how. Must have pulled a lot of strings. The kid’s turned into a bit of a rascal by all accounts. The wife spends a lot of time in London too. There are rumours she’s playing away with a Brit.’

‘Doubt that bothers him too much,’ Carlyle interjected, ‘given his preference for your girls.’

‘You know what such men are like, Inspector.’

Not really.

‘They want to have their cake and eat it.’

‘I’m sure. By the way, the other girl, the one who isn’t Sonia. What happened to her?’

‘Morag? The silly cow’s gone home.’

‘To Scotland?’

‘No, no.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Studio flat in Putney.’ She claims it was a stomach bug, but that half bottle of vodka she downed before arriving at the Racetrack was doubtless a factor. I think a return to the land of the midges beckons for that young lady. She’s just not cut out for this.’

‘Make sure she’s looked after properly,’ Carlyle said, but it was less a command, more of a plea.

Harry made a face. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not social services.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle scratched behind his ear. ‘By the way, who was the Chinese woman – the one who came to pick Ren up this morning? She seemed quite something.’

‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘Whenever I’ve met Ren, he’s always been on his own.’ Just then, Umar appeared with a coffee in each hand. Placing one on his own desk, he handed the other to Harry.

‘Thanks, pal.’

A look of dismay fell across the inspector’s face. ‘Where’s mine?’

‘Didn’t know you wanted one,’ Umar grinned as he sat down.

Not wishing to intrude on a domestic dispute, Harry got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going.’ He offered his free hand and the inspector gave it a firm shake.

‘Thanks for coming in,’ Carlyle said mechanically. ‘Let me know if you come across this guy . . .’ he glanced down at the Post-it ‘. . . Ren, again.’

‘Will do.’

Umar gave Harry a wave as he headed for the stairs. ‘Nice bloke.’

‘For a pimp,’ Carlyle grumped, still put out that he hadn’t been offered a coffee.

‘By the way,’ Umar said airily, ‘Commander Simpson wants to see you.’

‘Great,’ the inspector complained. ‘It’s not like I haven’t got enough to do without schlepping over to her office.’

‘She’s not at Paddington Green,’ Umar corrected him. ‘She’s got a fitting.’

‘A fitting?’

‘That’s what she said.’ The sergeant mentioned an address just off Regent Street. ‘Wants to see you there. Said she’d be there for the next hour or so. You’d better get your skates on.’

Stepping off the street and into Nixon de Brunner’s Bespoke Headwear Emporium was like stepping back in time. Assistants dressed like Edwardian servants scuttled about under dim lighting, fetching boxes from wall-to-ceiling shelves at the behest of invisible customers. Catching the attention of one of them, a flustered-looking woman with a red face, Carlyle asked for the Commander and was directed to the fitting rooms on the second floor.

Climbing the stairs, he found Carole Simpson in a tiny room at the end of a long, dusty corridor. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she was adjusting her headpiece, a black number that looked a bit like a bowler hat that had been squashed into an oblong, with a white flower sticking out of the top. To Carlyle’s untrained eye, it looked like something left over from the French Revolution.

‘What the hell’s that? It looks like-’

‘It’s a Napoleon-style bicorn hat with a black and white feathered plume.’ The flustered assistant appeared at his shoulder. ‘We’ve been making them using the same craft skills for more than two hundred years.’ She turned her attention to his boss. ‘How does it look, Commander?’

‘I think we’re there,’ Simpson smiled. ‘It feels fine.’

‘Not too tight?’ the woman enquired anxiously.

‘No, just right.’ Removing the hat, Simpson handed it to the assistant. ‘If you could put it in a box for me, I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Of course.’ The woman took the hat and hurried away.

‘Thank you.’ Listening to her stomp down the stairs, the Commander turned to her charge. ‘Why do you have to be so snide about everything?’

‘Me?’ Carlyle lifted a hand to his breast, signalling the wound he had suffered. ‘What did I do? I didn’t say anything.’

‘It’s just a bloody hat,’ Simpson snapped back. ‘Couldn’t you say something nice for once? Or, better still, just keep your mouth shut?’

‘What’s it for?’

‘Ceremonial.’

‘Aha.’ None the wiser, Carlyle waited for her to explain.

‘The Met needs a relatively senior officer to take part in Trooping the Colour, in order to help secure the event. One of the Assistant Deputy Commissioners was going to do it but she fell off her horse a couple of weeks ago at a point-to-point meeting and broke her back. So it looks like I’ve got the nod.’

‘I didn’t know you rode,’ Carlyle replied.

Simpson gave him a cold stare. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’

‘How very true. For example, I didn’t know that we had to provide someone to dress up in a funny hat and ponce around on a horse behind Her Maj.’

‘See what I mean?’ Simpson shook her head. ‘Snide.’

‘It’s a nice hat,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Kind of.’

‘When it comes to ceremonial riding hats,’ Simpson continued, ‘you’ve got to have a fitting. It has to be fitted because there’s no chin strap.’

Carlyle barely stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry, I should have realized. Ceremonial duties are not something I’ve ever been called on to do.’

‘I wonder why?’

‘How much does it cost, by the way?’

‘The hat’s not cheap. About £800, plus VAT.’

£800. That might be a story worth punting to Bernie Gilmore. Filing the globule of information away for a later date, Carlyle couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘Good to know the police force can still afford such essentials while frontline services are getting the chop right, left and centre.’

‘John.’

Time to move the conversation on. ‘At least you’re back in favour with the powers that be.’ Simpson’s career had been in the toilet for several years, but she had stuck at it and was gradually rehabilitating herself. ‘Don’t fall off Dobbin and maybe you’ll get a promotion yet.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Simpson said grimly.

Leaning against the frame of the door, he folded his arms. ‘So, what did you want to talk about? Other than the hat, of course.’

‘Ah, yes.’ On the floor, by the mirror, was a large red shoulder bag. Bending forward, Simpson unzipped it and began rummaging around inside. After a few moments, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Carlyle. ‘Here.’

Opening up the paper, Carlyle squinted at the image. ‘Which way up is this supposed to go?’

‘Whichever way you like,’ Simpson said tartly.

Carlyle flipped the sheet of A4 round. ‘I see what you mean.’ The man in the picture, naked from the waist down, was in a state of some excitement. His face wasn’t visible but Carlyle knew well enough who it was. Refolding the picture, he handed it back to the Commander.

‘You can keep it.’

‘No thanks. Bloody Umar.’

Reluctantly, Simpson took the picture and shoved it back into her bag. ‘Sergeant Sligo is in quite a bit of trouble.’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Who complained? Elmhirst?’

‘There have been two complaints from colleagues who both received a copy of that picture but I don’t believe that Sergeant Elmhirst was one of them.’ Simpson removed her purse from the bag. ‘That is one of the problems the Federation is going to have; once disciplinary proceedings begin, more complaints may well emerge. It’s going to be hard enough for Umar to survive this as it is, but if there are four or five, well . . .’