James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘I have a very good source.’

Aren’t they all?

‘This source tells me that Commander Simpson will be representing the Commissioner at the event this year. She has splashed out on a special Napoleonic-era hat to wear on her horse, Santa.’

‘The horse is called Maverick.’ Oops.

Bernie started scribbling away. ‘Good to know. Anyway, the TAPW – Taxpayers Against Public Waste – are up in arms. Their chief executive, a Mr Clive Boyson, has given me a nice juicy quote complaining about the police wasting a couple of Monkeys on a hat at a time when there is no money to pay for good old bobbies to walk the streets, nicking vandals and deporting illegal immigrants, et cetera, et cetera. I’m going to ask Simpson for a quote but, seeing as you’re her boy, I wondered if you could just confirm the number for me.’

‘It wasn’t a grand,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘It was only £800.’

‘Maybe that was ex-VAT. A grand would be a better number.’

‘Bernie, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Either way, it’s a lot of money for a hat. Have you ever spent £800 on a titfer?’

‘No,’ Carlyle said, ‘of course not. But what’s with the rhyming slang, all of a sudden?’

‘Fun stories like these,’ Bernie explained. ‘They just unleash my inner Cockney cheeky chappy. They make me smile and I know that they’ll make the reader smile.’

‘Glad to know we’re keeping you amused.’

‘With these kind of stories, as I’m writing them up, I hear them being narrated in my head by Sid James.’

‘Maybe you should go and see a shrink for that,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Anyway, you know that Sid James was South African?’

‘Get away.’

‘Yeah. His real name was Solomon Cohen. I saw a documentary about him recently.’

‘Well, well, you live and learn. Anyway, what were we talking about?’

‘Simpson’s £800 hat.’ Carlyle lowered his voice as one of the other inspectors, a dour bloke called Beckett, walked past. ‘Look, it’s a special kind of hat she has to get specially fitted because it doesn’t have a chin strap and she can’t have it falling off on the day.’

‘Yes, yes.’ More scribbling.

‘C’mon, Bernie,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not Simpson’s fault. She only got the gig because some other woman fell off her horse.’

‘Dangerous things, horses. Why anyone would want to get on one is beyond me.’

‘Carole doesn’t deserve to get a slagging in the press over this.’

‘It’s a story,’ Bernie grunted. ‘If I don’t write it, someone else will.’

‘You could sit on it for a while. Maybe it will just fade away.’

‘Impossible.’

‘What about if I give you something else?’

The sound of scribbling ceased instantly. ‘What have you got?’

‘Well? Have you got something, or not?’

‘Er,’ Carlyle prevaricated, ‘I might have something interesting on the Chelsea massacre.’

‘That was days ago,’ Bernie snorted. ‘Tell me about something that’s going to happen. Something sexy.’

Sexy.

‘The hat,’ Bernie reminded him, ‘now that’s a decent story. And, of course, I can always pad it out with a bit of backstory about her bent husband.’

‘Her late bent husband,’ Carlyle put in, ‘as if that is relevant.’

‘The fact that a senior police officer’s husband was a convicted fraudster is always relevant,’ Bernie said.

‘She’s not that senior.’

‘She’s senior enough to be doing Trooping the Colour.’

‘C’mon Bernie, Simpson’s all right. Give her a break.’

‘I didn’t say she wasn’t. I don’t decide what’s a story. Gimme something else.’

‘OK, OK. There are a couple of possibles.’

‘Why don’t you tell me them both,’ Bernie coaxed, ‘and I’ll decide which one is the best.’

No fear, Carlyle thought. If I do that, you’ll have both of them written up before I get off the bloody phone. The inspector would have preferred to give up the story of Werner Kortmann’s disappearance – it was a miracle that it hadn’t leaked already – but there were too many gaps still to be filled in. As things stood, he wouldn’t put it past Bernie to run a Keystone Cops lose German Bigwig story. Worst of all, it would essentially be true. In the end, he recounted the story of Brian Yates and the alleged contravention of the Sale of Goods Act 1979.

‘Is that it?’ Bernie asked when he had finished. ‘Who was the hooker?’

‘No, no. Let’s not go there. She’s perfectly nice and doesn’t deserve to be mocked.’

‘Not a dog, then?’

‘Not at all. I think she’s quite pretty in a girl-next-door kind of a way.’

There was an awkward pause before Bernie asked: ‘You haven’t been . . .?’

‘No, no,’ Carlyle said hastily.

‘Well then,’ Bernie let out a long sigh, ‘not much of a story, is it?’

‘It’s at least as good as the hat,’ Carlyle countered. ‘Sid James would find it funny.’

‘At the very least, I need a picture: the hooker or the punter. Both would be best but either is fine. The hat story, we can always wait till Trooping the Colour and get a nice pic of the Commander all dolled up.’

Carlyle rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk until he found the business card that Yates had given him. After reading out the guy’s mobile number, he recited the company’s web address. ‘I’m sure you’ll get a picture on there.’

‘Yeah, but will it be high-res?’

‘I’m sure your picture desk can sort it out,’ said Carlyle soothingly.

‘We’ll see.’

‘So we have a deal?’

‘Let’s see what I can get out of this. I’ll sit on the hat thing for now. I can tell the Taxpayers Against Public Waste that we are planning on running it to coincide with the ceremony.’

‘Thanks, Bernie.’

‘I can’t promise that they won’t try and take it to someone else though.’

‘Understood.’

‘I’d give Simpson a heads-up, if I were you. Just in case it does pop up somewhere else.’

‘Good advice. Thanks.’

‘I hope that she appreciates what you’re doing for her.’

So do I, Carlyle thought.

‘Now, what’s that other story you mentioned?’

‘It’s early days yet. Too soon. I’ll tell you when I’ve got a bit more, promise.’

‘Fair enough. Oh, by the way, Seymour Erikssen . . .’

Carlyle frowned. Seymour Erikssen was a burglar who had been arrested so many times, the media had dubbed him ‘ London’s crappest criminal ’. The time he had slipped through the inspector’s fingers was a particular low point in Carlyle’s career. ‘Ye-e-s?’

‘You haven’t seen him lately, have you?’

‘No, why?’

‘It’s just that I hear he’s operating on your patch again, that’s all.’

‘Great,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘That’s all we need.’

As always when he ended a conversation with Bernie Gilmore, Carlyle was conscious of feeling vaguely depressed, about life in general and his own circumstances in particular. On this occasion, he decided to remedy the situation with a trip to the canteen. Edna would doubtless tell him that it was closed, but he was sure he could talk her into selling him an iced doughnut and an Americano. Pushing up from his chair, he headed for the door only to be confronted by the wonderous Sergeant Elmhirst. Confusingly, she was accompanied by Alison Roche.

‘She was looking for you downstairs,’ Elmhirst explained, gesturing at Roche. ‘I didn’t know you had a female sergeant before.’

‘These things happen.’ Carlyle nodded at Roche. Dressed in a black T-shirt and an army surplus parka, SO15’s finest looked tired and irritable. He hoped that she hadn’t arrived to give him a bollocking for something.