James Craig - Acts of Violence

If he had been able to do only one thing of merit in his entire police career, that should have been it. He was a policeman. He should have been able to protect one single child.

Alzbetha, I am truly sorry.

Roche caught a glimpse of the look on his face. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Remembering how she had always been good at reading what was going on in his head, the inspector turned his expression into a grimace. ‘Just a bit of pain in my foot,’ he told her. It was a convenient lie; the reality was that his foot had been much improved of late. ‘Sprained ligaments.’

‘You should get that looked at,’ Roche said blandly. ‘You’re reaching that age where things start to go wrong.’

‘I’m not that old.’

‘I’m just talking about proper care and maintenance,’ Roche scolded.

‘You sound like Helen.’

‘That’s because we’re both right.’ Roche cackled. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, having two smart women looking out for you.’

‘How very true.’ Placing his hands in his lap, Carlyle took a deep breath. Now felt like a good time to pop the question. ‘If Umar does get the chop, would you be interested in coming back?’ The words came out in a rush, causing Roche to do a double take.

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, why not? I can’t think of anyone better. There’s certainly no one I’d rather have take the job.’

‘I’m honoured,’ Roche laughed, placing a hand on her chest. ‘But what about that Amazon you’ve already got working for you back at Charing Cross?’

‘Sergeant Elmhirst is great,’ Carlyle explained, ‘but she’s only going to be temporary.’

‘Things have a way of starting out as temporary,’ Roche observed, ‘and ending up as permanent. Anyway, I’m sure that you could get Simpson to extend her stay if you wanted to.’

The inspector shook his head. ‘She’s being fast tracked – that girl’s going places. She’ll be after Simpson’s job before too long.’

‘Ah. And you’d rather have someone who’s going nowhere, like me?’

‘No, no,’ Carlyle protested. ‘You know what I mean.’

Another red light loomed in front of them. Roche brought them to a gentle stop behind a sightseeing bus. ‘Not really,’ she said.

‘If Umar is on the way out, I’m going to need a proper long-term replacement. And if you’re not happy at SO15.’

‘What makes you say that?’ she shot back, shifting the car into gear as the lights changed in their favour.

‘Why are we sitting here?’ Carlyle countered ‘If SO15 finds out you’re going behind their back to breathe life into an investigation they want to bury, your days there are going to be numbered anyway. You’ll need to have a contingency plan, if nothing else.’

‘Get out the way, you bloody idiot!’ Smacking the horn, Roche gestured angrily at a cyclist who suddenly cut across her.

Carlyle looked at her expectantly.

‘One thing at a time,’ Roche said crossly. ‘Let’s just go and see Gerald Howard and take it from there, shall we?’

Gerald Howard was a small, trim man in a green cardigan and slippers. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and his hair was in need of a comb. Clearly delighted to have some company, even if it was only a couple of coppers, he waved them inside his flat.

Standing in the living room, Howard announced that he had been enjoying a cigarette and a ‘very nice bottle of Merlot’ and immediately offered the pair of them something to drink. Not knowing a good Merlot from a smack in the face, the inspector found it easy to decline the offer of a glass of wine, accepting instead a black coffee. With Roche taking a cup of tea, Howard shuffled off into the kitchen after instructing the two police officers to make themselves at home.

Out of habit, Carlyle looked slowly round the room. It was barely large enough for a sofa and an armchair, with a coffee table in the middle, but it seemed cosy enough. In the corner, a small TV was surrounded by DVD box sets for TV shows that he didn’t recognize. The far wall was lined with books from floor to ceiling; mainly world history and political biographies, with a sprinkling of management guides. On several shelves were framed photographs showing a younger Howard in various exotic locales. In each one he was smiling, with a protective arm around a small, mousey, uncomfortable-looking blonde woman, presumably, was Mrs Howard.

‘What do you think?’ Roche whispered, once their host started banging about in the kitchen.

The inspector’s gaze returned to the coffee table, on which sat a wine glass and the half-empty bottle of red wine, along with an ashtray and a packet of cigarettes. ‘He looks like a sozzled old maths teacher from a provincial fifties boarding school,’ was the inspector’s verdict. ‘A nice enough sort of chap, but functioning on less than full power once you get into the afternoon.’

‘Quite.’

Carlyle gestured at the photographs. ‘I wonder what happened to the wife?’

‘Dunno. But I certainly think he lives here on his own.’

‘It would certainly help explain the boozing.’ Carlyle wondered if he would go downhill if Helen wasn’t around. Probably. He seemed to remember reading somewhere about how men needed marriage more than women and struggled to cope on their own. It wasn’t a theory he felt any particular need to test himself.

‘This is where he saw it happen.’ Roche walked over to the window. When Carlyle joined her, she pointed to the street below. ‘Marvin Taylor’s car was down there, on the corner.’

Carlyle nodded. He could still see a scrap of police tape hanging limply from a nearby lamppost; the last remnants of an already forgotten crime scene.

‘Marvin’s guys were killed in an alley on this side,’ Roche continued. ‘You can’t see it from here, but I’ll walk you down there later. We didn’t find much but you might as well have a look.’

‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ was the inspector’s only observation.

‘You’ve got to be seriously loaded to live around here,’ Roche reminded him. ‘You don’t get many people on the streets at any time of the day.’

‘No, I suppose not. Why walk if you can take the Daimler?’

‘Here we go.’ Howard appeared with their drinks on a tray. Much to the inspector’s delight, there was also a large plate of chocolate biscuits. Placing the tray on the glass coffee table, Howard gestured towards the sofa. ‘Please,’ he said pleasantly, ‘take a seat.’

For a few moments, they busied themselves with the drinks. Helping himself to a biscuit, the inspector took a nibble and beamed.

‘Very nice.’

‘You can’t beat a chocolate digestive,’ Howard agreed, offering the plate to Roche. When she declined, he placed it back on the table and grabbed one for himself. Breaking it in two, he popped half into his mouth and chewed happily. ‘That’s one of the nice things about being back in London. In my last posting, they were almost impossible to lay your hands on. In the end, my mother started sending us food parcels every month.’

‘You were working abroad?’ Roche asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Howard smiled. ‘I was in the Diplomatic Service.’ He mentioned a country Carlyle had never heard of. ‘In East Africa,’ he added, helpfully. ‘I was the Deputy Ambassador there until nine months ago.’

Carlyle had no particular interest in their host’s career history, but he knew he was going to get it anyway, so he nodded politely.

‘Then I had the misfortune to be sent on a team-building exercise in Wales by the Foreign Office. Run by a bunch of management consultants. Not surprisingly, they were total idiots. When I wouldn’t join in with their silly games, they said I wasn’t a team player. The next thing I knew, I was being sized up for a desk job back in London, to sit out the rest of my days.’