James Craig - Acts of Violence

The inspector mumbled something sympathetic.

‘It’s a long way from the station. Takes me more than an hour to get in, most days.’

‘It took me something like that to get here.’ Carlyle suddenly felt vaguely guilty about his own daily ten-minute walk to work.

‘So, why are you here, boss?’ Umar asked suddenly.

Carlyle shifted uneasily in his seat. It was a good question, to which he had no particular answer. ‘Oh, you know. I just wanted to see how you were getting on.’

‘I’m fine. It’s you who’s been pushing your luck. Again.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Don’t you think he would have killed you?’

‘Marcus Popp? Nah.’

‘He might have done.’

‘Not worth speculating about, really.’

‘I suppose not.’ There was a lull in the conversation before Umar said: ‘This time it was Amelia Elmhirst who saved your bacon.’

‘Not really,’ said Carlyle tartly, irked that the latest gossip had made it all the way from WC2 to SE12 so speedily.

Umar started to pick his nose, then remembered his manners. ‘At least she didn’t get shot,’ he observed, wiping a finger on his T-shirt.

‘How is the leg?’

Resting his backside against the sink, Umar placed his mug on the draining board and folded his arms. ‘I’ll make a full recovery.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s basically fine now, to be honest.’ Recovering his mug, Umar took a slurp of his coffee. ‘But there’s no real need to hurry back, is there?’

Carlyle imagined Ferris Bueller giving them a cheeky wink. ‘No, I suppose not.’

Umar gestured towards the letter lying on the kitchen table, the MPS logo at the top. ‘Did you know about that?’

Having already seen the disciplinary hearing notice, Carlyle didn’t bother trying to lie. ‘Simpson mentioned it.’

Accepting this, Umar nodded. Then he asked: ‘Want some toast?’

‘Nah, I’m good, thanks.’

Reaching over to the bread bin, the sergeant removed a couple of slices of white bread, dropped them into the toaster and switched it on. ‘It was only ever supposed to be a bit of fun.’ Opening the fridge door, he took out the remains of a block of salted butter and a jar of marmalade. ‘It’s what people do these days; not a big deal.’

Licking his lips, Carlyle wondered if he had been a bit hasty declining the offer of something to eat. ‘What does Christina make of it?’

‘I told her that the hearing is to do with an investigation into a suspect who claims he was assaulted in police custody.’

A bus trundled past the window. The inspector looked at the miserable faces on the top deck as they headed slowly through the dusty badlands of South London.

‘She’s not happy.’

‘She’d be a lot unhappier if she knew the truth,’ Carlyle pointed out. Part of him wanted to understand why the sergeant had done it; an equal part of him didn’t want to know. The pros and cons of photographing your genitals was not, to his mind, a suitable topic of conversation for two grown men.

‘Who do you think complained?’ Umar asked.

‘I dunno.’

‘Not Elmhirst.’

‘No. She doesn’t seem to be the sort of person who would be too stressed about that kind of thing.’

‘Not at all,’ Umar agreed. ‘She’s definitely one of the lads.’

‘O-kay. How many other women did you, er – you know.’

‘Not that many, five or six maybe.’

Jesus. ‘Didn’t you think it was asking for trouble? You send pictures of your willy to half the bloody station, sure enough someone is gonna take offence.’

‘Come on,’ Umar protested, ‘half a dozen is hardly half the station.’

‘But still.’

‘It was just a bit of fun,’ the sergeant repeated, sounding like an eight year old who had just been caught pushing a lit firework through his neighbour’s letter box.

‘What does the Federation say?’ Carlyle asked.

The toast popped up. Dropping it onto a plate, Umar began smearing Lurpak across the first slice. ‘I haven’t spoken to them about it.’

‘No?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘I would get on to the union asap, if I were you. The hearing’s not that far away.’

Adding a dollop of marmalade, Umar took a bite of toast, chewing rapidly before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘I’m not going to contest the hearing,’ he said quietly.

‘But-’

The rest of the toast disappeared in three swift bites. ‘I emailed Simpson last night to inform her that I have decided to leave the Force.’

Not knowing what to say, Carlyle stared into his coffee.

‘Better to jump before I’m pushed.’

‘Well-’

‘And anyway,’ Umar said brightly, starting on his second slice of toast, ‘I’ve got a new job.’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle looked up from his mug. ‘House-husband?’

‘Not at all. A proper job,’ Umar grinned. ‘I’m going to be working for Harry Cummins.’

‘You are a very lucky boy. Amelia Elmhirst really saved your skin.’

‘That is a fairly superficial reading of the actual situation, as it, er, evolved in real time on the ground,’ said Carlyle, trying his best to smile through the grimace that had set, like concrete, on his visage. He was sitting outside a coffee shop on Garrick Street, the better to have a private conversation with the Commander about their little provincial adventure.

Carole Simpson allowed herself a chuckle. ‘The sergeant handled herself extremely well. Under different circumstances, she would be in line for a commendation.’

‘Under different circumstances,’ Carlyle grumbled, ‘we wouldn’t have bloody been there in the first place.’

‘Now, now, John,’ she chided, ‘things worked out well enough. Herr Kortmann has given up his search for the terrorist Sylvia Tosches and gone home.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘Yes,’ Simpson continued. ‘He couldn’t get out of here quick enough, heading back to Germany as soon as a doctor had given him the all clear.’

‘And what about Popp?’

‘All been dealt with,’ Simpson said cheerily, meaning: don’t ask. ‘We have earned some brownie points with our German colleagues, now that one of their leading criminals has been caught.’

‘Marcus Popp was hardly big-time,’ Carlyle said.

‘You can be so negative,’ Simpson scolded. ‘I’ll have you know that he was number 2,356 on the Europol Most Wanted list.’

Decidedly unimpressed, Carlyle replied. ‘ You’re probably higher on the Europol list than that. I certainly am.’

‘The point is,’ Simpson said primly, ‘that things could have turned out a lot worse.’

‘Yeah, I could have been shot in the head. Game over.’

‘There’s no need to be so melodramatic.’

‘Why not? I was the one chained to the ground.’

The Commander raised an amused eyebrow. ‘A moment ago you were claiming it was no big deal.’

‘You could have been burying me round about now. Coffin wrapped in the Union Jack, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole works.’

‘I’m not sure that you would merit a twenty-one-gun salute, Inspector.’

‘Bloody typical.’ He toyed with his empty coffee cup.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ the Commander persisted. ‘There’s really no need for you to be so ungracious.’

‘Me? Ungracious?’

‘Yes, you are. There are plenty of times when it seems like I spend half my working day trying to keep you out of trouble of one sort or another. I do that – willingly, for the most part – because I know that you have certain qualities that many modern law-enforcement officers lack.’

Carlyle felt himself begin to blush. ‘Don’t try and butter me up,’ he stammered.