James Craig - Time of Death

As much to avoid these other cases as anything else, Carlyle was reluctant to close the Mills case just yet. Joe was not impressed when Carlyle told him that he had decided they should take another look at the Millses’ flat. However, the prospect of stopping off for a mid-morning snack on the way won him over. As they reached the top of Endell Street, the usual traffic jam came into view. This was where High Holborn, St Giles High Street, Bloomsbury Street and Shaftesbury Avenue converged. Traffic that knew where it was going mixed with traffic lost in Covent Garden’s tortuous one-way system. Gridlock was the norm here, and a familiar cacophony of horns and shouts greeted the two policemen as they approached. Carlyle did a quick calculation in his head; they would have to cross five roads and fourteen lanes of traffic to reach Ridgemount Mansions, which was barely a quarter of a mile away. Not for the first time, he cursed the city’s ineffectual Mayor. Despite ostentatiously cycling to work once or twice a month, Christian Holyrod was criminally soft on the Congestion Charge that had been introduced by a predecessor in an attempt to get people out of their cars and on to public transport. Carlyle, a Central London resident, firmly believed that it should cost fifty pounds a day, or even a hundred, to drive your car into the centre of London. Hell, if you were serious about improving things, why not ban private cars altogether? Or only allow electric vehicles?

The current £10 charge was a complete joke, Carlyle thought. The traffic was as bad as ever. Meanwhile, all you ever heard was the endless moaning of lazy rich people who thought that it was their inalienable human right to clog the place up with their monster, gas-guzzling, road-hogging 4x4s, popularly known as ‘Chelsea tractors’. These were the people who got Holyrod elected, so the charge wouldn’t be raised to a sensible level any time soon.

It was only after they had slalomed through two lanes of stationary traffic that Carlyle realised that this particular jam was primarily the result of a number 55 bus which had been brought to a halt at a forty-five-degree angle across three lanes of traffic at the corner of Bloomsbury Street and St Giles High Street. Standing in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, it took him a little while longer to appreciate that the bus was also on the wrong route. The 55, a single-operator, red double-decker Plaxton President, which came in from Leyton in the east, normally went along Bloomsbury Way and New Oxford Street, before terminating at Oxford Circus. For some reason, it had left its route and was a block south of where it should be.

Bemused, Carlyle took a couple of steps forward and squinted at the vehicle, which was about twenty feet in front of him. The 55 wasn’t indicating that it was out of service and he could see that a couple of passengers were still on board. Nor did the driver appear injured or incapacitated in any way. Rather, he was sitting in his cab like a lemon, watching the chaos unfold all around him, seemingly oblivious to a couple of tourists who were standing straight in front of the bus, videoing him.

The noise levels were rising as more and more drivers vented their displeasure. The temperature felt as if it had risen ten degrees in the last couple of minutes and the exhaust fumes were making Carlyle nauseous. He could taste the pollution collecting in the back of his throat. A familiar grinding sensation at the top of his spine, where it joined his skull, meant a monster headache was on the way. What he most wanted to do now was skip through the rest of the traffic and leave them all to it.

‘We’d better find out what this is all about,’ he shouted to Joe.

They made their way over to the bus and Carlyle rapped on the door at the front opposite the driver. The man was an unhealthy-looking off-white colour, in his twenties, with terrible skin and a pudding-bowl haircut. He gazed at them and then looked away. The passengers on the back seats sat gazing blankly out of the windows. Well used to the vagaries of London’s public transport, they were apparently unconcerned at events.

Walking round to the front of the bus, Carlyle pressed his ID up against the window, in front of the driver’s face. ‘We’re the police!’ he shouted. ‘Open the door!’

The driver blinked a couple of times, but said nothing. Instead, he sat with his hands on the steering wheel and didn’t move. Maybe he’s on drugs, Carlyle thought. His mood was deteriorating by the second. He could sense that a small crowd was gathering behind him and he needed to get the bus moved.

‘This guy is heading for the cells,’ Joe sighed.

The inspector banged his fist on the window. ‘Open the fucking door!’

Joe put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hold on a second.’

Carlyle followed his sergeant back round to the side of the bus. He watched Joe reach down and open a small panel by the left-hand side of the exit doors. Inside was a green button about the size of a 10p piece, with the legend emergency door open above it in small script. Joe pressed the button and the doors whooshed open.

‘Why didn’t you do that in the first place?’ Carlyle snapped.

Joe just smiled and stepped back, moving slightly to allow his boss to get on.

‘Get rid of the gawkers,’ Carlyle barked, ‘and call for some uniforms.’ He jumped on the bus and slammed the palm of his hand into the Plexiglas partition that kept the driver safe from the travelling public. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he asked. ‘Are you lost?’

The driver looked straight ahead, ignoring Carlyle and remaining mute.

‘Is this your bus?’

Finally, the man turned to look straight at Carlyle. Taking the right lapel of his jacket between his thumb and forefinger, he indicated his name badge to the policeman. ‘Yes,’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘it’s my bus. And this is a protest. What does it look like?’

‘It looks like piss-poor parking,’ said Carlyle, relaxing slightly. At least the silly sod seemed compos mentis. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Clive.’

‘And what exactly are you protesting about, Clive?’

‘The advertising.’

Carlyle was confused. ‘What advertising?’

‘The advertising on this side of the bus,’ said Clive huffily, as if that was obvious.

Carlyle frowned. Turning round, he stepped back off the bus and stared up at the poster running horizontally between the upper and lower decks.

In disgusting pink letters, the text read: there’s probably no god. now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

Carlyle blinked, did a double-take and started laughing. He stepped back on the bus and said to the driver: ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘It offends my religious beliefs.’ Clive actually looked hurt.

‘And what are those, exactly?’ Carlyle asked, failing to keep the as-if-I-could-give-a-fuck tone out of his voice.

‘I am a member of the East London Tabernacle Missionary Baptist Church,’ Clive said solemnly. ‘Haven’t missed a Sunday in almost six years.’

‘Very impressive,’ said Carlyle. He knew nothing much about religion and cared less. As far as he was concerned, people could believe what they liked, as long as they didn’t make a song and dance about it and kept within the law. ‘Now that we’ve got that sorted out, it’s time to move the bus.’

‘No.’

Fuck it, Carlyle thought, no more Mr Nice Guy. ‘Move the bus or I will arrest you.’

Clive gave him a look as if he was a hurt puppy, but said nothing.

‘You will go to jail. That means no more Missionary . . . whatnot Church for you for a long time.’

For the first time, a look of discomfort passed across Clive’s face.

‘They’re all atheists in prison, you know,’ Carlyle continued. ‘They’ll fuck you up the arse every night. God won’t save you then.’