James Craig - Time of Death

‘How?’

‘How what?’ She gave him a look like an inquisitive puppy.

Carlyle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he thought. Don’t let little things wind you up. You have to try and keep things under control.

‘How did you know him?’ Were you fucking him? Did he try and dump you? Could you have cared enough to try and kill him? How did he die?

‘I work over there.’ She pointed to a fast-food trailer that had been parked by the entrance to the Jubilee Hall gym.

Carlyle realised that he hadn’t been to the gym for almost a week. He felt sluggish. I need a workout, he thought.

‘Dennis would often stop by for a smoothie and a chat. And I would listen to him play. He was good. Did an amazing version of “Wonderwall”.’

Shame I missed that one, Carlyle thought. ‘So what happened this morning?’

‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘I saw him arrive and set up. He started drumming and then I had to get a customer a cappuccino. When I looked again, Felix was kind of slumped over to one side. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.’ Her eyes lost focus. ‘Maybe they thought it was part of his act.’

‘Why would they do that?’

She ignored his question. ‘I knew something was wrong, so I went over to see if I could help. I gave him a shake and then checked for a pulse . . . but there was nothing.’ She paused and a tear appeared at the corner of her right eye.

Give it a rest, Carlyle thought uncharitably. All you did was sell the poor sod the odd juice.

‘Did he do drugs?’

She looked at him blankly in a way that Carlyle read as: Yes, of course he did, you idiot! ‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

She shook her head. ‘I never saw Felix touch anything illegal.’

I’d need some serious drugs if I had to play the bloody bongo drums all day, Carlyle mused. ‘Okay, was he ill?’

‘No, no, he was very healthy.’

‘What else did he do?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Apart from play for the tourists here?’

‘He loved his music. He often worked with kids doing drumming workshops.’

‘Here?’

‘No, in Hackney. He also had his own band. They’re called Toompea. They play alternative folk rock.’

‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle was switching off; this dead guy was getting less interesting by the second.

Kylie looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for another question, but his mind had gone blank.

‘John?’ He was saved by Susan Phillips, who had appeared from somewhere.

He held up a hand to signal to the pathologist that he would come over in a minute. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Give Sergeant Prentice here your details, and we will be in touch.’

‘What happened to him?’ Kylie asked.

‘That’s what we need to find out. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, let us know straight away.’ Turning away from the girl before she could start crying again, he stepped over to the pathologist and smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Susan.’

‘You, too, John. You’ve got an interesting one here.’

Based ten minutes up the road, at Holborn police station, Susan Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than fifteen years. Slim and blonde, with a healthy glow and a cheery smile, she brought a smidgen of much-needed glamour to The Job. More to the point, she was quick, no-nonsense and dependable – just what Carlyle liked in a colleague. They had worked together many times before and he was always pleased to see her at a crime scene.

‘What can you tell me?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Not a lot,’ Phillips grinned, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses back up her nose.

‘Foul play?’ he asked casually.

‘No signs of it that I can see, first off.’

‘Heart attack, then? The girl says he just kind of keeled over.’

‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘He’s still young, but it can happen. I’m sorry, but I can’t speculate at this stage. It’s not immediately apparent what killed him. We’re going to take him away now. I’ll get him on to the slab and let you know what I find out.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘No problem,’ Phillips said. ‘Let’s speak later.’

The body was carefully loaded into the ambulance by a couple of paramedics. Carlyle watched as it slowly edged its way into the traffic on Bow Street before heading away from the piazza.

‘What shall we do with the bongos?’ Prentice asked.

Carlyle looked at the pair of forlorn-looking drums standing on the cobbles alongside Felix’s other bits and pieces. ‘Take them back to the station with the rest of the guy’s stuff. They’re evidence.’

‘Okay,’ said Prentice, happy to be getting back to his desk.

As Prentice trudged off, Carlyle glanced back across the police tape. With the show over, the crowd had largely dispersed, heading off in search of other diversions. It was hard work being a tourist, Carlyle thought.

Finally, there were only a handful of people still standing by the tape. One man caught Carlyle’s eye and grinned. ‘Well, fuck me!’ the inspector mumbled under his breath. Instinctively, he felt for his handcuffs, cursing when he remembered that – not for the first time – he had left them at the station or at home or God knows where. He looked around for some support, moral or otherwise. In the distance, he could see Prentice already on the far side of the piazza, heading back to the station with a bongo drum under each arm. Everyone else had left.

Taking a deep breath, Carlyle stepped towards the tape.

‘Inspector.’ Michael Hagger doffed an imaginary cap and let the grin spread even wider across his face.

Just short of six feet, Hagger was taller and heavier than Carlyle, not to mention at least fifteen years younger. They both knew that the policeman could not take him down, one on one.

More to the point, there was no sign of the child.

‘Michael, nice to see you.’

‘I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

‘Quite a few people have.’

‘Well, here I am.’

‘Yeah, but people are also looking for the boy. Where’s Jake?’

Hagger did a little half-step dance on the cobbles. ‘The kid’s okay.’

‘That’s good.’

Hagger sniggered. ‘You know that if you lay a finger on me now, well . . . that might change.’

‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, holding his hands up in supplication. ‘I do.’

Hagger put on an expression of mock hurt. ‘It’s a shame that a father isn’t allowed to have some quality time with his son these days.’

Carlyle bit his tongue.

‘It’s not like his mother – that useless bitch – is doing much of a job anyway.’

At least that’s something we can agree on, Carlyle reflected.

Hagger gave him a sly look. ‘I’m guessing that when you do get Jake back, Social Services will take over, anyway.’

When . Carlyle liked the sound of that. On the other hand, Hagger talked shit most of the time; gibberish the rest. ‘Where is he, Michael?’

Hagger raised a fist, but only for emphasis. ‘He’s safe. And he’s well. I only need him for a few more days, and then you’ll get him back. In the meantime, tell your people to back off.’

My people? Carlyle wondered what he meant. Maybe Inspector Cutler was outperforming any expectations. ‘Okay.’

‘If Jake gets hurt,’ Hagger continued, sounding more agitated, ‘it will be your fault.’

‘No one wants Jake to get hurt,’ Carlyle said, as soothingly as he could manage.

‘Well, tell your chum Silver to behave himself, then.’

Silver? Carlyle frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with all this?’

Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, Hagger turned on his heel and began walking briskly away. ‘Just bloody tell him,’ he shouted over his shoulder.