James Craig - Time of Death

Moving over to the kitchen window, he flicked open the latch and stepped out on to the same fire escape where he had found Sylvester Bassett, the pathologist, having a smoke on the morning after Agatha Mills’s death. Sitting on the small landing just below the windowsill, Carlyle let his head rest against the metal handrail of the fire escape and closed his eyes. In the cool silence of the stairwell, he spent a minute or so running through the day’s events in his head. Reaching no particular conclusions, he dug into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a list of the Chilean guests who had attended the Mayor’s reception at City Hall, a week earlier.

The list had arrived, as promised, from the Ambassador’s office the day after the actual event. A couple of days after that, Carlyle had stuck it in his jacket pocket and basically forgotten about it. Now, for want of anything better to do, he began scanning the rows of names and organisations, none of which meant anything to him. After a short while, his eyes glazed over. Putting the list back in his pocket, he just sat there, staring into the darkened windows of the empty flats opposite.

After a while, his thoughts turned to Rosanna Snowdon. She had asked for his help: had he let her down? He really had no idea. Had he got her killed? Surely not. The bastard who killed her was the bastard who killed her. He had long ago realised that he was not the kind of guy who tried on other people’s guilt for size.

He was spared any extended reflection by the phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. He frowned, convinced that he had switched it off, before realising that the one ringing was his private phone. Muttering to himself, he checked the incoming number – Dominic Silver.

‘Hello?’ he barked.

‘So you do actually know how to answer your phone,’ Dominic chuckled.

‘I thought you were supposed to be busy,’ Carlyle said, remembering the man’s last message.

‘I was . . . I am, but you sounded harassed.’

‘I am.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Dominic, exuding unreasonable reasonableness. ‘So how can I help?’

Carlyle took a moment to remember the problem in question. ‘Michael Hagger.’

‘Yes,’ Dominic said breezily, ‘what about him?’

‘He came to see me.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Dominic’s tone remained determinedly cheery, but Carlyle could now detect an underlying wariness. ‘Did he bring the boy?’

‘No, but he said that Jake was okay.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’

‘Hagger also said that he would be returning him soon.’

Dominic said nothing to that.

‘And he also said,’ Carlyle continued, ‘that I was to tell you to back off.’

Dominic laughed. ‘And what did you say?’

‘What could I say?’ Carlyle shot back, with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘I didn’t have a bloody clue what he was talking about.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘How should I know?’ Carlyle snapped.

‘You let him go?’

‘Dominic, what was I supposed to do? We don’t know where the kid is or even why he’s being held,’ Carlyle pointed out, glossing over the fact that Hagger could have easily decked him if he had been silly enough to try and arrest him.

‘Ever the pragmatist,’ Silver joked. ‘Let’s hope that no one finds out how you let London’s Most Wanted walk away from you.’

‘Hardly,’ Carlyle muttered.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘No, but you can see how it could look.’

Carlyle felt a stab of anger. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, no,’ Dominic said quickly. ‘Of course not.’

Carlyle grunted.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Dominic continued. ‘All I’m suggesting is, don’t go round telling anyone.’

‘As if.’

‘Good.’

‘So,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what is going on here?’ There was a pause and the inspector could almost hear the hum of his mate’s brain as he edited the information that he was about to share.

Finally, Dominic spoke. ‘As you know, Hagger sometimes worked for Jerome Sullivan.’

‘Who?’

‘You know – the bloke on that video I showed you; the genius who shot himself and fell off the roof of his own building. The clip on the mobile phone where you spotted Hagger in the background?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle, not liking where this was going.

‘Well, it seems that Hagger and Jerome’s other idiot mate, Eric Christian, have been trying to keep the show on the road since the demise of their glorious leader. But they’re clearly not up to it. One of my . . . associates has asked me to sort it out.’

‘ Asked you?’

‘Instructed me.’

Carlyle sighed. Normally, he didn’t like knowing too much about the mechanics of Dominic Silver’s profession, but here he needed to know what he was getting wrapped up in. ‘I didn’t think you did that sort of thing,’ he remarked.

‘I don’t,’ Dominic said. ‘All I’m trying to do is facilitate a satisfactory resolution for the mess.’

‘Including Jake?’

‘Including Jake.’

Carlyle shifted uneasily on his perch. ‘Will it involve more people falling off buildings?’

‘Let’s hope not,’ was the best Dominic could manage.

‘So where does the kid fit into all of this?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Hagger put him up as collateral for a debt owed by Jerome.’

‘Collateral?’ Carlyle snorted. ‘How much can the boy be worth?’

There was another pause. ‘Quite a bit, if you know the wrong sort of people.’

Carlyle felt his stomach turn. ‘How much?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who holds the debt?’

‘Not sure.’

‘Speculate.’

‘No, I won’t. Not at this stage.’

‘How long have we got?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What happens if Hagger doesn’t come up with the money?’

‘The kid gets auctioned off,’ said Dominic matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious.

‘C’mon,’ Carlyle whined, ‘don’t give me this bollocks.’

‘I’m not giving you any bollocks,’ Dominic retorted. ‘I’m just telling you how it is. Don’t shoot the fucking messenger. I’m only trying to help you here.’

‘Jesus,’ Carlyle said wearily. ‘What are you doing, getting involved in this type of shit?’

‘I’m trying to sort it out,’ Dominic said testily.

Carlyle coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it out over the side of the fire escape and into the alley below. His mouth was dry and he felt terrible. What type of degenerate scumbag would sell their own kid? Never mind Dominic: how did he manage to get involved in these type of situations?

‘John, I’ve got to go . . .’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle pulled himself together. ‘All I want is the boy. Whatever you need to do to get him back, I will do my best to make sure that any official fallout gets dealt with.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Dominic said.

‘Just fucking get him back,’ Carlyle growled. ‘Unhurt and unmolested.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing happens to Jake, even if I have to pay for him out of my own pocket.’

‘You’d better.’

‘What sort of a man do you think I am?’

You really don’t expect me to answer that, do you? Carlyle thought. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t, because I have no idea. Look, just sit tight – this thing will get resolved soon.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Carlyle said resentfully.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch. I’ll make sure you get the tip-off, rather than that idiot Cutler.’

With that gentle reminder to Carlyle that he wasn’t the only policeman in town, the line went dead. The inspector put the phone back in his pocket and scratched his ear. Stepping back to the window, he tried to lift it open again, but it was stuck. Cursing, he gave the frame a push with both hands, but with no success. Peering inside, he could see that the latch must have re-engaged itself after he had stepped outside. His initial thought was to break the glass, then he realised he could just walk on down the fire escape and out on to the street. He thought about that for the moment. Even if the window had been locked when they found Agatha Mills – and he would have to check that with Bassett – someone could still have left the flat and exited the building this same way. Maybe they could have got in this way too. With the possibilities bouncing round in his brain, Carlyle carefully made his way down to the alley below.