James Craig: Nobody's Hero

Sipping his £8 beer, Seymour settled down for some people-watching. It crossed his mind that someone might recognize him from the story in the Standard but, then again, the Enclosure crowd weren’t the kind of people who read newspapers, even free ones. ‘Bloody journalists,’ Seymour clucked to himself. ‘They write rubbish that nobody bothers to read any more.’ The papers might think of him as hopeless, but that was because they only knew about the times when things hadn’t worked out. In his line of employment, being arrested was an occupational hazard – and it didn’t happen nearly as often as those poking fun at him liked to think.

By the far wall, a platinum blonde with a pageboy haircut was pawing a smug-looking pretty boy. On a large TV above their heads, a music video was playing. The sound was muted and Seymour slowly realized that a completely different song was playing over the bar’s sound system. On the screen, some girl singer and a group of dancers in combat uniforms were stomping around a derelict factory in front of a burned-out car. The whole thing looked exactly like a million other videos before it, and even the performers themselves appeared bored by what they were doing.

Seymour drained the last of his drink and was unsuccessfully trying to signal to the barman that he wanted another when he caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he clocked a man in the most outrageous suit he’d ever seen – some kind of yellow tartan number – flanked by a couple of girls whose short skirts, perfect teeth and ridiculously inflated chests immediately screamed hookers.

Pulling out his wallet, the guy waved a black credit card and a barman came scurrying. In a comedy American accent that was clearly fake, the punter ordered a magnum of Bollinger champagne. Placing his empty glass on the bar, Seymour smiled. His guests had arrived. It was time to get back to work.

Did she have a condom in her bag? Did she care? Feeling more than a little drunk, Carole Simpson slipped off her T-bar sandals and scrunched her toes into the carpet. ‘Aahhh, that feels nice .’

After a long, boring day at the Home Office’s Modern Policing Conference (Theme: ‘Accountability and Value Delivery’) she felt recklessly exhausted. Ten hours stuck in the windowless basement of a Central London hotel, listening to presentations on delivering policing and justice reforms i.e. keeping your crime stats looking reasonable while sacking as many people as possible in order to meet the Government’s budget cuts – was enough to sap anyone’s will to live. The day’s events had been followed by a drinks reception and an interminable Awards dinner. And all that tomorrow offered was the prospect of more of the same. No wonder she had downed two G amp;Ts, a bottle and a half of wine and a very large cognac at dinner.

Taking a swig from her glass of Sancerre, she staggered against the wall.

‘Carole.’ Laughing, her companion picked up the shoes and began weaving his way down the corridor.

You’re as drunk as I am , Simpson thought, hiccupng. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mushy brain, the Commander knew that the sensible course of action would be to go home. She started to look at her watch but thought better of it. Really, she should have gone home hours ago. Instead, she watched the Deputy Chief Constable of Cleveland – or was it Cumbria? – stop in front of the door to his hotel room and begin fumbling with his key card.

Swaying gently in the air conditioning, she watched as it took Lover Boy three attempts to unlock the door. Correction , said the distant voice inside her head, you’re even drunker than I am.

Holding the door open, he threw her shoes into the room and beckoned for her to follow. For a moment, her legs seemed unable to move. When was the last time she had had sex? The sad truth was, it was too long ago to remember. Another hiccup. She started to giggle like a teenager. I wonder – will he be able to get it up?

‘C’mon,’ slurred her host as he fell through the door.

‘Hold on,’ she giggled, embarrassed if anyone should hear, ‘I’m coming.’

Trying to look thoroughly pissed off, Carlyle tapped an index finger on the sheets of paper lying on the desk in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t anywhere near good enough.’

Looking at the paint peeling on the ceiling, arms folded, the would-be axe murderer, Taimur Rage, licked his lips, saying nothing. The inspector had to admit that the youth sitting in front of him wasn’t quite what he had expected. Cleanshaven, with curly chestnut hair and intense brown eyes, the boy appeared considerably younger than his stated age of nineteen. Wearing jeans and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt under a stylish navy cardigan, with an expensive pair of grey trainers on his feet, he didn’t much look like a poster boy for al-Qaeda either.

Still , Carlyle thought, stranger things have happened.

Michelangelo Federici gave his client a gentle pat on the shoulder before turning his attention to the inspector. ‘All in all, it looks like a full confession to me.’

‘A confession, but hardly a full one.’ Carlyle looked at Taimur. ‘I need the names of his associates and the details of his . . .’ he struggled to find the right word ‘. . . cell.’

‘His cell?’ Federici frowned. ‘What is the narrative that you are trying to create here? We have explained what happened and my client has already expressed contrition for his momentary lapse of sanity. There isn’t any-’

Carlyle held up a hand. Whatever happened to no obfuscation? he thought wearily. ‘The attempted murder of Joseph Belsky is clearly a terrorist hate crime,’ he snapped, cringing at the way the words sounded coming out of his mouth. ‘It was conducted against a man with a price on his head. And you are telling me that this – this kid – did it all on his own?’

The lawyer shrugged.

Eyeing both men carefully, Carlyle sat back in his chair. ‘When I walk out of here,’ he said slowly, ‘if all I have in my hand is this pile of . . .’ he waved his hand dismissively at the statement ‘. . . shite , this investigation will take a most unfortunate turn.’

‘You have to do your job,’ said Federici equably. ‘We are co-operating fully.’

‘If I am not able to do my job, the security services will be down here in the blink of an eye for a quick waterboarding session.’ Carlyle jabbed a finger towards Taimur’s face. ‘Do you want to end up in Guantanamo Bay?’ He knew that he was talking bollocks – waterboarding was so last decade – but in the absence of anything else, he reckoned it was worth a try.

Finally meeting his gaze, the boy gave him a blank look.

‘Well?’

Taimur started to say something but was quickly stopped by his lawyer. ‘My client has nothing to add to his statement which is both truthful and very comprehensive. He is adamant that he acted alone, having been radicalised on the basis of information gleaned from the internet.’ Pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, Federici handed it to Taimur and pointed to the bottom of the page. ‘Sign it there.’ The boy did as instructed and Federici handed the statement to the inspector. ‘There you are – a full confession.’

We’ll see about that , thought Carlyle, reluctantly taking the sheet of paper from the lawyer.

Pushing back his chair, Federici got to his feet. ‘I told you that we would not waste any of your time this evening.’

‘My investigation is continuing,’ Carlyle said lamely.

‘No doubt.’ Scooping up the remaining papers, the lawyer tidied them into his briefcase. ‘In the meantime, I’m sure that we could all do with some sleep.’