James Craig: Nobody's Hero

He had barely made it to his desk on the third floor of the station when a call came in from Umar.

‘Tell me you’ve got the guy out,’ Carlyle said.

‘Not yet. They’ve now decided to try and smash through the wall.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Why didn’t they think of that earlier?’

‘It’s not as easy as a few blows with a sledgehammer,’ Umar explained, the weariness in his voice clear. ‘The walls have steel reinforcements as well.’

‘Hasn’t it got a window?’

‘Nope. Basically, the guy has locked himself in a big metal box. The door has a computer-generated lock and there’s been some kind of IT meltdown.’

Sounds all too plausible , Carlyle thought.

‘It looks like it’s gonna take a while longer to get him out.’

‘Yeah, but how much longer?’

‘No idea.’

‘Great.’

‘Look at it this way,’ Umar chuckled suddenly, ‘it’s a good advert for the people who make the panic rooms. No one can get into the bloody thing.’

‘No,’ Carlyle mused, ‘but the issue here is how you get out of it. Are you sure that Belsky won’t suffocate in there?’

‘He’s fine. He’s got food and water in there. Even some books. His mobile can’t get a signal but he has a landline. I spoke to him an hour or so ago and he sounded very chipper.’

‘Okay.’

‘Meanwhile, how are you getting on with the axe man?’

‘Axe boy , more like.’ Carlyle talked the sergeant through the highlights of his interview with Taimur Rage.

‘That’s great,’ Umar observed, ‘that he’s confessed.’

‘We’ll see,’ Carlyle said.

‘It’s a total result!’ Umar exclaimed, ignoring his boss’s grumpiness. ‘A nice, quick win. Good news.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I can feel a press conference coming on.’

‘I’ll leave that to you.’ Carlyle thought of Seymour Erikssen and Bernie Gilmore. ‘But let’s try and keep this little drama out of the media for the moment.’

‘Too late for that,’ Umar said. ‘The press have turned up already.’

‘What?’ Carlyle groaned. ‘How did they find out?’

‘Belsky rang up the BBC and gave them an interview.’

‘What a genius. I hope you told him to shut up.’

‘I’ve asked him not to speak to any more press until we get him out. So far, we’ve got a couple of TV crews and half a dozen reporters on the street outside.’ Umar yawned. ‘At least the uniforms managed to stop them getting into the building.’

‘Mm.’

‘Are you coming back over here?’

You’ve got to be kidding , Carlyle thought. I’m going to bed . ‘I’ve got stuff to do here,’ he lied. ‘Anyway, sounds like you’ve got things well under control.’

Umar registered his displeasure with a grunt.

‘What about the girl?’ Carlyle asked, ignoring his sergeant’s obvious dismay at the way in which his night had unfolded.

‘Her mother finally made an appearance and picked her up. They’ve gone home. She seemed to be fine.’

‘Children can be remarkably resilient,’ Carlyle mused. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Joanne . . . Joanne Belsky. Nine years old. She fell asleep after you left. Seems a nice kid.’

Joanne Belsky . Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Mother not married?’

‘Maybe not. Does it make a difference?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Anyway, you can ask her yourself. I told her to bring the girl to the station so that she could make a statement.’

‘Fine.’ Carlyle glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already a lot closer to 10 a.m. than he would have liked. As he got older, the inspector found that a lack of sleep could seriously impede his performance on the job. Eight, or even nine hours, was the minimum required if he was going to trot into work fresh and ready to go. Tonight he was only going to get a fraction of that. On the other hand, he was going to get a lot more than Umar. The realization made him feel a little better. ‘Let me know when you finally get Grandpa Belsky out of Fort Knox.’

Umar laughed. ‘Will do.’

‘Seeing as we’ve supposedly “solved” the case already, there’s no rush.’

He was woken by his daughter flopping onto the bed. ‘Da-ad. Get up. Mum says you’re taking us out for breakfast.’

‘Urgh,’ Carlyle groaned, burrowing deeper under the duvet.

‘Get up,’ Alice demanded, stripping off the covers.

‘Bloody hell.’ Yawning, he scratched himself. ‘Shouldn’t you be off to school?’

‘It’s Saturday,’ Alice trilled. Grabbing her father by his ankle, she made a half-hearted attempt to pull him off the bed.

‘Bugger off,’ he hissed, his eyes clamped shut against the light streaming through the window.

‘It’s almost ten o’clock,’ Alice laughed, letting go of his foot. ‘Mum says you’ve got one minute to get out of bed.’

‘Yes, it’s time for you to get up.’ Helen appeared in the doorway waving his mobile in her hand. ‘Your phone’s going mental and I need some coffee. So hurry up.’

‘Okay, okay, you win.’ Slowly, slowly, Carlyle edged himself off the bed. Opening one eye, he stumbled towards the bathroom. ‘Give me five minutes.’

Entering the Caffé Nero at the top of Long Acre, the inspector wished he was back in bed. It was hot, noisy and, as usual, the place was full of tourists who couldn’t find the piazza. Luckily, his arrival had coincided with an elderly couple getting up to leave. Plonking himself down in an armchair, Carlyle commandeered a third chair and settled in to guard the table while Helen and Alice went to buy the drinks. In his hand was a bag of goodies smuggled in from the Patisserie Valerie next door. The neighbouring café did the best pastries, Nero did the best coffee and the inspector liked to mix and match. Sticking his hand in the bag, he pulled out a chunk of almond croissant and slipped it into his mouth under the bored gaze of the wan-looking girl who was briskly clearing the used cups, plates and empty packaging from the table. Alice and Helen were chatting away in the queue, stuck behind a family who seemed incapable of agreeing on their order. Muttering unhappily, Carlyle pulled out his mobile. The screen told him he had eight missed calls, annoying him even further. Grumbling, he hit 901 and pulled up the first message.

It’s Bernie Gilmore, call me.

Grimacing, Carlyle hit 3 to delete the call and waited for the next message to play.

It’s Umar, nothing much to report-

3.

Inspector, it’s the front desk at Charing Cross. There’s a guy here wanting to speak to you called Chris Brennan-

3.

After an almost interminable delay, Helen appeared with a coffee in each hand. Behind her, Alice was drinking an outsized orange and mango smoothie through a straw. Under her arm was a copy of the Daily Mirror . Carlyle noted the front page headline – MY SEX GANG SHAME – and sighed. W hen’s she going to start reading a proper paper? he wondered. Long of the view that they would all be better off if they didn’t read any newspapers at all, the inspector really didn’t like the thought of his daughter reading that kind of stuff. But she was growing up and he realized that there simply wasn’t anything that he could do about it. Like so many things, if he made it an issue, he made it a problem.

‘Here you go.’ Helen placed his cup carefully on the table as Alice jumped into the next chair. Kicking off her sandals, she swung her legs over the side of the chair and began reading her paper.

‘Thanks.’ Taking a cup, Carlyle took a mouthful of coffee – nice and hot, just how he liked it – and checked out the rest of his missed calls. Umar had called him another three times, most recently just before nine. Looks like he’s had to pull an all-nighter , Carlyle thought. Grabbing the remains of his croissant, he handed the Patisserie Valerie bag to his wife.