James Craig: Nobody's Hero

Taking a seat opposite him, Helen pulled a chocolate muffin out of the bag and began cutting it into quarters with a plastic knife.

Mm , Carlyle thought, that looks good.

‘Tough night?’ Helen asked, popping a sliver of muffin into her mouth.

Chewing on the last of his croissant, Carlyle told her, ‘More for Umar than for me.’ Keeping his voice low, he explained the situation with Belsky and the axe man.

‘Yeah. I heard about it on the radio this morning. He jumped in a panic room and can’t get out.’

‘Some problem with the lock, apparently. At least the panic room did the job it was supposed to do.’

‘Seems like it – a bit too well, maybe. Is he still stuck in there?’

‘As far as I know.’ Relaxing into his armchair, Carlyle was in no hurry to check in with Umar to find out.

‘Will he be okay?’

‘Belsky? Yeah, he should be fine. He could probably survive in there for weeks, if not months, if he had to.’

‘In a prison of his own making.’

‘Kind of. If the worst comes to the worst, I suppose they can smash through the outside wall or something.’

Picking up her cup, Helen took a sip and settled back in her chair. ‘Serves him right.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it was a deliberately provocative thing to do.’

‘What? Drawing a cartoon of the prophet Muhammad?’

‘Under the circumstances, it was a rather juvenile, male thing to do.’ A look descended on Helen’s face that Carlyle knew only too well. Stupidly, he had risen to the bait and she was going to educate him on a few basic facts of life. ‘Publishing a cartoon that they knew would cause offence and wind up a whole cross-section of nutters was just self-indulgent and totally irresponsible.’

‘Ha.’ Carlyle laughed. Working for an international medical aid charity, his wife was the social conscience of the family. However, that did not mean that she was a stereotypical, lentil-sucking liberal. Helen judged everything – and everyone – on their merits, as she saw them. And her husband liked the fact that she could regularly surprise him with her trenchant views on random subjects. ‘What about freedom of speech?’

‘It has its limits,’ Helen declared, ‘like everything else. A greedy publisher publishes a controversial cartoon, in order to sell newspapers. It’s a commercial business decision, nothing to do with free speech.’

‘Mm.’

‘And you have a willing dupe like Joseph Belsky, who is more than ready to play along, in order to get his fifteen minutes of fame.’

‘Rather more than fifteen minutes,’ Carlyle said. ‘This palaver has been going on for years.’

‘You know what I mean. It’s just a way of saying look at me . Like,’ she waved a hand in the air, ‘like the American author who shot himself in the head to get publicity for his book.’

That sounds like a good idea , thought Carlyle. Maybe it’ll catch on.

Tuning into their conversation, Alice looked up. ‘Did he kill himself?’

‘No, I think he survived.’ Helen took a sip of her coffee. ‘It was in the paper last week; some guy you’ve never heard of.’

‘Not really serious then, was he?’ Not waiting for a reply, Alice ducked back behind the pages of her paper.

Looking at her husband, Helen raised an amused eyebrow. ‘That’s exactly the point. It’s just dilettantism.’

‘Either way, the police still have to clean up the mess.’

Reaching across the table, Helen gave him a consoling pat on the arm. ‘Poor you.’

Yes , Carlyle thought, poor bloody me. He was momentarily distracted by two pretty girls in short skirts wandering into the café.

‘I’ve met him a couple of times.’

‘Eh?’ Worried that his gawping had been noticed, he quickly turned to meet his wife’s gaze.

‘Belsky.’ If Helen had noticed his wandering eye, she was too polite to mention it. ‘He’s a regular donor and has attended a couple of Avalon’s fundraising events. He was at the Congo event a while back. Even gave us some drawings for the charity auction. They raised a few hundred quid.’

‘If he’s a supporter of the charity, shouldn’t you be supporting him, rather than biting the hand that feeds you?’

Finishing her coffee, she gave him a stern look. ‘We don’t support people willy-nilly, just because they give us some cash. You can be a berk and still manage to support a good cause.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Belsky struck me as being more than a bit smug. He knew what he was doing when he drew the cartoon. In the blink of an eye, he went from being an anonymous cartoonist to some kind of poster boy for western democracy, which, as we all know, is a long way from being perfect.’

‘True.’ With the conversation veering off at a tangent, the inspector glanced at his watch, wondering if he really shouldn’t be getting on his way.

‘At the charity do, I was on his table and he was holding court all night,’ Helen explained. ‘It was all about him, if you know what I mean. He’s a man with a monster ego.’

‘Umar will get him out. By the way, before I forget, it will be baby Ella’s birthday soon. What shall we get her?’ i.e. Can you organize a present from us? He flashed what he hoped was a winning smile.

‘God. Is it a year already?’ Reaching into her bag, Helen pulled out a diary and a biro. Scribbling down a note, she put both pen and diary back into the bag. ‘Time flies.’

‘Yeah.’ Instinctively, they both looked over at Alice, still engrossed in her paper, and exchanged a knowing smile. There was nothing that accelerated the passage of time like being a parent.

‘Alice and I can see about getting something in the market this morning.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve got plans,’ said Alice flatly.

Her mother took a deep breath. ‘Well, it won’t take long. I can give Christina a call and see what she thinks might be good to get.’

Carlyle brushed the remains of his pastry from his shirt. ‘That would be great. Umar says she’s having a bit of a hard time right now.’

‘It’s a hard time for anyone, after having a baby.’

‘Sure.’

‘Maybe she’s missing work.’

‘She’s hardly going to go back to Everton’s, is she?’ Everton’s was a strip club round the corner from the Carlyle family’s flat, close to Holborn tube. Christina, an American student, had first met Umar there when the Met had raided the place, looking for illegal immigrants.

‘No,’ said Helen, her voice tart, ‘but she might want to do something.’

‘Who works at Everton’s?’ Alice asked.

‘No one,’ said her father.

‘Maybe we should do some babysitting,’ said Helen. ‘Give them some time off to go and see a movie or something.’

I don’t know about that , Carlyle thought. As far as the inspector was concerned, his babysitting days were long gone. ‘Er, yes,’ he replied, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Why not?’

‘It would be nice to at least offer,’ his wife replied, picking up on his downbeat tone.

‘Yes.’ Just as long as they don’t take us up on it.

‘It’s been a long time since you changed a nappy,’ Helen pointed out.

‘Not that long.’

‘Dad,’ Alice protested, not looking up from her reading.

‘Well . . .’ Suddenly his brain disengaged from his mouth as he recalled the voicemail from the desk sergeant at the station. Chris Brennan. Chris bloody Brennan. What did he want? Jumping to his feet, he was in two minds. Should he head for the station, or head back across the river to Belsky’s apartment? Making a decision, he reached over and kissed his wife on the top of her head. ‘I’d better get going.’