James Craig - Nobody's Hero

How had something so simple managed to become so complicated?

After a few minutes, the pathologist appeared in the doorway and gave him a rueful smile. Dressed in faded jeans and a crisp white shirt, with her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, she was looking good.

‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ he quipped.

‘Hm.’ Phillips’ smile quickly ebbed away. ‘Nico isn’t best pleased. He had plans for today.’

Nico? That must be the current boyfriend. Carlyle didn’t ask – there would be another one along in a minute. Phillips was high maintenance. Unlike Helen. He thought of his wife and gave silent thanks for her many qualities.

‘We were supposed to be going to the races.’

‘Shame.’ The inspector glanced towards the door. From here, all you could see of the body were the bright red Converse All Stars on Belsky’s feet. ‘What happened?’

‘Hard to say.’ Phillips pulled off her latex gloves. ‘Maybe he had some kind of stroke.’

Carlyle wondered about Taimur Rage. Should the boy now be charged with murder? He would have to talk to Simpson about that. ‘Presumably it was stress-related?’

‘Possibly. It might have been triggered by the attack or it might have been brought on by being stuck inside the panic room.’

Triple RXD are not going to like that , Carlyle thought.

‘Or it might just be a coincidence. The guy was in his late sixties and not in great shape. Maybe it would have happened anyway.’

‘That would be handy,’ Carlyle said hopefully. ‘Less paperwork.’

‘It will be what it will be,’ Phillips said flatly, not appreciating the quip. ‘I’m not going to commit myself now.’

‘No, no, of course not.’

She signalled to the paramedics that they could take Belsky away. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had a look.’

‘Thanks.’ Following Phillips into the living room, he stepped over to the window and peered out at the city.

‘Nice view,’ said Phillips, gesturing at the river as she appeared at his shoulder.

‘Yeah.’

‘Expensive.’

‘No doubt.’ Placing his forehead against the window pane, he tried to make out the press pack waiting on the street below. Unsurprisingly, it had grown after Belsky’s death had become known and there were at least three satellite trucks broadcasting live from the scene.

‘Are you going to say anything?’ Phillips asked.

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Seeing as I’ve got nothing to say. That kind of thing is best left to the Commander.’ It suddenly struck him as odd that Carole Simpson hadn’t yet given him a call. With the news all over the TV and the internet, she would normally be hassling him for updates at every opportunity.

‘And what about the other one?’

‘What other one?’ Carlyle frowned.

‘The man who keeled over on Waterloo Bridge.’

‘Oh, him.’ The inspector made a face. ‘Haven’t seen any paperwork yet. And I haven’t had time to check the contents of his briefcase.’

Phillips shot him a disapproving stare.

‘Have you taken a look yet?’ Carlyle countered. ‘Was it a heart attack?’

‘That’s still tbc. With no suspicious circumstances, he’s not a top priority. We’ve got a bit of a backlog at the moment.’

Just for a change , the inspector thought.

‘And Belsky, of course, will jump in front of him in the queue.’

‘I don’t suppose he’ll complain.’

‘But his family will.’

That reminds me , Carlyle thought, I’d better see if someone’s checked the Missing Persons list. ‘If he has one.’

‘It’s a really shit part of the job. Having to explain to people why they can’t have the body of their loved one back. They think we’re just lazy and slow, but it’s the bloody cuts. They’re killing us.’

‘Yes.’

Realizing that he wasn’t interested in listening to yet another complaint about government incompetence and their draconian cuts in police spending, she quickly returned to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, my best guess is that our Waterloo Bridge Guy won’t be done up for a couple more days yet at the absolute earliest.’ She gave him a winning smile. ‘Don’t worry though, I’ll get him cut open before the end of next week.’

Lovely , Carlyle thought, fighting to keep a mental image of Phillips with a scalpel out of his head. Squeamish at the best of times, he didn’t like to dwell too much on what happened to her clients once they reached the slab.

Aware of his weak stomach, the smile on Phillips’ face grew wider. ‘You can come and watch me do the autopsy, if you like.’

‘That’s very kind,’ holding up a hand, Carlyle was already heading out of the flat, ‘but not really necessary . . .’

‘Oh, my.’ Slowly, the Reverend Jerome Mears lifted up his left foot and carefully removed the used Trojan that had stuck to it. Lifting the condom a couple of inches in front of his nose, he carefully inspected the contents. Who said London girls didn’t know how to party? The fact that one had been Danish and the other had been what – Irish? – was neither here nor there.

Looking slowly around the hotel room, Jerome couldn’t spy a trash can. After a moment’s contemplation he dropped the offending article into a dirty tea cup sitting on the desk by the far wall. Scratching his balls vigorously, he breathed in the familiar smells of sweat, spilled juices and sex. The girls had long gone, leaving the hotel room looking as if it had just hosted a Guns ’N’ Roses after-party. ‘We are all slaves to sin,’ Jerome said aloud. ‘Some more than others.’

However, rather than feeling wasted after his night of debauchery, he felt energized. Despite the three of them putting away seven bottles of champagne, he didn’t have any trace of a hangover. And the alcohol certainly hadn’t negatively impacted his performance. Thinking about the events of last night was giving him a boner – but a few quick tugs were enough for him to realize that the tank was empty. He needed food. Letting his dick fall from his hand, he reached for the room service menu and ordered a Full English breakfast.

After he had showered and dressed, the Reverend began packing for the flight home. He had a sermon to preach in Houston in less than twenty-four hours. It would be a blessed relief to be back in the fold among true believers. The King’s Cross crowd had been so lame he had been seriously worried that Elma Reyes was indeed going to try and stiff him on the balance of his fee. Recalling the moment when she dropped her towel and stood in front of him buck naked, he shuddered.

In the end, after a lot of grumbling and a half-hearted effort at renegotiating, Elma had come up with his cash. But, from a professional point of view, the whole experience had been deeply unsatisfactory. By his calculation, there had been less than a hundred people in the audience and Jerome strongly suspected that many of those were ringers, stand-ins who had been rounded up by some of Elma’s little helpers. Before the first Halleluiah had issued from his mouth, the Reverend had already decided that he would not be coming back. The First Annual Miracle amp; Healing Conference™ would also be the last Annual Miracle amp; Healing Conference™ as far as he was concerned. This had been a onetime gig. London? What a total dump. Even the good-time girls couldn’t save it.

Stuffing the last of his toiletries into his Louis Vuitton weekend bag, Jerome pulled open the closet door – and froze. ‘Oh, my good Lord.’ He stood there, willing the evidence of his eyes to be false. At the back of the closet, the mini-safe was wide open and his cash – the fee from Elma – was gone. ‘I’ve been robbed,’ he breathed, not willing to believe it. ‘God give me strength. I’ve been robbed.’