James Craig: Nobody's Hero

Melville took a deep breath. His boss was a small woman with a big mean streak; how she had been chosen to spread the word of God was something of a mystery to him. If it wasn’t for fear of upsetting his mum, Melville would have packed this job in long ago. Burger King would have provided more spirituality, not to mention money. ‘You told me to get something that indicated a long journey,’ he reminded her, trying to keep any kind of whining tone from his voice. ‘Terence will have sourced it from the internet or something.’

Grimacing, Elma picked a piece of lint from her designer kaftan. Terence McGuiver was another troublesome youth, steadfastly refusing to allow Jesus into his heart. But he was cheap and somehow managed to keep the Salvation Centre’s digital operations on the road, so he would probably last longer than Melville. ‘This is the Church of God,’ she said wearily, ‘not Star Trek . Probably a breach of copyright too.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Melville replied, ‘it’s not the Starship Enterprise .’ He pointed at the poster. ‘The USS Enterprise – the ship from Star Trek – has kind of wings at the back.’

‘Whatever.’ Elma waved away his explanation with an angry hand. ‘ Star Trek , Star Wars . . .’

‘ Star Wars ? That’s not really Terry’s kind of thing either. It’s more likely from Prometheus , somethin’ like that.’

Pushing back her shoulders, Elma tried to give the boy a hard stare. Even in her heels, however, she barely came up to his chin. ‘Regardless of its name,’ she hissed, ‘it has got ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with the sweet Lord Jesus, has it?’

‘Well,’ Melville stroked his chin in mock contemplation, ‘I think I read somewhere that there are those who think that Jesus was some kind of spaceman.’

Resisting the temptation to give the boy a sharp clip round the ear, Elma moved on. ‘How many have we got?’ she asked, looking around the largely empty foyer.

Melville tapped a couple of keys on his phone and gazed enquiringly at the screen. ‘One hundred and twenty-six, so far.’

‘Is that all?’ Elma shook her head in disbelief. If she didn’t get at least double that into the Novotel’s theatre and conference centre, the CSC would struggle to cover its costs. Miracle amp; Healing™ was supposed to be a flagship event. Elma had shipped speakers over from India and the United States; if the conference was a flop, her chances of breaking out of the London market and going international would take a serious hit. ‘Don’t people in this God-forsaken city want to be healed?’

‘We have three hundred registered attendees,’ the boy said quickly, ‘and after leafleting the local neighbourhood last night, we are anticipating walk-in of up to a hundred.’

‘Let’s hope they bring their credit cards,’ Elma snapped, ‘and are ready to spend big.’ Checking her Rolex Oyster Perpetual – a gift from a grateful member of her flock – she felt exhausted, completely devoid of the energy she would need for her sermon, which was due to start in less than two hours’ time. Closing her eyes, Elma pushed her mantra to the front of her brain:

God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

God will not give me anything I can’t handle.

With a sigh, she pointed towards the Business Centre, past the reception desk towards the back of the hotel. ‘Go and check that my speech is ready. We’ll do a final rehearsal later.’

‘Hm.’

‘We will,’ Elma insisted. ‘Right now, I need to go and get some rest. If I’m not at my best, you know I won’t be able to perform.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You know so, boy.’ She brusquely waved him away. ‘Now go and get busy.’

Melville looked at her blankly. ‘Doing what?’

‘Whatever it is you do,’ Elma said tiredly. ‘Whatever it is you do.’

‘You’re already in the paper.’ Inspector John Carlyle casually tossed his copy of the Evening Standard across the desk before pulling up a chair and plonking himself down.

Putting down his mug of tea, Seymour Erikssen picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and brought it up till it was about three inches from his nose. Squinting at his photograph, he smiled. ‘That’s from quite a few years ago now,’ he mused. ‘I was looking good back then. Had more hair, for a start. Not so many lines around the eyes.’

‘We’re all getting older.’ The inspector took a bulging file of notes from under his arm and placed them carefully in front of him.

‘Yes, we are.’ Seymour dropped the paper back on the desk. ‘I remember you when you first arrived here at Charing Cross nick. That must have been about . . . what, fifteen, sixteen years ago?’

‘Something like that.’ The old guy was a few years out but the inspector wasn’t minded to correct him.

Seymour looked him up and down. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight since then. Lost some hair yourself.’ He gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘And when did you start wearing specs?’

‘A while ago now.’ Carlyle reflexively touched his Lindberg frames. He was long due another eye-test, but with glasses at £450 a pair it could wait.

Seymour patted his jacket pocket. ‘I’m not sure where I put mine. I think I might have lost them earlier this evening.’

‘When you were running down Monmouth Street with three iPads under your arm, trying to evade WPC Mason?’

‘Could be,’ Seymour acknowledged breezily. ‘She’s quite nippy, that girl.’

‘They all are,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘once you get to your age.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Seymour replied wistfully, ‘But back in the day . . .’

‘Back in the day,’ Carlyle reminded him gently, ‘you were still getting caught.’

‘Hmm. I must have been one of your first arrests when you got here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Remind me, where did you come from?’

‘Bethnal Green.’

‘Bethnal Green, that’s right. A bit grim out there.’

‘Quite.’

‘Poor pickings compared to the West End.’

‘Doesn’t make any odds, does it, if you keep on getting caught?’

Seymour gave him an amused look that made the inspector wonder just how often the old burglar hadn ’ t been caught, and asked, ‘How many times is it now?’

‘That I’ve nicked you?’ Carlyle looked heavenward. ‘I dunno, seven maybe? Eight? Too bloody many, anyway.’

‘Come on, Inspector,’ Seymour chuckled, ‘lighten up, it’s just a game.’

‘A game you keep losing.’

‘It’s not the winning, as my old ma used to say, it’s the taking part.’

‘Seymour . . .’

Lifting the newspaper from the desk, Erikssen scanned the story of his latest arrest for a second time. ‘Still, at least I made page four.’

‘It’s nothing to be proud about.’ Leaning across the table, the inspector tapped the headline under Seymour’s nose: BACK BEHIND BARS: LONDON’S MOST HOPELESS CRIMINAL .

Seymour finished reading the article and noted, ‘The press got on to it quick.’

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Who’s the journalist?’

‘No idea.’ The inspector didn’t need to check the byline. Bernard Gilmore was one of Carlyle’s long-term journalist contacts. The fact that he had tipped Bernie off the night before was not something he was going to share with Seymour. ‘Anyway, it’s not exactly something to tell the grandkids about.’