James Craig - Nobody's Hero

‘I want a lawyer,’ Safi shouted.

‘That is your right,’ Denton said flatly.

Carlyle adopted a pained expression. ‘We have tried to reach Mr Federici – he isn’t answering his phone at the moment.’

‘Not him,’ Safi squealed. ‘He works for my wife. I need someone else.’

‘Do you have your own lawyer?’ Denton asked.

‘Nah,’ Safi shook his head. ‘But you need to get me one, don’t you?’ The thought cheered him and he let out a brittle cackle. ‘It’s the law, innit?’

Denton gave him a look that Carlyle interpreted as her itching to give the little shit a good slap herself. Allowing himself a smirk, he realized that he was warming to the woman.

‘You’ve gotta get me a lawyer,’ Safi persisted, ‘and he’s gonna sue your arse off.’

‘That will take a bit of time,’ Denton said, trying to sound as calm as possible, ‘but let me set the wheels in motion.’

‘Good.’ Safi flashed a set of chipped, yellow fangs that Carlyle had not noticed before.

‘In the meantime,’ Denton added primly, ‘anything that you tell us of your own volition will be to your benefit.’

Looking at her suspiciously, Safi immediately shut his mouth.

Good luck with that , Carlyle thought. Reaching for the door handle, he slipped into the corridor.

Leaving the prisoner with Umar, Denton swiftly followed him outside. ‘Inspector – can I have a quick word?’

Carlyle half-turned, giving her an apologetic smile. ‘I really do have to go.’

‘I just wanted to thank you for bringing Safi in as we agreed.’

‘Ah.’ Wrong-footed, he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

‘I’m sure that you must have been under a lot of pressure from Flux.’

‘We had a deal.’ Looking past Denton’s shoulder, he saw Sonia Mason come sashaying down the hallway, carrying a stack of green files. As she passed, the WPC gave him an inquisitive look. He ignored her as best he could, waiting until she had disappeared round the corner before adding, ‘I did what I said I would do.’

‘True,’ the prosecutor continued, ‘but still, I know what it’s like when you’re being pulled in two directions at once.’

‘Mm.’

‘Even so, you have to be careful. Whatever actually happened, the guy looks like he’s been beaten up – quite badly, too. Lucky for you he asked for a lawyer and not a doctor.’

Rocking back on his heels, Carlyle stared at his shoes. As usual, they could do with a polish. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m not worried. I will conduct my interview with Safi right now and get him out of here as quickly as possible, before he can hook up with the duty solicitor. Flux can sort out any loose ends.’

‘He’ll be happy to do that.’

‘Good.’ The prosecutor pushed a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Still, it’s not clever, bringing him in like that.’

‘No.’

‘Commander Simpson said you had anger management issues.’

Did she now? Allowing himself a rueful smile, Carlyle gestured towards the interview room with his chin. ‘I didn’t lay a finger on him.’

‘Carole also said something about poor impulse control.’

‘Maybe she was being ironic.’

‘Ha.’ Denton shook her head. She was trying to look stern but her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘I don’t think so. That’s not really her style.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘Anyway, as it happens, I’m off to see a psychiatrist right now.’

‘Really?’ Denton failed to hold her curiosity in check. ‘In a personal capacity?’

As if. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be confidential?’ he teased her.

‘Of course, of course,’ she agreed. ‘But either way, I hope it’s useful.’

‘ Either way ,’ he quipped, ‘I’ll mention my boss’s concerns about my various personality flaws; see if the shrink has got any tips.’

Sitting in the under-lit reception of the Doppio Clinic, Carlyle browsed a discarded copy of that morning’s Metro . On page four of the freesheet – opposite a full-page MI6 recruitment advert inviting applicants for Security Officers – was a story about a group of Muslim extremists who had been jailed by a court in Epping Forest for encouraging attacks on British soldiers. Halfway down the story, he noted a paragraph that claimed that the four men had taken part in a protest against a rival newspaper that had published Joseph Belsky’s controversial cartoon featuring the Prophet Muhammad. Amongst other things, they called for a repeat of the 7/7 bombing attacks in London and vowed to see British troops in Afghanistan coming home in body bags.

Why do they call them ‘ extremists ’ ? Carlyle wondered. ‘ Nutters ’ would be more appropriate. He thought back to his experience of growing up in London during the 1970s and 1980s. Back then, it was all about Irish terrorism. ‘Northern’ and ‘Ireland’ were, by common consent, the two most boring words in the English language. At that time, the man in the street had never even heard of Islam, and Holy Wars were confined to the history books.

Now the world seemed a much different place. IRA boss Martin McGuinness was shaking hands with the Queen, and Public Enemy No. 1 was now some bloke called Abu something-or-other. At least the security services still had a new bunch of morons to fight. That was the thing , wasn ’ t it? Always have a new enemy up your sleeve , ready for when the old one packs it in.

Over the top of his newspaper he saw the door to Dr Janice Anderson’s office open slightly. A small, pinched woman slipped through the gap and scuttled towards the exit. From inside the office, the door was pushed shut. The inspector returned to his paper. A few moments later, the door opened again and a woman’s head popped out.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’ She fixed him with a professionally blank expression that suggested neither irritation nor pleasure at his presence. ‘Please come in.’

Jumping to his feet, Carlyle tossed the paper onto the chair and headed inside.

With its white walls, varnished wooden floors and empty bookcases, the room was functional and rather depressing. There were three uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs facing a large wooden desk and, rather disappointingly, no couch. The desk itself was empty apart from a stack of papers, a telephone and a half-full glass of water. Behind the desk, with its back to the window, was an outsized executive leather chair.

‘Take a seat.’ Janice Anderson sat down on the chair behind the desk. Her dark hair, showing streaks of grey, was cut into a short bob, with a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on the top of her head. Wearing a black polo-neck sweater, she had a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist, and an expensive watch on her right one. All in all, it was a fairly standard casual-professional look. Reaching over, she grasped the glass of water, taking a sip to buy a little time while she eyed up her new visitor.

Listening to the comforting traffic noise outside, the inspector waited patiently for his host to ready herself. It ’ s a bit like the Sopranos , he thought. Except I ’ m not Tony Soprano and you ’ re not Dr Melfi.

‘So,’ she said finally, having taken his measure, ‘what can I do for you? Is this business or personal?’

‘Business.’ Crossing his legs, Carlyle sat back in his chair. ‘I have an interest in one of your patients, Taimur Rage.’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’

‘I spoke to a journalist called Bernie Gilmore. I believe that he has already contacted you.’