James Craig - Nobody's Hero

The smile wavered. ‘We had a brief conversation. Mr Gilmore is a most engaging character.’

‘Bernie certainly talks a good game.’

‘How do you know him?’ the woman asked.

‘Our paths cross from time to time.’

‘And what did he say about Taimur?’

He described him as a social inadequate living in a fantasy world. ‘He said that Taimur was a very troubled young man and that you tried very hard to help him.’

‘Hm.’ Anderson glanced at her watch. ‘How precisely can I be of assistance, Inspector? There is a limit to what I can say about a patient, even a dead patient.’

‘I understand. The issue for me is that I need to put the investigation into the death of Joseph Belsky – the guy that Taimur attacked – to bed. Basically, it comes down to a difference of opinion between myself and certain colleagues as to whether Taimur could have been acting alone or whether he was part of an organized group.’

A wry smile crossed the doctor’s face. ‘You mean whether he was just a crazy guy or a bona fide terrorist?’

Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘Kind of.’

‘Does it matter?’

Good question. ‘It might.’

The therapist plucked a red and black striped pencil from her desk and started twirling it between the fingers of her right hand. ‘I am happy to talk to you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But only on the basis that this is all strictly off the record.’

‘Of course.’

Sitting back in her chair, the shrink let out a deep breath. ‘Well . . . I think it was fairly clear that Taimur lived in his own little world. His social interactions were very limited. I would be extremely surprised if he was able to function as part of any organized or even semi-organized grouping.’

‘So, as far as you know, the boy was acting alone when he attacked the cartoonist?’

Nodding, Anderson let the pencil fall on to the desk. ‘I would bet my practice on it. The defining event in his young life was the divorce of his parents. He was still, even after several years, hugely resentful about that, while still remaining under their sway to a surprising degree for a young adult of his age.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Under the sway of the father, you mean? Do you think Calvin Safi could have put him up to it?’

‘No, no.’ Anderson shook her head. ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree there. I hosted a couple of sessions for the family as a group. The father was fairly useless – he didn’t even turn up to one of them. The mother, though . . .’

‘Elma Reyes? I’ve met her a couple of times.’

‘Then you’ll know what I mean. To describe the lady as “forceful” would be something of an understatement.’

‘Yes, Elma gets in your face all right.’

‘Considering that she had kept the boy at arms’ length for so long, it was interesting to see the amount of control she still exerted over him.’

That ’ s interesting , Carlyle wondered if he had given enough thought to the importance of the mother-son relationship in his investigation. Maybe I should go and have another chat with Elma Reyes. ‘Do you think that she could have put Taimur up to the attack on Belsky?’ he asked.

An annoyed expression crossed the shrink’s face, crumpling her forehead so that she appeared to age about thirty years. ‘No. Elma runs her own Christian church. For her, it’s all business. I don’t really see why she would bother.’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘People do strange things.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Anderson laughed. ‘But even so. Elma was not my patient, you understand – so ultimately, I do not have a view.’

‘Of course not.’

‘My comments are just observations and thoughts suited to this casual, off-the-record conversation. But my impression would be of an ego-driven individual with a great deal of self-control. She believes in careful planning and precise execution, in order to achieve the desired outcome in any given situation.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘That would make it unlikely for Elma to risk using her rather unworldly son to launch a violent attack on the unfortunate Mr Belsky.’ A fly landed on the desk. The psychiatrist flicked it away with her hand. ‘Anyway, what would be her motive? What could she possibly have against the unfortunate cartoonist?’

‘Maybe she wanted Muslims to take the blame for another apparent hate crime,’ Carlyle offered, realizing just how weak his words sounded as they came out of his mouth.

‘I don’t think so,’ Anderson disagreed gently. ‘As part of my preparation for the family sessions, I took a look at the Christian Salvation Centre’s website.’

I should have done that , Carlyle realized.

‘It doesn’t say anything about Islam. To be honest, it doesn’t say much about anything apart from Elma, her wonderful personality and her God-given healing powers. I would say that the woman is too self-obsessed to have any interest in hate crimes.’

‘What about her husband?’ Carlyle said. ‘He’s a Muslim. Maybe she was trying to get back at him?’

‘Pfff. I would have thought that you would be at least as much of an expert on domestic disharmony as I, Inspector. If the wife wanted to manipulate the son to get revenge on the husband, why not just get Taimur to stick an axe in Calvin’s head?’

‘So,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘that brings us back to the basic question: why did Taimur do what he did?’

‘Does there have to be a reason that we consider valid?’

‘No, but there has to be a reason.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Anderson crossed her arms. ‘Maybe – and let me slip into common parlance here – it’s as simple as the wires in his brain got crossed that day and he went a bit off-piste.’

Crossed wires? The inspector suspected that he was being patronized but he didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe he would go back and talk to the miracle-working mother anyway. The idea that he was running around chasing his tail because some lame-brained kid happened to get his wires crossed was just too depressing to accept.

‘Anyway,’ Anderson continued, jumping to her feet, ‘common parlance or not, that’s all off the record. And I have to be going.’ She lifted her gaze to the door. ‘So, I’m afraid that your time is up.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Carlyle immediately got up, happy at least that he wasn’t having to pay for the session. ‘Thank you very much for your time. What you had to say was very interesting.’ If totally useless. Crossed wires , indeed.

Turning off Drury Lane and into Macklin Street, the inspector instantly noted the large guy with the crew cut, wearing jeans and a green Adidas tracksuit top. Standing by the front door of Winter Garden House, the block of flats where the Carlyle family lived, he was playing on his smartphone, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

The man waited until Carlyle was almost about to pass him.

‘You the policeman?’ he asked, his voice a low grumble of estuary English.

Carlyle keyed in the entry code and pulled open the door. Looking up, he gave the slightest of nods. The guy must have been at least six two, maybe taller. He didn’t look particularly fit, but then again, he didn’t have to. All in all, he was not the kind of bloke you wanted standing outside your front door.

The inspector paused in the doorway. ‘Who are you?’

The guy dropped the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, took a deep drag on his smoke and gazed down the street. ‘Mr Ashton would like to have a word with you.’

At the mention of the old gangster’s name, Carlyle stiffened slightly. ‘So why can’t he just phone me, like anyone else?’ He stepped aside, holding open the door to let an elderly woman whom he didn’t recognize slip between them and enter the building. ‘This is the twenty-first century, after all.’