James Craig - Nobody's Hero

‘Dunno.’ Taking a final puff on his cigarette, the man flicked the stub towards the gutter. ‘Maybe he hasn’t got your number. Anyway, he’s not a big fan of mobile phones.’

‘Great.’ There are more mobile phones than people in this world but Ken bloody Ashton isn ’ t a fan.

‘He’s just down the road. It won’t take long.’

Carlyle looked across the road, towards Il Buffone. The old café was shuttered and closed up, like it had been for months, a board above the door still proclaiming the promise of a low rent for a new tenant. In the current economic climate, there was next to no chance of anyone taking it on. If someone was foolish enough to do so, he reckoned they would last six months, at the outside. It was a shame, but then lots of things were a shame.

Pining for a raisin Danish and a double espresso, the inspector wondered what Marcello, the old owner, was up to. Hopefully, he was sat at home in North London, enjoying a well-deserved and prosperous retirement with his wife.

‘I was going to have my tea,’ he mumbled, talking more to himself than anyone else. ‘I need something to eat.’

‘Won’t take long,’ the man repeated, ambling off in the direction of Drury Lane. ‘C’mon. Mr Ashton doesn’t like being kept waiting.’

‘And I don’t like missing my tea,’ Carlyle muttered under his breath as he reluctantly let go of the door and followed after him.

They found Ken Ashton sitting in the upstairs snug of the Royal Circus pub on Endell Street, his cane resting on the table in front of him, next to a half-empty pint of London Pride. Ashton looked very dapper in a grey suit with a thick pinstripe that, up close, smelled slightly of mildew, with a white shirt and a ruby red tie. Flicking through a copy of the Evening Standard , he didn’t look up as they approached.

The messenger boy in the green tracksuit top took a seat near the stairs as Carlyle stood in front of the old man’s table.

‘Bloody hell,’ Ashton snorted, ‘listen to this – French police left a four-year-old girl stuck in a bullet-riddled car with her dead family for eight hours because they didn ’ t realize she had survived a suspected carjacking gone wrong. ’ He looked over the top of his newspaper. ‘Those Frogs,’ he cackled, ‘they’re almost as useless as you.’

Carlyle gave a pained smile and took a seat.

Closing his newspaper, Ashton folded it carefully and placed it on the table. ‘How are you, Inspector? Long time no see.’

‘I’m fine, Ken, how are you?’

‘Mustn’t grumble.’

‘Good.’

The old fellow smiled malevolently. ‘I see that Seymour Erikssen has been running rings round you again.’

Why is it that everyone likes talking about Seymour? Carlyle wondered.

‘Must be very embarrassing for you.’

Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Hardly.’

‘Anyway,’ Ashton continued, ‘this is not primarily a social chat. I hear that you’ve been wanting to see me.’

‘I was wanting to have my tea,’ said Carlyle, glancing at the thug who’d brought him to the pub.

‘But you came anyway.’

‘I’m interested in Brian Winters.’

‘Oh?’

‘I was on Waterloo Bridge when he keeled over.’

Ashton made a face. ‘Good for you.’

‘He was your lawyer.’

‘I have lots of lawyers,’ said the gangster, not sounding that happy about it. ‘You collect quite a few of them when you are in my line of work.’

I ’ m sure you do , Carlyle thought.

‘And, for his part, Mr Winters had lots of clients,’ Ashton went on.

‘Did you do a lot of work with him?’

‘A bit. Brian worked for me for, oh, I suppose more than fifteen years. When he died, he was handling the sale of my property in Harley Street, as I believe you know. All very straightforward stuff – at least, it should have been.’ He shot the inspector a quizzical look. ‘Anyway, he had a heart attack.’

‘That he did.’

‘So why are you so interested, copper? Given that you should be out dealing with anti-social little scumbags like Seymour.’

‘I hear that Winters had a falling-out with Chris Brennan,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘I was just wondering . . .’

‘Ha!’ Ashton chortled, cutting him off. ‘Now we’re getting to it. You’re still trying to get even with Brennan, are you?’

Christ , how do you know about that? The inspector tried to look both surprised and offended at the same time.

‘Talk about grasping at straws.’

‘I’m just being thorough,’ Carlyle said primly.

Waving a dismissive hand at the policeman, the old man leaned across the table, careful not to knock over his drink in the process. ‘Come on, son,’ he grunted, ‘don’t kid a kidder. Everyone knows that you’re not the kind of bloke to let something like that slide.’

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle folded his arms. ‘That’s bollocks.’

Ashton took a sip of beer. ‘Suit yourself. To be honest, I’m really very surprised that you allowed someone like Brennan to get the better of you in the first place.’

‘Bollocks,’ Carlyle repeated.

Ashton placed his glass back on the table. ‘If it’s bollocks, I suppose that means you’re not interested in my proposal then?’

Carlyle eyed the old man suspiciously. Fuck it , he thought. I ’ m here. I might as well take the bait. ‘What proposal?’

‘Simple.’ Ashton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You get that muppet friend of yours, Angus Muirhead, to stop messing me about on the Harley Street deal and I’ll give you more than enough on Mr Christopher Brennan to put him away for a long time.’

‘He’s not here, boss.’

‘Fuck.’ Ron Flux kicked out at the open can of Tennent’s Lager standing on the bare floorboards. The can went flying across the room, sending an arc of ill-defined yellow liquid through the air. His new sergeant jumped backwards, to avoid getting any of the mess on his boxfresh trainers.

‘Sorry,’ Flux said.

Grunting, the sergeant – an unprepossessing bloke called Jordan Henderson – lifted his left foot an inch off the floor and gestured towards the tattered navy blue sleeping bag lying in the corner of the room. Next to it was a copy of the programme from Chelsea’s last home game, along with a tattered edition of Readers Wives and an empty Styrofoam takeaway container. ‘At least it looks like he was here last night.’

‘Lot of good that does us,’ Flux sniped as he scanned the rest of the room.

Wrinkling his nose, Henderson hovered in the doorway. ‘What is that smell?’

‘Dunno.’ Ignoring what looked suspiciously like a pile of shit next to the boarded-up fireplace, Flux stepped over to the first-floor window and pushed it open, breathing in as a blast of cold air hit him in the face.

‘What do you wanna do?’

Flux silently contemplated the cars neatly parked in the street below.

‘Boss?’

‘Dunno.’ He could barely force the word out.

‘Is it gonna rain?’

Why does that matter? ‘Probably.’ It was a typically grey, charmless West London day, in line with his mood, and for a moment, Flux wondered what it would be like to jump. Don ’ t be so self-indulgent , he told himself. You still have work to do here. Get on with it.

At least Carlyle had been true to his word. The inspector from Charing Cross was a bit of a cold fish but at least he seemed reliable. After looking the other way at Cherwell Valley services, he had ensured that Calvin Safi had been delivered to Flux, as promised, immediately after the Crown Prosecutor had finished interviewing him.