James Craig - Nobody's Hero

‘However,’ Umar said cheerily, ‘we do have some good news.’

‘Oh?’ Watching on a pretty Asian nurse floating past the end of the bed, Flux didn’t seem immediately interested in what the sergeant had to offer.

‘We got Metcalf,’ Carlyle explained. In the breast pocket of his jacket his phone started vibrating. Ignoring the call, he let it go to voicemail.

Flux quickly brought his gaze back to his colleagues.

‘He’s in hospital too. In a secure unit up the road at Wormwood Scrubbs.’

‘Ha! Did that bastard in the van run him over as well?’

Umar shook his head. ‘The silly sod fell into a six-foot hole on the Cleverly Estate and broke his ankle. British Gas was doing some emergency work and he didn’t look where he was going. A couple of officers from the Wormholt amp; White City Safer Neighbourhoods Team who were on the estate looking for some teenage crack dealers found him trying to crawl out. Metcalf freaked when he saw the uniforms and tried to leg it. They radioed back to the station, realized who he was, and nicked him.’

‘Result,’ said Flux, perking up before their eyes. ‘Now I just need to get out of here and interview him.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It can wait twenty-four hours or so, there’s no rush. Best if you rest up a bit. It’s not like Metcalf’s going anywhere. We’ve got both of the bastards now. It’s game over.’

‘Yes, but-’

A loud electronic chirping began issuing from the mobile in Umar’s hand. Glancing at the No mobile phones sign above the bed, Carlyle gave him a pained look. ‘Swedish House Mafia,’ the sergeant explained nonchalantly, hitting the receive button.

‘Okay.’ The inspector didn’t recognize the name.

‘Not your thing,’ Umar continued, stepping away from the bed to take the call.

Flux lifted a small bottle of apple Lucozade from his bedside table, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig.

Folding his arms, Carlyle stood at the end of the bed, hopping from foot to foot in slow motion. He was still trying to think of something to say when Umar sidled back up to him, holding out the handset.

‘It’s for you.’

Carlyle frowned.

‘Simpson,’ Umar whispered.

Reluctantly, Carlyle took the phone, striding towards the exit. ‘Boss-’

‘Why are you ignoring me?’ the Commander demanded.

Taken aback by the icy tone, Carlyle took a deep breath. Be cool , he told himself. Don ’ t let her wind you up. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, pushing through the swing doors and stepping into the corridor.

‘What the hell do you think you were playing at?’

Not sure which particular transgression he was about to get hauled over the coals for, he waited for her to explain. A sign above his head pointed towards a café. He decided to follow it.

‘I have just been reading the medical report on Calvin Safi. You won’t be surprised to know that the doctor’s verdict is that our Mr Safi is in a right old mess.’

‘I never laid a finger on him, Boss.’

‘No,’ said Simpson, her voice simmering with rage, ‘you just bloody tasered him, didn’t you?’

‘How did you know that?’ he blurted out, unable to contain his surprise.

‘Because, you stupid sod, I’m sitting here watching it on bloody YouTube. One minute and four seconds of media gold just waiting to be mined. The damn thing has only been up three hours and it has already had more than sixteen thousand views. It’s only a matter of time before some sodding journalist sees it.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘You tell me.’

Turning a corner, Carlyle reached the cafeteria. Standing by the door, he closed his eyes. He thought back to Safi lying in the road with Umar standing over him. ‘Those bloody kids . . .’

‘What?’

Carlyle opened his eyes. ‘There were a couple of lads on bikes who watched us make the arrest. One of them must have filmed it on his mobile phone.’

‘You berk,’ said Simpson, with feeling.

The inspector didn’t argue the point. ‘Can’t we get it taken down?’

‘The lawyers are trying to do that right now, but you know what these internet people are like, freedom of speech and all that. Even if they manage to get it removed, it’ll probably be too late. You really have fucked up this time.’

From the café came the sound of Squeeze’s ‘Cool for Cats’. After more than thirty years, Carlyle could still remember every word. Smiling, he started singing along in his head. Immediately, his spirits began reviving, along with his appetite.

‘John?’

‘Look,’ said Carlyle, pushing through the doors and scanning the menu written on a blackboard above the counter, ‘just let the lawyers get on with doing their thing. I’ve got some other stuff to sort out. We can catch up later.’ Not waiting for the reply, he ended the call, beaming at the middle-aged woman behind the counter. ‘Could I have the pie and chips, please?’

Feeling a spasm in his guts, Carlyle winced. ‘I shouldn’t have had that pie,’ he told his sergeant. Umar mumbled something that could plausibly pass for sympathy, before adding: ‘You should have been more careful.’

Taking a gulp of his Jameson’s, the inspector scanned the room as Umar supped his pint of Guinness. The Monkey’s Uncle pub was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the police station, but it hardly counted as a regular haunt. Indeed, this was the first time he’d been in here for a drink in what – more than six months? It was probably longer than that. Easily. By and large, Helen wasn’t keen on the idea of him neglecting his family duties and going off drinking after work. For his part, the inspector was content to head straight home at the end of the day. The long and short of it was, he wasn’t that much of a pub man.

Tonight, however, he fancied a drink. With a lot on his mind, Carlyle felt the need to let his brain decompress slowly before he reached the flat. The day had filled his head full of irritating stuff that he saw no point in offloading on to his wife. So when his sergeant had suggested a drink, he was quick to agree.

For his part, Umar was in no hurry to go home either. Sure enough, during the working day he missed his wife and baby daughter. He knew, however, that the moment he walked through the door, Christina would hand him Ella and launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about how all he did was go to work to skive off. Once she got started, it was all he could do to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

The two men were lucky to have grabbed a table by the door for the place was heaving with a mixture of tourists, theatregoers and off-duty office workers. Not to mention the odd policeman. Since they had arrived, the inspector had already spotted three or four familiar faces manoeuvring their way to and from the bar. Still a steady stream of people arrived, barely making it through the door before having to dive into a crowd six or seven deep in an attempt to make it to the bar. So many people. Carlyle shook his head. The recession might have been going on for longer than anyone cared to remember but, by and large, the pubs and bars of Covent Garden seemed immune to the vagaries of the economic cycle.

Umar sat back in his chair and placed his pint glass down on the table. ‘What was it?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘What was what?’

‘The pie. What kind was it?’

‘Dunno.’ The inspector finished his drink and got to his feet. It was his round. ‘It just said meat pie.’

‘You know what they say about hospital food.’

‘Yeah, but this was some kind of outside chain, a franchised thing.’ He mentioned the name of one of the outlets that had popped up everywhere over the last decade. ‘I thought it would be okay. Obviously I was wrong.’ He wiggled his empty glass across the table. ‘Another one?’