James Craig - Nobody's Hero

Umar considered for a moment. ‘Just a half.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle contemplated the crush of bodies between the table and the bar. ‘Make sure no one nicks my seat. I may be some time.’

Pulling out his mobile, Umar started tapping at the screen. ‘Will do.’

When he finally made it to the bar, Carlyle found himself next to a youngish American couple in matching green North Face ski jackets who seemed incapable of deciding what they wanted to drink. The man wanted to know the barman’s opinion of each of the half-a-dozen single malts on the shelf above the cash register, while the woman was caught in an existential crisis – should she choose the Australian Chardonnay or go with the Chilean Sauvignon Blanc?

They ’ ll both be shit , love , Carlyle thought, so it doesn ’ t really make any difference.

‘What do you recommend?’ the woman asked.

‘The Chardonnay’s nice,’ said the barman with all the enthusiasm of a man picking fag ends out of a pint pot.

The woman sucked air through her teeth. Clearly it was not the answer she had been looking for. She glanced at her partner. ‘I don’t know, Henry. I don’t normally go for South American wines.’

How hard can it be to choose a bloody drink? Carlyle tried to catch the eye of the girl next to the barman. As she handed another customer his change, he held up his hand. ‘Can I-’

Avoiding eye-contact, the barmaid turned on her heel and went in search of a customer on the other side of the bar.

Henry pointed towards the bottles of Scotch. ‘What about the Glenlivet?’ he asked in a whiny, East Coast accent.

‘They’re all good, mate,’ said the barman, staring vacantly into the middle distance.

‘Gee.’

Gee? At that moment, Carlyle experienced that rarest of feelings, a desire to be somewhere other than in the middle of London. ‘Bloody tourists.’

The woman gave a nervous twitch but tried to ignore him. For some reason, this annoyed the inspector even more.

Carlyle was just about to throw in some gratuitously offensive observations on the shortcomings of the United States and its citizens when the barmaid reappeared and signalled that it was finally his turn. ‘A Jameson’s, please.’

Just as he was finally giving his order, someone elbowed him hard in the back, pushing him into the American woman.

‘Hey!’ she squeaked, jumping backwards.

‘Sorry.’ Carlyle turned to face the idiot who had shoved him, ready to give him some grief. As he saw who it was, however, the inspector’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘Well, well.’

A look of profound dismay passed across Seymour Erikssen’s face. ‘Oh shit.’

‘How very nice to see you. We need to have a little chat.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Already backing away, Seymour turned and pushed his way roughly past a Goth girl, heading for the door.

‘Seymour!’

‘Hey,’ Goth Girl squealed, ‘your mate spilled my gin and tonic.’

‘He’s not my mate,’ Carlyle said, sharpening his elbows as he dropped his head and set a course for the door.

By the time the inspector had made it on to the pavement, Erikssen was halfway down Bow Lane. Carlyle shook his head. ‘What’s got into you?’ he wondered.

Glancing over his shoulder, Seymour upped his pace, darting in front of a well-heeled couple and diving through a set of revolving doors that led into the Royal Opera House.

Stepping off the kerb, the inspector ignored the blast of the horn from an approaching taxi driver and ran to the other side of the road. Jogging to the side-entrance, he hopped from foot to foot as he waited behind a small queue of operagoers to get inside. Once through, he was standing in a long corridor, with the box office counter to his right. As a few stragglers collected their tickets, there was the sharp ring of a bell, warning patrons that they had three minutes to take their seats. At the entrance to the auditorium, the ushers began directing patrons inside with increasing vigour. Hanging from the ceiling in front of him was a giant screen advertising upcoming performances of Benjamin Britten’s Gloriana . He had no idea what it was about but remembered Helen commenting on its good reviews. She had mentioned a desire to take Alice to see it. Good luck with that , the inspector thought. Their punk-rock-loving daughter was about as likely to be up for it as he would be himself. A bit too highbrow for my tastes.

Parking his plebeian shortcomings for a moment, the inspector looked towards the man wrestling his way through the far exit, which led on to James Street and Covent Garden’s Piazza. ‘Got you.’ Upping the pace, the policeman happily left the world of culture behind.

‘Just my luck,’ Seymour muttered to himself as he swerved round a woman gawping at a poster of some beefcake dancer. ‘Of all the sodding people to bump into.’ The last thing he needed right at the moment was a nice little chat with Inspector bloody Carlyle. Not when he’d just lifted the fat wallet of that American geezer in the Monkey’s Uncle. It was rotten timing, making his best score of the night and then coming right up against the most annoying copper in the whole of London. What were the odds? Seymour frowned at the injustice of it all. At least he’d managed to get out of the pub sharpish. The plod was giving chase but the thief knew that he should be able to lose him quite easily amidst the early-evening crowds in the Piazza.

Exiting the Opera House, he trundled along the colonnade and found a path through the knot of tourists watching a tuneless busker go through his set of ropey U2 cover versions. Head down, the pickpocket ignored the potential booty on offer as he concentrated on not running in to anyone and so delaying his escape. Only when he had passed the Apple Store and stepped on to King Street, did he allow himself a glance over his shoulder. Following behind at a steady pace, Sherlock Holmes still had him in his sights. Cursing, Seymour contemplated the possibility that he might not be able to make a clean getaway. Just in case the policeman did manage to catch him, he needed to dump the wallet. And sharpish.

Instinctively, Seymour veered to his left, slipping behind a performance artist juggling a couple of roaring chainsaws in front of the Tuscan portico of St Paul’s Church, and disappearing into the churchyard. With five different entrances – and exits – the Actors’ Church had long been one of Seymour’s favourite properties for facilitating his departure from the scene of a crime. Trotting down the steps, he jogged across the greasy flagstones, taking care not to slip on his arse, and reaching the side door of the church, he headed inside.

Carefully closing the door behind him, the thief took a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior. The quiet was disconcerting; the roar of the flying chainsaws in the Piazza reduced to a low growl as the city outside was kept at bay by the seventeenth-century walls. Inside, it appeared that the place was empty, apart from an elderly woman to his left. Reading from a guidebook as she stood by the font, she gave no indication of noticing his arrival. Head down, Seymour quietly made his way towards the West entrance. From past experience, he knew that there was a large wooden box for visitor donations, set to the side of the main door. At best, the box was emptied once a week, allowing Seymour to use it as an occasional overnight safety deposit box. Keeping to the shadows, he removed the American’s wallet from the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the pleasingly thick wad of Euro and sterling notes that it contained. Checking that the woman by the font was still engrossed in her book, he stepped over to the box and quickly stuffed them inside. As he did so, he checked the padlock which secured the box and grunted his approval. Rudimentary was not the word. It would only take him a few seconds to have that off on his return visit.