James Craig - Nobody's Hero

Stepping out into the chill of the church garden, he considered his next move. The bloke’s credit cards, an Amex and a MasterCard, were worth a few bob, but only if he could hand them on immediately. Tomorrow would be too late. The guy would have discovered the theft and alerted his card provider. The window of opportunity would be a few hours at most.

A familiar mixture of fear and greed coursed through Seymour’s veins. It was a case of selling the cards now or just tossing them away. Looking round, there was still no sign of the damn copper. Fuck it, he would take a punt. Stuffing the cards into the back pocket of his jeans, he tossed the wallet into a nearby bin, before scooting out of the Henrietta Street exit.

Less than a minute later, he glided into Agar Street, saluting as he wandered past the CCTV cameras mounted outside the Charing Cross police station. ‘See you later, Inspector,’ Seymour chortled, as he upped the pace, heading in the direction of Soho.

There was a gasp of delight from the crowd as the blade of the chainsaw sparked against the cobbles and bounced away from the juggler. Is that part of the act? Carlyle wondered. Or was it a mistake? Either way , it seems a bit risky to me. Presumably the act had been licensed by the council, but all it would take was one maimed tourist and all hell would break loose.

Breaking off from gawping at the juggler, the inspector looked around, resigning himself to the fact that he had lost Seymour Erikksen in the throng. As he scanned the tramps loitering in the portico over a few cans of Carling Zest, his eye was caught by a poster advertising St Paul’s Jubilee Garden Appeal. Next to it, the churchyard gate was being locked up for the night by one of the staff as he shooed away a couple of visitors who had missed their chance for the day.

The inspector felt his phone start ringing. Moving away from the chainsaws, he pulled it from his pocket and answered without checking the screen to see who was calling him.

‘Yeah?’

‘What happened to you?’ It sounded like Umar had left the pub and was walking down the street. Carlyle explained about Seymour. ‘The lengths some people will go to, to avoid getting their round in,’ the sergeant observed wryly.

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I can be back there in a couple of minutes.’

‘Another time. Christina’s on my case – I’d better get home.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘See you in the morning.’

‘Okay.’ Ending the call, Carlyle watched the juggler’s mate go round the crowd with a hat, touting for donations. A few children stepped up to toss in some coins, but the inspector could see from the expression on the bloke’s face that pickings were slim. ‘Times are tough,’ he mumbled to himself, walking smartly away before the hat could get thrust under his nose.

From the church, it was a three-minute walk home, heading past the tube station, cutting across Long Acre and up Endell Street. By now, the girls would have eaten, so he decided to pop into the Ecco Café on Drury Lane for a takeaway pizza. He was halfway along Shelton Street when his phone went again. Assuming that it was Helen, he lifted the handset to his ear.

‘Hi.’

‘John?’

Shit. Reluctantly, he came to a halt outside the Good Vibes Fitness Studio. ‘Boss . . .’

‘Where are you?’ the Commander demanded.

‘In Covent Garden. I was just on my way home.’ As Carlyle stared into the gutter, a groan came from the Sun pub across the road, followed by a collection of choice expletives. There must be a game on. Most of the locals were Gooners; presumably Arsenal were making a mess of things again.

‘Fine.’ Simpson thought about it for a moment, before mentioning the name of a nearby bar. ‘I need to give you an update on developments. Why don’t you meet me there in half an hour?’

‘Sure.’ Ending the call, the inspector looked up at his flat in Winter Garden House, just across the road. The lights were on, but he wasn’t going home. Presumably Helen and Alice were snuggled up on the sofa watching some rubbish on TV. Feeling sorry for himself, he suddenly realized that he did at least have time to grab his pizza. Turning into Drury Lane, he walked slowly up the road while texting his wife to let her know that he would be out for a while yet.

* * *

On the thirty-first floor of Centre Point, a notorious 1960s tower block located at the bottom end of Tottenham Court Road, the inspector waited patiently for the girl behind the desk to finish her phone call.

It took a minute or so for her to complete the booking. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said brightly once it was done, ‘and thank you for waiting. Welcome to the Seifert Club.’ Looking him up and down, her smile stiffened somewhat. ‘Are you a member?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Er, no.’

‘Might you be interested in our membership options?’

‘Not really.’ Looking over the girl’s shoulder, he scanned the room, looking for his boss. But most of the tables were empty and the Commander was nowhere to be seen. ‘Actually, I’m here to meet Carole Simpson.’

‘Ah, yes.’ The girl looked down at the reservations book and made a mark by Simpson’s name. ‘A table for two.’

Somehow, that just didn’t sound quite right. ‘Ye-es,’ Carlyle acknowledged, ‘I suppose so.’

‘In the corner, by the window. Let me take you there now.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘That’s fine. I think I can just about manage to find my way over there on my own. Thank you.’

By the time the Commander finally appeared, the inspector was on his second glass of Jameson’s and was beginning to feel quite mellow.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Simpson gave him a brittle smile as she took the seat opposite him.

‘No problem.’ Carlyle gestured with his tumbler in the direction of the spectacular glass and steel roof of the British Museum’s Great Court. ‘I was just enjoying the view.’

‘Not bad, is it? Then again, we’re so high up here.’

‘Yes.’ Never having been a great one for heights, Carlyle didn’t really want to dwell on that point too much. ‘Presumably you’re a member here?’ he asked, moving the conversation briskly along.

Simpson’s face clouded as she gazed into the night sky. ‘Joshua was a founder member.’

‘Ah.’ Carlyle looked at his drink. His boss rarely mentioned her late husband, which was not surprising. Before being diagnosed with cancer, Joshua Hunt had been convicted of a large-scale fraud. Traumatic and embarrassing, the episode had threatened the Commander’s very future in the Metropolitan Police Service. In the end, she had survived. However, any hope of progressing beyond her current rank was gone. Like Carlyle, Simpson had to accept that her career had peaked. Like Carlyle, she knew that she could live with that and still come in to work every morning, keen to get on with the job.

‘He bought a fifteen-year membership for some ludicrous amount of money,’ Simpson explained. ‘Presumably it was deemed a justifiable business expense, tax deductible and so on. Anyway, I only found out about it after his death. One day, I came for a look round and found that I quite liked the place.’ She let out a feeble laugh. ‘After all, it’s paid for. And it’s one of the few things he left me with. So why let it go to waste? Being stuck out in Paddington most of the time, I find it quite useful for meetings in this part of Town.’ A waiter appeared at their table and she asked him for a large glass of Chardonnay and a copy of the food menu before turning her attention back to her colleague. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Carlyle found himself regretting his trip to Ecco.