James Craig: Nobody's Hero

More or less.

‘Inspector . . .’

‘Hi.’ Turning away from the window, he bent forward and planted a kiss on the cheek of the woman in the white coat who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’

‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Taking a step back, Dr Elizabeth Crane gave him a tired smile. There was considerably more grey in her hair than he remembered and there were dark rings under her eyes, but she still looked good.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Sorry for popping up out of the blue and buttonholing you at work.’

‘Isn’t that your job – buttonholing people?’

‘I suppose. Some of the time at least.’ As he spoke, she stifled a yawn. ‘Tough day?’ he asked.

‘I had to help out in A amp;E,’ Crane told him. ‘On a normal day they get a couple of hundred people. Today, there was a big smash on the Camden Road, a load of injuries, as well as a fatality, I’m afraid – a bloke on a bike who got completely mangled.’ As if on cue, an ambulance appeared outside, its siren growing more insistent as it got caught up in the traffic. ‘That’s not why you’re here, is it?’

‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘How’re Ben and the family?’ The Cranes lived in a townhouse just off Seven Dials, a few minutes’ walk from Carlyle’s flat. Ben and Elizabeth were stalwarts of the Covent Garden Residents Association; a few years earlier, they had helped run a successful campaign to block a kebab shop setting up on Macklin Street, much to the inspector’s relief.

‘All fine, thanks. Everyone’s fit and well.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘But I’m assuming that this isn’t a social call either, is it.’

‘No.’ Carlyle explained about Angus Muirhead. ‘He was brought in sometime yesterday afternoon. I’m trying to track him down.’

‘Is this an official enquiry?’

Carlyle took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Yes and no. He’s helping me with something.’

‘Okay.’ Crane thought about it for a moment. ‘Let me find out if he’s still here and we can take it from there.’

‘Thanks. I really need to see him if at all possible.’

‘If the guy has had a stroke, I would be very surprised if he’s going to be able to talk to anyone.’ Crane’s tone was gentle but firm. ‘It would be difficult to even try to speak with a patient in Intensive Care without going through the official channels.’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle realized that he should be careful not to push his luck too far.

‘Why don’t you grab something from the café? Give me fifteen minutes or so to see what I can find out.’

Finishing his cheese and tomato roll, Carlyle wiped the crumbs from his jumper and went back to checking the messages on his BlackBerry. It was the first time he’d looked at the device for more than a week. After opening a dozen or so of his 176 unread emails, he realized that they were all junk of one sort or another. Even the Police Federation seemed determined to send him nothing more interesting than some ‘exclusive’ insurance offers. With a sigh, he clicked on the blue band at the top of the screen and selected the Delete Prior option. Confirming his decision, he felt a fleeting moment of pleasure as all the messages disappeared into the ether. ‘Job done,’ he mumbled to himself, turning his attention to the ebb and flow of people across the hospital lobby. A digital clock next to the lifts told him that he had been waiting for more than twenty minutes. He was wondering about having another espresso when a shambolic figure shuffled into view. Catching Carlyle’s eye, there was a moment’s hesitation before he reluctantly headed over.

‘What are you doing here?’ Carlyle asked, nodding at the large bandage wrapped tightly around his sergeant’s forearm.

Even by his usual standards, Umar looked washed out. ‘I had to go to A amp;E,’ he replied, trying not to look too shamefaced. ‘The bastards kept me waiting forever.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. Just an accident.’ Moving from foot to foot, the sergeant made no move to sit down. ‘It hurts a bit but it’s really no big deal.’

Uh-huh. Keen to interrogate his underling further, Carlyle was distracted by the sight of Elizabeth Crane walking towards him. As she got closer, he could see a mask of professional detachment descend across her face. Instinctively, he knew what was coming.

Emboldened by his boss’s loss of focus, Umar suddenly launched a belated counter-attack. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Work,’ Carlyle grunted, gesturing past Umar’s shoulder. ‘I need to have a word with the doctor.’

‘Sure.’ Grasping this opportunity, Umar turned on his heel, keen to make a hasty retreat. ‘See you back at the station.’ Not waiting for a reply, he set off, the soles of his red Converse All Stars squeaking noisily as he jogged towards the exit.

If Crane was curious about the sergeant, she didn’t let it show. ‘Well,’ she said, pulling up a chair, ‘that took a little bit longer than I expected.’

Getting to his feet, Carlyle watched Umar disappear into the street. ‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said, giving her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘And then you can tell me about Angus.’

‘Here you go.’ Placing a latte on the table in front of Elizabeth Crane, Carlyle eased back down into his chair, taking a sip of his own espresso as he did so.

‘Thanks.’ The doctor cradled the paper cup in her hands without showing any desire to lift it to her lips. ‘Was he a friend?’ she asked, not looking up.

‘Angus?’ Carlyle made a face. ‘I’ve known him a long time but he was an acquaintance rather than a friend – a professional contact. Someone I dealt with now and then for work.’

‘I see.’ Glancing round the café, she leaned forward. ‘Well,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘anyway, sorry to have to be the bearer of bad news, but Mr Muirhead passed away at just after four this morning. The death certificate was signed at 4.37.’ She mentioned a couple of medical terms that he didn’t understand. ‘Basically, he died as a result of complications following the stroke. It seems that he had been in poor health for a while. What happened yesterday just pushed him over the line.’

Where did this leave his deal with Ken Ashton? Carlyle finished his espresso and let his gaze drift to the comings and goings at the entrance. A child in a bright red coat entered the lobby, grimly holding the hand of an attractive blonde woman.

‘Did you know that he had been quite unwell for some time?’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle dragged his attention back to the doctor. ‘He told me that he was on borrowed time.’

‘Not any more.’

‘No.’ So what happens next? ‘What is the situation with next of kin?’

Crane finally took a sip of her latte. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Does he have any?’

‘Ah, yes. Just the one close relative. A daughter. Name of Louise Schapps.’

‘A daughter.’ Carlyle pondered that piece of information for a second. ‘You wouldn’t know if she’s still here in the hospital, would you?’

‘No.’ Crane placed her cup back on the table and pushed it away. The beverage was obviously not up to scratch. ‘She’s gone to speak to the funeral director at Levertons. It’s on Eversholt Street, up past Euston station on the way to Camden Town.’

‘Brilliant. How did you know I would need that?’

‘You’re a policeman. I knew that you would want to know as much information as possible. I spoke to the staff dealing with Mr Muirhead who were still on duty.’ Crane gestured over her shoulder towards the lift. ‘I didn’t want you sending me back upstairs with a set of supplementary questions. Apart from anything else, people would get suspicious. You’re hardly going through the normal channels, are you?’