James Craig: Nobody's Hero

‘I know. And I’m very grateful.’ Carlyle stood up, leaned over and gave her another quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ve gotta run, but you’ve been a big help.’

‘It was no trouble,’ Crane lied, making him all the more grateful for the effort she had put in. ‘Say “hi” to Helen for me. Hopefully we’ll see you guys soon.’

‘That would be great. Maybe go to Wagamama’s or something.’

‘There’s a Residents Association meeting next week. Maybe you could come along,’ Crane suggested rather optimistically. ‘There’s some important stuff on the agenda; the council wants to allow another nightclub on Drury Lane. We could do with as many people attending as possible.’

Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘Sounds good.’ With a cheery wave, he scuttled towards the exit. ‘I’ll get Helen to give you a call about it.’

The phone refused to stop ringing. Knowing that he would have to take the call sooner or later, he prodded the receive button and lifted the handset to his ear.

‘Christina, look-’

‘Umar?’ The brittle voice on the end of the line cut him off. ‘It’s Giselle.’

It took a moment for the sergeant to flick through his mental Rolodex and come up with the entry for Brian Winters’ wife. An image of the widow sprawled across the marital bed wearing nothing but a smile washed through his brain, leaving him squirming with embarrassment. The dalliance was just another error of judgement to add to his growing list of misdemeanours.

‘Umar?’

‘Yes, hi.’ He looked ruefully at his gashed arm. Giselle might have been a mistake but at least she hadn’t tried to glass him, unlike the crazy cyclist, Melissa Graham. A number 48 barrelled down the bus lane, heading towards him. For a brief moment, the sergeant fantasized about stepping in front of it.

‘You have to come up to the house.’

Closing his eyes, he felt the wind on his face as the bus rushed past. ‘Actually-’

‘No,’ she insisted, ‘you have to come. Right now.’ For the first time, he noticed the tension in her voice.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ she sniffled. ‘There is something wrong.’

‘What-’

She cut him off with a sob. ‘I need your help. Don’t be long.’ There were some muffled sounds in the background and the line went dead. Umar stared at the phone, wondering what to do.

The legend on the window of Leverton amp; Sons said Funeral Directors since 1789 . As Carlyle approached, an elegant woman in cowboy boots, jeans and a short fur jacket came out of the front door and started towards him. Assuming that this was his quarry, the inspector held up a hand. ‘Ms Schapps?’ Slowing down, the woman stared at him from behind a pair of chic sunglasses. ‘Apologies for buttonholing you on the street,’ Carlyle persisted, ‘but are you Angus Muirhead’s daughter?’

‘Who are you?’ Lifting the sunglasses onto the top of her head, the woman peered at him suspiciously. Her face was pale and free of make-up. It showed no sign of sorrow, only a mixture of anger and grim determination. Trying to affect an air of professional detachment, the inspector took in the mouth, the cheekbones and the large ebony eyes, looking for signs of a family resemblance, but none was immediately apparent.

‘Inspector John Carlyle, from the Metropolitan Police.’ Finding his warrant card, he held it up for her to inspect.

‘I would have hoped the bloody police could leave me alone, today of all days,’ Louise Schapps whined, buttoning up her coat. Is that real fur? the inspector wondered. Or is it fake? He had no idea. He tried to make eye-contact but she was having none of it, ostentatiously scanning the middle-distance in search of a cab. ‘My father’s dead – surely you lot can leave him alone now?’

‘This is not about any ongoing investigation,’ he pointed out.

‘All the crap that my family’s had to put up with over the years . . .’ Schapps ranted, giving no indication that she was listening to what he had to say.

‘I knew Angus for a long time. I’m very sorry for-’

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, holding out an arm and clicking her fingers. Almost instantly, Carlyle heard a taxi pull up behind him. He realized that it had been a mistake to come here. Any attempt to force the Harley Street issue was doomed to failure. Inspector Carlyle? he thought morosely. Bloody Inspector Clouseau, more like.

‘It can wait,’ he said, giving a thin smile as she stepped over to the cab and leaned into the open window to give the driver an address in Hampstead.

Opening the cab door, she reluctantly returned her attention to the policeman. ‘If you knew my father,’ she said tersely, ‘I’m sure that you must know his lawyer. Speak to him, not me.’ Slipping inside, she slammed the door shut, not giving him a second glance as the cabbie did a U-turn and barrelled off, heading north. A poster in Leverton’s caught his eye: Planning your funeral the Independent Way . ‘Maybe I should give it a thought,’ he chuntered to himself, heading off down the street.

Standing once again on the doorstep of 72 Boyle Avenue, Umar glanced around nervously. An endless stream of questions bounced around a brain that was devoid of any answers.

Why did I come back here?

Should I do a runner?

What should I say to Christina?

Caught in a mire of indecision, he heard the door open and Giselle Winters ushered him inside. This time, she had not bothered to dress up for his arrival. Grey sweatpants and a baggy sky-blue jumper did a pretty good job of hiding her figure. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face kept hidden behind an outsized pair of sunglasses.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered, not quite managing to muster a smile. Keeping his gaze fixed on the expensive-looking print hanging on the wall, Umar grunted a nothing response. Despite the early hour, he could smell the booze on her breath.

‘Drink?’ she asked, following him into the kitchen.

‘I’m fine.’ Looking out into the garden, he could see that the flowerbed was still a work in progress. There was no sign of any gardeners at work this morning. Leaning against the wall, he watched her reach for a less than full bottle of vodka on the island and then appear to think better of it. ‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked, his tone sharper than he had intended.

Stifling a sob, she removed the sunglasses and let them drop next to the bottle. ‘Chris Brennan paid me a visit . . .’

Gritting his teeth, Umar contemplated the mess of her face. It wasn’t pretty but he’d regularly seen worse. Nodding, he tried to retrieve signs of the woman who had seduced him on his last visit. It wasn’t easy – she looked as if she’d aged twenty years or more since then.

‘My husband’s partner.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Umar’s brain was telling him to say something consoling, but somehow, his mouth couldn’t quite manage it.

Pulling up a stool, she sat down. ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’

‘Yes.’ The sergeant knew that Brennan’s appearance on the scene meant that he should really call Carlyle. For the moment, however, he didn’t dare. Maybe he would have something to drink, after all. Stepping over to the fridge, he helped himself to a Diet Coke. ‘Why did he hit you?’ he asked, cracking open the can and drinking deeply.

‘He says Brian owes him five hundred thousand pounds.’ Giselle wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper and for the first time he felt a stab of sympathy. ‘And that means I owe him five hundred thousand pounds.’

Waiting for her to explain, Umar tipped back the can and emptied the remaining contents down his throat.