James Craig: Nobody's Hero

‘Miranda is in her fifties,’ Umar said flatly, annoyed by his boss’s persistent cheekiness. ‘Lives in Leyton. Has a pet pug. Likes Spandau Ballet. Is looking forward to retiring in eighteen months and moving to Hastings.’

‘Great.’

‘All in all,’ the sergeant said tightly, ‘she’s not really up my street.’

‘Oh?’ Carlyle just couldn’t resist winding his sergeant up. ‘I thought you were fairly eclectic in your tastes.’

‘Not any more,’ As WPC Mason walked past, giving him a cheery smile, Umar leaned forward and lowered his voice: ‘I think I’m going to knock all that on the head for a while.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ Carlyle scoffed.

‘No, seriously. Things have got a little bit out of hand recently.’

‘I’ll say.’ Folding his arms, the inspector sat back in his chair and lifted his feet onto his desk. ‘Speaking of which, what happened to . . .’ he tried to remember the name but it escaped him ‘. . . the naked bike-ride girl?’

A pained look spread across Umar’s face as he scratched the bandage on his arm. ‘Melissa? I spoke to Shames about it earlier on. They took her back in, a couple of hours ago. She’s finally been charged with the murders of her boyfriend and his bit on the side.’

‘So she did it then?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Looks like it,’ Umar reluctantly admitted. ‘She was taking Clozaril – or rather, she was supposed to be taking it.’

‘Which is?’ Carlyle waved a hand in the air, inviting his sergeant to explain.

‘Which is a drug that is prescribed for patients with a psychotic disorder.’

‘Ah.’

‘Apparently Melissa has a form of schizophrenia – something that she omitted to mention to her lawyer. It was only when they found the pills in her flat and checked with her GP that it finally became clear what was going on.’

‘So who tipped Shames off about the drugs?’

The sergeant stared at his desk. ‘Dunno.’

‘Pff. You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you?’

Umar gave a rueful smile. ‘For some reason she stopped taking her medicine and her brain got a bit scrambled.’

‘So she went berserk and slaughtered the love birds?’

‘That’s the theory. Shames says they’ve been haggling with the lawyer about it. Both sides have piled in with their own medical experts.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘They’re looking to do some kind of deal that saves her from having to go to court. The expectation is that Melissa’s lawyer will get her to claim diminished responsibility, or temporary lack of mental capacity. Whatever, she’ll end up in a secure medical facility.’

‘Christ, what a mess.’

‘Postic isn’t very happy about it, by all accounts.’

‘I bet she isn’t.’

‘She wants Melissa locked up in Holloway.’

‘I dare say she does. Crazed nutter gets off by claiming insanity in what should be an open and shut case never looks good on your CV. Poor old Julie.’

‘No.’

‘There but for the grace of God and all that.’

‘Hm.’

‘Looks like you had a lucky escape there, sunshine. All you’ve got to do now is bin the widow and you’ll be back on the straight and narrow.’

‘Well,’ Umar said hesitantly, ‘funny you should mention that . . .’

Why hadn’t she checked the weather forecast before bringing her lunch outside? Sonia Mason squinted at the grey clouds hovering over St Paul’s Church in the Piazza. Deciding that it was unlikely to rain for at least the next twenty minutes, she reached into her M amp;S plastic bag and pulled out a Tupperware box, along with a small bottle of sparkling water. Ignoring the attempts of the guy sitting on the bench opposite to make eye-contact, she opened the box and pulled out one of her mum’s ham sandwiches. Taking a bite, the WPC chewed happily as she tapped on her Kindle screen to bring up her latest read.

‘Hell.’ No sooner had she made it to the bottom of the page than a big, fat raindrop splashed onto the screen, quickly followed by another. Getting to her feet, Sonia gathered up her belongings and put them back into the bag. Then she zipped up her parka and put up the hood.

Should she head back to the police station or nip inside, take a seat on one of the pews at the back and finally enjoy a few minutes with her book? As the rain began in earnest, she decided on the latter, lowering her head and jogging through the garden towards the West entrance of the church. Hurrying up the steps, she bumped into an old guy who’d clearly had the same idea.

‘Sorry.’ Mason held out a hand to stop the old bloke taking a tumble.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ he scowled, pushing her hand firmly away.

‘Sorry,’ Mason repeated, flustered by his hostile response. Looking up, she studied the irritated expression on the guy’s face. Realizing who it was she had run into, she let out a loud cackle. ‘Seymour.’

‘Eh?’ A startled look spread across the old burglar’s face. Taking a backward step, he slipped on the greasy stone steps. ‘Ow.’

‘Mr Erikssen, I presume,’ Mason quipped, stepping forward and pulling him up by the collar. ‘How nice to see you again.’

‘Gerroff,’ Seymour hissed, looking round for someone to intervene and save him. But the rain had emptied the gardens and there was no one to come to his aid.

‘Let’s go,’ Mason insisted, tightening her grip. ‘I think you need to come and have a little chat with us down at the station.’

Carlyle paced the office, making eye-contact with Simpson, Mason and Sligo in turn before looking at the clock on the far wall. ‘So,’ he said at length, ‘if there are three funerals, where’s the bloody wedding?’ The Commander groaned. The WPC, still flushed with her success in nicking Britain’s crappest thief, smirked. The sergeant let the ‘joke’ pass right over his head. ‘Who the hell,’ the inspector continued, ‘managed to organize three funerals for exactly the same time at the opposite ends of London?’

Looking every inch the cheeky fifth-former, Mason lifted a hand in the air. ‘Please, sir, can you have three opposite ends of London?’

‘Whatever,’ Carlyle fulminated, ‘whose clever idea was it to lay Joseph Belsky, Taimur Rage and Adrian Napper to rest all at the same time?’

‘Their families, presumably,’ said Simpson, getting to her feet. ‘I’m sure that they will be distraught to know that they have caused you a diary problem, but we’ll just have to divide and conquer. I will represent us all at Napper’s-’

‘Fine, fine,’ Carlyle snapped, irritated by his boss’s unnatural reasonableness. ‘Give DI Flux my regards.’

‘If he’s there.’

‘Why wouldn’t he be there?’ Umar asked.

‘After he signed himself out of hospital,’ Simpson told them, ‘he handed in his resignation and headed off into the sunset. Apparently he’s got a place in Spain. His colleagues think he’s probably gone there.’

Lucky sod , Carlyle thought. ‘Makes sense.’

‘Yes, I think so.’ Simpson looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get going. Let’s speak later in the day.’

‘Okay.’ Once Simpson had left, Carlyle turned his attention to his sergeant. ‘You do Belsky, I’ll do Taimur.’

‘Fine,’ Umar agreed.

‘Good. It will give me the chance to have another word with his mother.’

‘Er,’ Mason chipped in, ‘it doesn’t look like Elma will be putting in an appearance today either.’

The inspector threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Wha-at?’

‘Sorry, Boss.’

‘Is anyone going to these bloody funerals,’ Carlyle demanded, ‘apart from us?’

‘I checked with her office at the Christian Salvation Centre,’ Mason informed him. ‘Elma has gone to the United States to speak at something called the Hispanic Rebirth Festival, whatever that is. According to her assistant, it is quote-unquote “ a key milestone in her move into expanding New World demographics ”.’