James Craig: Nobody's Hero

‘And what the hell does that mean?’

‘She’s trying to make it big in America,’ the WPC translated. ‘That’s where the money is for this kind of thing.’

‘God give me strength. She’s the boy’s mother. What about Calvin Safi? Are we letting him go to pay his last respects to his son?’

‘No.’ Mason shook her head. ‘His lawyer asked for him to be allowed to attend, but permission was denied.’

‘Poor kid,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘What does that tell you, if neither parent manages to make it to his bloody funeral?’ He gestured at Mason. ‘You go to that one then. Give me a call if Elma does actually turn up.’

‘Will do.’ Mason picked up her coat and hurried through the door.

‘Looks like you’re off funeral duty, then,’ Umar noted.

‘Perks of authority,’ Carlyle chuckled.

‘Fine.’ Umar pushed himself out of his seat. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Good,’ the inspector replied. ‘Are we still set for tonight?’

‘Yep. Eight thirty.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Excuse me, mate, where’s the milk?’

‘In the aisle nearest the front door, past the line of chiller cabinets, towards the back,’ Melville Farasin pointed past a display of baked beans. Belatedly recognizing the inspector, he glanced around nervously. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, lowering his voice as an old woman pushed by them to pluck a packet of Ritz Crackers from the shelf. ‘It’s only my second week on the job and-’

Holding up a hand, Carlyle cut him off. ‘Relax,’ he said gently, waiting for the woman to shuffle off before adding: ‘I heard that you’d managed to make the break from Elma. Well done.’

‘In the end, she wasn’t that bothered about it,’ Melville said. ‘It was my mum who had a total fit.’ He gestured around the store. ‘She just can’t see that this has better prospects.’

‘Parents can be funny sometimes,’ Carlyle commiserated.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I’m sure she’ll get over it.’

‘Yeah.’ But Melville seemed doubtful. ‘Hopefully the shock of Elma getting arrested will make her see sense.’

Carlyle did a double-take. ‘When was that?’

‘They stopped her at the airport in America,’ Melville told him. ‘She’s being sued by a guy called Jerome Mears . . .’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘He’s an American preacher,’ Melville explained, ‘runs a thing called the Mears Ministry.’

Now there ’ s a surprise.

‘Elma brought him to London to preach at the Miracle amp; Healing Conference.’

‘Must’ve missed that one,’ Carlyle quipped.

‘Anyway,’ Melville continued, ‘Jerome claims Elma didn’t pay him all she owed and he is suing her in the United States. That’s why she got arrested, apparently. Her lawyer, Federici is running around like crazy, trying to get her out.’

‘I bet he is.’ Maybe there is a God after all , Carlyle thought cheerily.

‘Funny the way these things happen.’

‘Yes.’ The inspector suddenly decided that he would have some crackers himself. ‘I think you’re far better off in the supermarket business,’ he said, reaching for a packet.

‘I think so too,’ Melville agreed.

‘So, are you enjoying it here?’

‘It’s okay – early days.’

‘If ever I can help with anything, you know where to find me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good to see you, Melville.’ Carlyle extended a hand and waited for the boy to get over his initial surprise before they shook. ‘Good luck.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Carlyle gestured down the aisle. ‘I’ll go and find my milk. Let you get on.’

Resplendent in his AC/DC The Switch Is On Europe ’84 T-shirt, Bernie Gilmore raised an eyebrow as the inspector carefully placed a box of crackers and a pint of semi-skimmed milk on the table. ‘Bringing your own food, I see?’

Carlyle gave him a thin smile. ‘When you’re on the Highway to Hell, it’s always best to have a few supplies to hand.’

‘Ha, ha. Very good.’

Carlyle signalled to the Café Montevideo’s waitress that he would have a latte. ‘Want anything yourself?’

The journalist pawed at his can of Coke. ‘I’m fine. Long time, no see.’

‘Been a busy boy.’

‘So I believe.’ Bernie watched a couple of pretty girls pass by the window, each laden down with a selection of designer shopping bags. ‘I hear that Seymour Erikssen’s back behind bars.’

‘We always get our man.’

‘I thought it might be worth a little follow-up story.’

‘I’d wait until he actually gets sentenced,’ Carlyle advised. ‘We just nick the guy – if he gets out again, that’s not our fault. We just get the shit when you write about it.’ The waitress appeared with his coffee as Bernie mumbled some kind of non-committal reply.

‘You want anything else?’ the waitress asked. The inspector allowed himself a glance at the various cakes and pastries lined up on the counter. Seeing nothing that immediately caught his eye, he shook his head.

‘Anyway,’ Carlyle continued, once the waitress had left them to it, ‘there’s plenty of other things you can write about. Did you hear about Elma Reyes?’

Bernie shot him a pained look. ‘I wrote about that, the day before yesterday. Don’t you read the papers?’

‘Not if I can help it.’ Carlyle took a sip of his drink and winced. It was far too weak; no bite. ‘I find as I get older that newspapers are becoming more and more tiresome.’ Pleased with his choice of word he sat back and watched Bernie pour the last of the Coke down his neck.

‘So, what else is happening?’ the journalist asked once he’d finished his drink.

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle flicked through the list in his head. ‘Melissa Graham looks nailed on for the naked bike-ride murders.’

‘Done that, too,’ Gilmore grunted.

Making a mental note to remove the Café Montevideo from his list of approved establishments, Carlyle finished his coffee. ‘That’s your problem, Bernie – you’re just too far ahead of the game.’

‘Didn’t really do it justice,’ the journalist mused. ‘We didn’t have a good enough picture.’

‘What about Calvin Safi?’ Carlyle explained about Emma Denton and the group-grooming investigation.

‘I hear that’s not going too well.’

‘I dunno about that. At least we’ve got Safi.’

‘Yeah,’ Bernie scowled, ‘after how many murders – and rapes.’

‘You really love giving me a hard time, don’t you?’

‘That’s because you make it so easy for me,’ Gilmore laughed harshly. ‘Have you got a number for her?’

‘Denton?’ Carlyle pulled up the Chief Crown Prosecutor’s number on his phone. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing it over. ‘You didn’t get it from me.’

‘No, no,’ the journalist replied, carefully copying the number into his own phone, ‘of course not.’ Saving the details, he handed the mobile back to Carlyle. ‘Thanks.’

‘One final thing,’ said the inspector. Already half out of his seat, Bernie fell back into his chair.

‘Go on.’

‘Hanway 58.’

The hack narrowed his eyes. ‘Not ringing any bells.’

‘It’s one of Ken Ashton’s companies.’

‘Oh yes?’ The eyes narrowed even further.

‘A little bird tells me that they’re being investigated by the taxman.’

Bernie rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Is that so? And you would know this because?’

Because I spoke to a mate in the Special Investigations Unit at the HMRC , Carlyle thought smugly, and got him to put it under review. ‘I hear things.’