James Craig: Nobody's Hero

‘Very occasionally.’

‘Might make a good story,’ Carlyle said hopefully.

‘You reckon?’ Getting back on his feet, Bernie gave the inspector a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘I might be the world’s greatest living investigative reporter,’ he whispered, ‘but even I draw the line at trying to have a pop at Ken Ashton.’

‘Bernie.’

The hack shook his head. ‘Not going near it, sunshine. I value my kneecaps.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Do I look stupid?’

‘Well . . .’

Bernie waggled an admonishing finger. ‘Whatever game you are trying to play, my friend – and you are as transparent as a broken window – I would give it a rest. And that’s quality advice I’m offering you for free.’ Pulling open the door, he lumbered across the road, heading towards Soho Square.

Carlyle watched the reporter disappear round the corner. As usual, Bernie’s advice was very sensible. However, it was too late to change things now. He had spoken to the HMRC, and the Ashton investigation was now underway. With the recession showing no sign of ending, the Inland Revenue was under more pressure than ever to check under every rock for unpaid tax. Any tip-off was seized on with alacrity. Even if they found nothing untoward in the books of Hanway 58 – and Carlyle very much doubted that would be the case – Ashton would find the investigation long, expensive and profoundly annoying.

The waitress appeared with the bill, clearing the table before returning behind the counter. Reaching into his pocket, Carlyle dropped a handful of coins on the table, making sure that there was enough to cover the tab as well as a small tip. As he did so, he caught sight of a familiar face. On the wall, next to the till, Little Charley Bear was still smiling, touting for punters for his Christmas Adventure. That little bugger ’ s everywhere , the inspector mused sourly. His mobile started vibrating across the table. Picking it up, he lifted it to his ear.

‘Carlyle.’

‘You bastard. You’ve shopped me to the Revenue, haven’t you?’ The hostility swept down the line in waves.

Stifling a laugh, the inspector played dumb. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘Don’t play silly buggers!’ Ken Ashton shouted. ‘I’ve just had them descend on my office like a plague of bloody locusts. That’s down to you, isn’t it?’

Carlyle took a deep breath and tried to sound confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘All my books are in order,’ Ashton growled

‘I’m sure they are, Ken,’ Carlyle said equably. ‘Do you want me to speak to HMRC for you, see what I can find out?’

‘I want you to leave bloody well alone,’ the old crook thundered.

‘Careful,’ Carlyle quipped, unable to contain his glee any longer, ‘you don’t want to have a stroke. Look at what happened to poor old Angus Muirhead.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Anyway, if you end up getting a large demand for back tax, I’m sure you can use the refund you get from Chris Brennan.’ Waving a fist in triumph, the inspector ended the call, giving Little Charley Bear the thumbs-up as he got to his feet and headed out into the street.

About time. Swallowing a mouthful of Peroni, Carlyle listened to the footsteps in the hallway coming steadily towards them. The lawyer was the best part of an hour late. Annoyed, the inspector added poor timekeeping to the list of Chris Brennan’s many character defects.

As the new arrival appeared in the kitchen, the inspector allowed himself a small smile. Brennan had ditched the Prince of Wales check suit for a pair of faded jeans, some red Puma trainers and a grey overcoat. The bags under his eyes seemed to have grown since their last meeting and he needed a shave. The overall effect was less legal eagle and more legal aid client.

Clocking the two policemen, Brennan hesitated in the doorway.

‘Come in,’ Carlyle commanded, as Giselle appeared from behind him and darted towards Umar, who had positioned himself on the far side of the kitchen. The lawyer glared at his hostess but said nothing as he entered and planted himself in front of the fridge. Legs apart, arms folded, the look on his face was more resigned than angry.

‘We won’t offer you a beer,’ Carlyle went on.

Brennan cleared his throat. ‘Just get on with it,’ he grumbled.

Giselle kept her eyes firmly on a spot on the tiled floor. Her face was heavily made-up but the signs of her recent beating at the hands of her late husband’s business partner were still clear to see.

‘The good news is that Mrs Winters will not be pressing charges against you.’ Carlyle paused, allowing the woman’s bowed head to give a small nod of agreement. ‘That would certainly not be my recommendation,’ he let a pained expression flit across his face, ‘but I will, after some consideration, respect her views.’

Brennan stared out into the garden, trying to affect an air of boredom. ‘And what else?’ he asked, not looking at his nemesis.

‘You don’t get the money.’ Giselle Winters finally found her voice.

Brennan turned to face the widow. ‘But-’

‘You have to walk away from here – now,’ Carlyle said. ‘And don’t come back. If you try to contact Mrs Winters, or threaten her in any way, you will be arrested immediately and charged with grievous bodily harm and attempted extortion.’

‘A spell at Her Majesty’s Pleasure might well be a better bet than having to face up to Ken Ashton’s people,’ Brennan reflected.

Carlyle smiled maliciously. ‘I should imagine you’ll have to do that whether you’re inside or outside.’

Brennan rocked back on his heels. ‘You could be right.’

‘Regardless of that, don’t come back,’ Umar repeated.

‘You know what? She thought you were a useless shag.’ Before Umar could reply, Brennan wheeled round to the inspector. ‘As for you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Always trying to claim the moral high fucking ground. This is all about Yvonne Meyer, isn’t it?’

‘Just go, Chris,’ Giselle hissed. With a snort of disgust, the lawyer headed for the door. Grim-faced, Carlyle kept his own counsel as he watched Brennan disappear back into the hallway. He listened to the retreating footsteps and the front door slamming shut and realized that he’d been holding his breath. Exhaling, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank deeply.

Umar fidgeted with his beer bottle and looked up at his boss. ‘So who’s Yvonne Meyer, then?’

Sitting in Giselle Winters’ kitchen, the inspector stared at his empty bottle and registered the light buzz that a third beer had bestowed on his brain. That was enough Peroni for him for one night; it was time to move on. He looked around, wondering whether there was any Scotch in the house. Brian Winters, he imagined, would be the kind of guy to have a bottle of something rather nice close at hand. ‘Do you know where they keep their spirits?’ he asked his sergeant.

Still lingering over his first drink, Umar said. ‘Nah.’ He pointed towards the stairs. ‘I can go and ask Giselle, though – if you like.’

‘It’s okay. Don’t worry.’ The moment Chris Brennan had slunk off into the night, the widow had announced that she was decamping to Antibes that very evening, to stay with friends. She had then disappeared upstairs to pack. The inspector thought it a good idea, just in case the lawyer did try to come back. ‘Probably best that you stay away from her bedroom, seeing as you’ve turned over a new leaf and all that.’

Did Umar blush from behind his beer bottle? Maybe the inspector had imagined it. ‘What do you think he meant,’ the sergeant mumbled, ‘about Giselle saying that I was a rubbish shag?’