James Craig: Nobody's Hero

I would have thought it was fairly self-explanatory. ‘No idea,’ Carlyle lied. ‘People talk shit, just to wind you up.’

‘I suppose.’ But the young man sounded doubtful.

‘I’m sure Giselle wouldn’t say anything like that,’ the inspector said soothingly.

‘No.’ The sergeant’s face brightened somewhat. ‘Anyway, Yvonne Meyer . . .’

‘Christ,’ Carlyle groaned. ‘Maybe I will have another beer.’ Going over to the fridge, he liberated another Peroni.

Umar waited patiently for him to remove the cap and take a swig.

‘Yvonne Meyer . . . South African, twenty-three years old, working in a bar on Goodge Street and training to become a graphic designer. Pretty girl . . .’

Umar bit his lip, knowing more-or-less what was coming next.

‘Brennan raped Meyer at a party – beat her up too. Then he threatened to kill her if she reported it. I persuaded her to make a complaint and – ten months later – we went to trial.’ If only he could wish the memories away.

‘And?’

‘And the bastard got off. When the case was dismissed, Yvonne walked out of court, went down into the underground and jumped in front of a Victoria Line train heading for Seven Sisters.’

‘Ah.’ Umar didn’t know what to say.

The inspector chugged down half of the remaining beer and let out a small belch. ‘That was just over a decade ago now – but some cases you don’t forget.’

‘No.’

‘Her parents came all the way from Durban to collect the body. She was their only child. They had no idea what had happened, didn’t even know that the court case was taking place. Yvonne had tried to spare them that.’

‘ Fu-uck . . . ’

‘It can be a shit old world. But I have followed Brennan’s career carefully ever since, waiting for him to make a slip. And now he finally has, it’s time for some payback.’

‘Are you sure that he was guilty?’

‘He was as guilty as sin. Basically, he got off because the forensic evidence hadn’t been collected properly. And he had a history of violence that wasn’t disclosed to the jury. You saw what he did to Giselle.’

‘Yeah. So what will happen to him now?’

Carlyle finished his beer. ‘That’s for Ken Ashton to decide. Brian Winters has really dropped him in it. Brennan is on the hook for a lot of cash.’ Placing the empty bottle on the worktop, he headed for the door. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

Checking to ensure that he wasn’t imprisoning any stray Chinese tourists, the Reverend Lincoln McNelis locked the West entrance and carefully set the alarm. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to sitting down with a cup of tea and a couple of shortbread biscuits. His sense of weariness increased as he approached the donations box. It cost more than a hundred thousand pounds a year to run St Paul’s Church, and that sum was growing all the time. On top of that, there was the appeal to save and restore the courtyard, a job that would require another six-figure sum. As their need grew, however, the charity of visitors was coming under ever greater strain, their pockets emptied in double-quick time by the more expensive delights of the surrounding city. The weekly take was getting smaller and smaller, and each year it was becoming harder and harder to balance the books.

As he turned the key in the lock, the rector wondered what ‘gifts’ he might find in the box this time. It never ceased to amaze him what people managed to force through the slot: bits of food; plastic cutlery; condoms. In short, anything but cash.

With a sigh, he opened the lid and peered into the box.

‘Oh, my.’

Reaching inside, he pulled out a fistful of notes in various currencies.

A gift from God. Shuffling the collection of pounds, euros and dollars, Lincoln McNelis did a quick calculation in his head. Guessing that he was holding the equivalent of something like three months’ takings, he lifted his eyes to the heavens, apologizing for his cynicism and giving heartfelt thanks for the generosity of strangers.

Tired but somewhat elated, Carlyle pushed through the slowly thinning crowd of late-middle-aged men in leather jackets and Suspect Device T-shirts. With the final, triumphant encore still ringing in his ears, he tried to remember the last time he’d been to a gig. Any gig. It had to be twenty years at least. The last time he’d seen Stiff Little Fingers themselves was in Brixton, way back in 1988. One thing he did remember: Helen had refused to come with him. She had never really been into Punk. Never really been into music, full stop. Certainly not in the trainspotterish way that he had been, back then.

1988.

By that time, the band had already been around for ten years or more. It was a miracle they were still going, really.

It was a miracle he was still going.

After a few moments, he caught up with his daughter, who was waving a rolled-up poster above her head.

‘I got it signed!’

‘Great,’ he smiled, energized by her clear delight.

‘That was so cool,’ Alice burbled, still riding the adrenaline rush of the show. ‘Can we do it again?’

‘If you’d like.’ Putting a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulders, Carlyle steered her towards the exit. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Umar gave WPC Mason a gentle nudge. ‘Do you think we should wake him?’ he stage-whispered.

‘I’m not asleep,’ Carlyle said, if a little groggily. Opening his eyes, he lifted his feet off his desk, allowing himself a stretch while stifling a yawn.

‘Of course not, Boss,’ Mason agreed.

‘Just doing a good impression of a man having a kip,’ Umar chuckled. ‘Late night, was it?’

‘Alice took me to a Stiff Little Fingers concert last night,’ Carlyle explained.

‘Who are they?’ Umar asked. ‘Some boy band?’

‘Not quite.’ The inspector reluctantly got to his feet. He needed an espresso – a double. ‘Anyway,’ he yawned properly, ‘haven’t you got more pressing things to worry about? Is there any news from the IPCC?’ It was more than a week now since the pair of them had appeared in front of the panel investigating the circumstances of Calvin Safi’s arrest and, so far, the silence had been deafening.

‘Nothing yet,’ Umar said cheerily. If he was feeling stressed out by the whole episode, he wasn’t letting it show.

‘They’re taking their bloody time about it,’ Carlyle groused.

‘My rep says I shouldn’t read anything into that,’ Umar countered. ‘They just have to make a show of going through the motions. She’s fairly relaxed about the whole thing.’

‘Let’s hope she’s right.’

‘It’ll be fine – no more than a reprimand.’ The sergeant sounded like he believed it.

‘Good. So, where are we in terms of Mr Safi himself?’

‘We’ve got him in relation to Napper’s murder and Sandra Middlemass, the missing girl, but that’s about it.’

‘That’s plenty,’ Carlyle grunted.

‘I’m not sure that the Chief Crown Prosecutor sees it like that. I don’t think Safi talked about the grooming network. Denton didn’t get much out of him.’

‘Ah, well, it was worth a try.’ The inspector turned to Mason. ‘And how is our good friend Seymour Erikssen?’

‘We got lucky. CCTV from the Monkey’s Uncle shows him robbing that American tourist. We never found the wallet, but we’ve got him in the frame for another half a dozen thefts in the last few weeks. Fingers crossed, he won’t be getting out so quickly this time.’

‘Good,’ Carlyle said, ‘Bernie Gilmore will be pleased, if nothing else.’

Sitting in the canteen, the inspector considered the merits of a cheese and tomato panini as he scanned the news pages of that morning’s Metro. Beneath a picture of a monkey in a sheepskin coat that had been found wandering around an Ikea store, his eye caught a story in the news in brief section: