James Craig: Nobody's Hero

Jerome grimaced. He had plans for this evening; they included hanging out with a magnum of bubbly and some party girls. He didn’t want things to be derailed by poor timekeeping.

‘It’s not a big deal,’ Elma continued. ‘We are committed to making this a truly unforgettable experience for all of those who attend.’

‘I understand that,’ Jerome persisted, ‘I truly do. But if I’m going to put a live feed of this . . . event on my website, the place is gonna have to look full; fuller than it is right now, at least. How will it look to my congregation if they see that I came all the way over here to perform in front of a mere handful of people?’ He gave Elma an embarrassed shrug. ‘You promised me a sell-out crowd.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Elma tried to sound reassuring. ‘My people will make sure that the venue fills out in good time.’ If the worst came to the worst, she would have to get Melville to pay some of his mates again. For thirty quid a head, those boys could go crazy like the best of them. ‘Depending on developments, we can, ah, mobilize significant numbers at very short notice.’

‘Well, mobilize them, then,’ Jerome said, a testiness creeping into his voice that she hadn’t heard before. ‘We haven’t got time to waste here. Don’t people here in London town need to have miracles performed for them?’

I certainly do , thought Elma. There was an awkward pause before the sound of Lincoln Brewster’s ‘Let Your Glory Shine’ started up from inside her Victoria Beckham satchel. Saved by the bell , Elma thought, halleluiah. Ask and He shall deliver. ‘Sorry,’ she smiled, ‘that’s my phone. I’m afraid I need to get it.’

Looking less than pleased, Jerome gave her a curt nod. Reaching into the bag, she let the towel fall to the carpet as she pulled out her iPhone 6. ‘Hold on one second, please,’ she said into it, and placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she turned to face the Reverend, who had gone slightly pale. ‘Let me deal with this and I’ll see you downstairs in a couple of minutes.’

‘Sure thing.’ Trying to keep his gaze somewhere above her head, Jerome was already skipping towards the door with a certain alacrity. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘Alrighty.’ As the American disappeared, Elma returned her attention to the phone. ‘Sorry for keeping you waiting,’ she trilled. ‘This is Elma Rayes, Founder and CEO of the Christian Salvation Centre. We promise you more miracles for your money, guaranteed. How can I be of assistance?’

There was a snort from the other end of the phone. ‘Cut the shit, girl. Are you high?’

‘No, I am not high.’ Hurling the wine glass across the room, Elma watched it bounce off the bed without breaking. ‘As you well know, I am working. And I am working sober .’

‘Good for you,’ Michelangelo Federici laughed, ‘good for you. And how are things in King’s Cross? How is the conference going?’

‘It’s going fine.’

‘Uhuh. Making money?’

‘Of course.’ Elma scratched absentmindedly at her chest. Her mouth felt dry and she had a strong desire for some more wine. Gazing at the bottle, she estimated that there was at least another glass and a half in there before it was empty.

‘Good. Your cash flow could do with some extra oomph. ’

Elma tip-toed around the end of the bed, looking to retrieve her wine glass. ‘You’re my lawyer, Mikey,’ she said, grunting as she bent over to pick it up, ‘not my damn accountant. What do you want?’

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ the lawyer replied, ‘when you’re busy saving people and stuff . . .’

‘But?’

‘But you’ve got a problem.’

‘Oh Christ,’ Elma mumbled, wedging the phone under her ear as she reached for the booze.

From the other end of the phone came the gentle chuckle of the true non-believer. ‘You can try calling the Boss,’ Federici said, almost gently, ‘but I don’t think He’s going to be much help to you on this one.’

They returned to the South Bank to find that Joseph Belsky was still securely locked inside his reinforced toilet. With much headshaking and sucking of teeth, a perplexed-looking panic room consultant refused to be drawn either on the precise nature of the problem, or the amount of time it might take for it to be resolved. Leaving Umar in charge of proceedings, the inspector quickly headed back towards the relative safety of the north side of the river.

Normally, there was nothing that Carlyle liked better than a stroll across Waterloo Bridge. With the Palace of Westminster on one side and St Paul’s Cathedral on the other, and the murky, mighty Thames under your feet, it offered, in his humble opinion, the best views in the capital, especially at night. Tonight, however, there was no time to stop and dawdle; Carlyle was rapidly running out of time if he was to charge Seymour Erikssen and keep London safe from the capital’s most prolific, if incompetent, thief.

‘Idiot,’ he chanted under his breath as he steamed northwards. ‘Idiot, idiot, idiot.’ It was beginning to look rather as if he’d been a bit too cute in leaking the story to the press; if ‘London’s worst criminal’ walked free thanks to a bureaucratic cock-up, Carlyle would get it in the neck for sure. He knew from bitter experience that Bernie Gilmore, with his sources deep inside the police force, would be on the phone even before Seymour had managed to nip to the bar of the Jolly Friar on Charing Cross Road and order his first pint of London Pride. And where Bernie went, others followed, all of them full of the manufactured bemusement and outrage that was handed out to all journalists at birth.

‘Idiot.’ The last thing Carlyle needed was a lashing in the press – especially when he deserved it. Patting the mobile phone in the breast pocket of his jacket, he wondered if he should call his boss and give her a heads-up. Happily, Commander Carole Simpson had quite a high pain threshold when it came to the inspector’s occasional errors of judgement. Over the years she had demonstrated a creditable willingness to watch his back. Carlyle liked to think that this was the result of her appreciation – almost unique among commanding officers during the course of his career – of his positive qualities. In reality, he knew it was as much to do with her desire for a quiet life as her own career began to wind down.

‘Idiot.’ Should he call Simpson or not? If he marked her card now, the fallout later might be less severe. On other hand, he didn’t want to flag a problem that might not, in the end, materialize. The basic rule for all top brass – the less they know the better – still applied to Simpson, despite her positive qualities. Skipping past a shabby woman pushing a baby buggy, he lengthened his stride, keeping his gaze focused on the patch of pavement immediately in front of his feet.

The police station in Agar Street was at least five minutes’ walk away, even at a brisk pace. Heading north, on the west side of the bridge, the inspector continued to curse himself for not paying more attention to the time as he slalomed between the promenading tourists, theatregoers coming out of the South Bank’s latest hit show, Frankenstein the Musical , and straggling commuters coming the other way as they headed for Waterloo station.

As he reached the middle of the bridge, a familiar voice appeared out of the background hum.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Huh?’ Letting his head fall even closer to his chest, the inspector had no intention of stopping.

‘John.’

Reluctantly slowing his pace, he half-turned to face the cheery smile of Susan Phillips.

The Met pathologist gently placed a hand on his arm. ‘You’re not trying to avoid me, are you?’