James Craig: Nobody's Hero

‘Um. No. Not at all. Just a bit pushed for time.’ Sticking a brittle smile on his face, the inspector finally came to a reluctant halt, stepping into the narrow cycle lane in order to get out of the steady two-way flow of pedestrians on the pavement. As he did so, a taxi advertising the latest Tom Cruise movie slid slowly past, moving out into the middle lane as the driver sought to slip round an obstacle that lay up ahead. Carlyle checked and saw that a yellow-green ambulance less than ten yards in front of him was blocking off the nearside lane for motorists. The back doors were open and a couple of paramedics were lifting a body on a gurney inside. Their unhurried manner indicated that their patient hadn’t made it.

‘So this one’s not yours?’ Phillips asked, gesturing towards the ambulance as she reached over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Carlyle felt himself redden slightly. He had worked with Phillips for decades; she was one of the colleagues that he liked the most. But he couldn’t remember her ever pecking him on the cheek before. When had they become so . . . European ? The thought floated through his head that maybe she had acquired a continental boyfriend. Phillips, more than attractive even as she reached her fifties, went through men faster than other people went through shoes.

‘The stiff?’ he answered. ‘No, no.’ Momentarily forgetting that he was in a rush, the inspector watched one of the paramedics slam the doors shut and move round to the driver’s door. ‘Not at all. What happened?’

‘Some guy dropped down dead on the pavement. Looks like a heart attack. I don’t really know why they bothered calling me out. Nothing suspicious, as far as I can see.’

Carlyle sighed. ‘Shit happens. Who was he?’

‘Dunno.’ Arms folded, she watched as the ambulance began slowly pulling away from the kerb. The small knot of rubberneckers who had been hovering on the pavement to catch the free show began dispersing, and the backed-up traffic started moving more freely. Within seconds, it was as if the dead man had never existed.

Apart from the battered black leather briefcase left standing in the gutter, next to a drain cover.

Still standing in the bike lane, forcing the oncoming cyclists to give him a wide berth, the inspector frowned. ‘Does that belong to the dead guy?’

‘What?’

Carlyle pointed at the case. ‘That.’

‘Shit.’ A look of irritation swept across the normally relaxed pathologist’s face.

Carlyle glanced up and down the bridge. ‘Where are the uniforms?’

‘There was a PC and a plastic,’ Phillips explained. ‘Plastic policemen’ was the less than flattering name that regular officers had chosen for their volunteer colleagues, the Community Support Officers who were drafted in to beef up the numbers. ‘They must have buggered off back to the station.’

‘Brilliant.’ Carlyle shook his head in disgust. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’

‘It happens,’ Phillips said philosophically.

‘Where were they from? Charing Cross?’

‘I don’t think so. I think it was Waterloo.’ She mentioned a couple of names.

Carlyle made a face. ‘Don’t know them.’ But he would certainly make a point of tracking them down.

‘I can check.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Glancing up at the digital clock on the façade of the National Theatre, he remembered why he had been hurrying back north. ‘I really need to get going.’ Grabbing the briefcase, he jumped back onto the pavement. ‘Don’t worry though, I’ll sort this out.’

‘Thanks, John,’ Phillips shouted after him as he scuttled away.

‘No problem,’ he called back over his shoulder, but he was already too far away for her to hear.

Carlyle’s eye was drawn to the picture of the young woman wearing nothing but a cyclist’s crash helmet and a smile. With her back to the camera, she had a bright red handprint emblazoned on each buttock. Is that PhotoShop? he wondered. Or did someone actually plant their hand on her backside?

Dropping the briefcase he’d recovered from Waterloo Bridge onto the floor, he felt a stab of regret. Why had he never met the kind of girl who would let you paint her bum and photograph it for posterity?

Story of his life.

Underneath the image was the legend: Don ’ t forget WNBR Day.

Painted Bum Day.

Looking up from his copy of the Daily Mail , the desk sergeant caught him staring. ‘Not bad, eh?’

Trying not to look sheepish, Carlyle mumbled something noncommittal.

‘It’ll stop the traffic,’ the sergeant went on.

‘What will?’

‘World Naked Bike Ride Day,’ the man explained.

What? ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

‘The London ride comes across Waterloo Bridge, down the Strand and round Trafalgar Square.’

Carlyle took another look at the girl in the poster. ‘So what’s it got to do with painting your bum?’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s some kind of protest about something or other.’

I suppose there are worse things than people riding round in the altogether , Carlyle thought, unable to decide whether he found the event amusing or annoying.

‘But really,’ the sergeant scoffed, ‘who cares?’

An image popped into the inspector’s head of a sea of colourful arseholes riding past Nelson’s Column. ‘What about public decency?’ he asked. ‘Won’t there be a lot of complaints?’

‘Yeah. We’ll get some. Usually from the people busy taking the most photos.’

‘But isn’t it illegal?’

‘Of course it’s bloody illegal,’ the sergeant snorted. ‘Not to mention cold and uncomfortable. But it’s been going on for three or four years now. They are expecting as many as six thousand riders to turn up this time around.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘It’s described as “clothes optional”, so not all of them will be naked, but most of them will – at least, they will if the weather’s good.’

Carlyle shook his head. Why anyone would want to cycle through Central London in their birthday suit was totally beyond him. Biking in London was dangerous enough, even if you kept all of your clothes on. What if you got knocked off in the buff? It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘And at the end of the day, there’s not a lot of point in arresting them just for getting their kit off, is there?’

‘I suppose not,’ the inspector agreed.

‘Apart from anything else, think of the practicalities.’

‘Yes.’

The sergeant raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Have you ever tried to arrest anyone who didn’t have any clothes on?’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. The only person that came to mind was Christina O’Brien, Umar’s partner. He recalled with some admiration the night he had witnessed Christina’s brisk and expert assault on a uniform on the stage of Everton’s Gentleman’s Club. That, however, was not something he was going to share with the desk sergeant.

‘Not that I recall,’ he lied.

‘It’s difficult to know where to put your hands.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And the press go bananas – any excuse to publish a photo of someone getting their tits out.’

‘Mm.’

‘You’ve got to be realistic. There is only so much we can do.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded, having no idea what the sergeant was talking about. ‘When it comes down to it, our priority will be to keep an eye out for any lurking perverts using it as an excuse to get their todgers out in public.’ He thought about that for a moment. ‘Of course, distinguishing the pervs from the legitimate protestors will be a doddle.’

‘Ultimately, it’s not my problem,’ the sergeant observed. ‘As you can imagine, we are not short of volunteers to cover the event.’