James Craig: Man of Sorrows

‘I know,’ Roche was saying apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s just one of those things.’ Carlyle could see her pushing her hair back while listening to the person on the other end of the line. ‘It comes with the job, I told you.’

Myron appeared with their drinks and Carlyle finally stopped snooping. He took a sip of his Diet Coke and smiled.

‘Thanks.’

The café-owner nodded blankly and headed back to the kitchen. Carlyle heard the door open behind him and Roche plonked herself down in the chair opposite.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said tensely and lifted the glass of orange juice to her lips.

‘Trouble at home?’

Roche put her juice down and looked at him warily. Carlyle was not really the kind of guy to show much interest in her private life and that was the way she liked it. She had introduced her previous boyfriend to Carlyle, SO15 Detective Inspector David Ronan, and he had ended up dead. From that moment, she had determined to keep her private life completely separate from work.

‘Had to blow out the boyfriend for dinner,’ she said, trying to inject a little levity into her voice. ‘These things happen.’

‘Comes with the job,’ Carlyle parroted.

‘Yes, it does,’ Roche said, gazing out of the window in a manner that suggested that the conversation was closed.

Carlyle left Roche to her thoughts and flicked through some football websites on his BlackBerry for a couple of minutes until Myron appeared with his omelette.

Finishing his main course, Carlyle resisted the temptation to order an apple Danish from the selection under the counter and limited himself to a green tea.

‘Still off the coffee, then?’ Roche asked.

‘More or less. Want anything else?’

Roche stopped pushing her half-eaten salad around her plate and sat back in her chair. ‘No. I’m done.’

‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, once the café owner had stalked off with their plates. ‘Let’s compare notes.’

‘Well,’ Roche began, ‘the security guard, Hendricks, seemed to be on the level. There’s nothing complicated about his story: the two guys arrived just before five. They look kosher, he lets them in, and then all hell breaks loose. Once he started having his asthma attack, all he was worried about was continuing to breathe. The moment they’d left, he went to grab his inhaler and just waited for the police to arrive.’

A thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Why did the call come in to us, rather than West End Central?’

‘It’s closed.’

‘Closed?’

‘Yeah,’ Roche said. ‘It closed at the end of last month. It’s supposed to be being refurbished, but there’s a rumour that it might not reopen, in order to save money.’

‘Better that than losing jobs,’ Carlyle murmured. There were seven police stations in Westminster; West End Central, in Savile Row, was one of the smaller ones. Over the years, several others had closed as operations had been centralized and uniformed coppers spent less time pounding the beat. It was the same all across London, just the way of the world.

‘Anyway,’ Roche continued, ‘the alarm was supposed to go to Belgravia, but for some reason it came to us.’ She watched as Myron arrived with Carlyle’s tea. Placing the mug carefully on the table, along with the bill, the owner once again retreated behind his counter. ‘I think he wants to get home,’ Roche said, reaching into her bag for her purse.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Carlyle, picking up the bill. ‘I’ll get this.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course,’ he told her, digging into his jacket pocket for his wallet. ‘It’s the least I can do for dragging you out here and making you miss your date.’ Dropping a tenner and a fiver onto the table, he gulped down half his tea and jumped to his feet, nodding his thanks to Myron. The Ukrainian gave him a weary smile in reply and came out from behind the counter to unlock the door.

‘Thank you,’ Roche told him, hoisting her bag over her shoulder and following Carlyle out.

Standing on the pavement, Carlyle was torn between turning right and making the short walk through the piazza to his flat, or left and back to the station.

Roche, shivering in the cold night air, made her decision first. ‘I’m going to call it a day,’ she said.

‘Which way are you going?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I’ll get the Central line at Holborn.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You can walk me home and I’ll tell you about my conversation with Luckman.’ Just then, he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. Assuming it was Helen, he checked the number. 901. It was his answerphone. A message appeared, telling him he had four missed calls. ‘Shit!’ Carlyle gestured at the screen, which shone brightly in the gloom. ‘How can that happen?’ he moaned. ‘We sat in the café. No one rang me. How can I have missed four bloody calls?’

Roche tutted sympathetically.

The phone started ringing again. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Work?’

Carlyle nodded, hitting the receive button. ‘Yes?’

‘Inspector? It’s the desk here.’

‘Yes?’ said Carlyle, already waving goodnight to Roche. Changing direction, he set off wearily in the direction of Bedford Street.

‘There is someone here who is demanding to speak to you, sir.’

As Carlyle approached the front desk, the night sergeant gave him a look that he couldn’t decipher until the woman talking on the phone turned round. If the look on her face said that she was less than impressed, Carlyle’s reaction was rather different. Dressed in what at first glance looked like a black leather cat-suit and biker boots, she was tall, easily a couple of inches taller than he was, and slim, with her blonde hair cut in an expensive-looking bob. Her face was classically beautiful and he doubted if she could have yet reached thirty. Still talking on the phone while she watched him gawp, an elbow propped casually on the desk, her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. Taking it all in, Carlyle’s first thought was that she looked like Cameron Diaz’s little sister or, rather, Cameron Diaz’s hotter little sister.

‘Look, I’ve got to go. The help has arrived. Ciao.’ The woman poked a finger at her iPhone and stepped away from the desk. ‘Inspector Carlyle?’

Temporarily dazed, Carlyle had to think about that one for a moment. ‘Er,’ he stammered, ‘yes.’

The woman did not offer her hand. ‘I am Katrin Lagerbäck, the owner of St James’s Diamonds. I wondered if we could talk about today’s . . . events.’ Her English was perfect and betrayed no obvious accent, but it was clear that she wasn’t a local.

Carlyle tried to regain his composure. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ Glancing around, he was aware that they – that she – was quickly attracting a crowd among the officers on duty, as well as the members of the public waiting to be seen. ‘Please,’ he said, leading her deeper into the station. ‘Come this way.’

He showed her into a meeting room on the third floor. Dropping her bag on the table, Katrin Lagerbäck pulled out a seat and sat down. He could see now that she wasn’t wearing a cat-suit but rather a matching leather jacket and trousers ensemble. Carlyle had never seen the attraction of leather trousers. To his mind, only Jim Morrison had been able to carry them off and even then it seemed a pretty much borderline thing. Lagerbäck unzipped the jacket and Carlyle was disappointed to find a very prim white blouse beneath, with just a single button undone at the neck.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes?’

‘I was wondering,’ Lagerbäck said, the amused smirk on her face growing bigger by the second, ‘if you could give me a report on what’s happening.’