James Craig: Man of Sorrows

Carlyle handed her back the flyer. ‘That’s hardly our problem.’

‘It will be if they all get dragged back to Agar Street.’

Carlyle grunted. As usual, Roche had a point. The last thing he needed today was a full-blown circus descending on Charing Cross police station. Not when he had other fish to fry. ‘What were you doing here anyway?’

Roche gestured down the tunnel. ‘My car’s back there. I was on my way in.’

‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle began marching towards the nearest G36-toting uniform. ‘Let’s go and find out who’s in charge of today’s fiasco.’

‘ The tunnel was closed for more than an hour before anti-terrorist officers realized their blunder, which was blamed on a tip-off from an over-zealous member of the public. The troupe’s manager, Cyril Bowles, says he will be suing the Metropolitan Police for wrongful arrest and emotional trauma . . .’

‘Ungrateful sod,’ Carlyle grumbled as he switched off the TV and dropped the remote on his desk. ‘He should think of all the free publicity.’

Roche handed him a Diet Coke she’d brought up from the canteen. ‘We need to get downstairs.’

‘Huh?’ Carlyle cracked open the can and took a healthy slug.

‘The priest.’

‘Fuck.’ The fucking priest! Carlyle had forgotten all about Father Francis McGowan. He jumped to his feet. ‘How long has he been downstairs?’

‘Since just after one this morning.’

‘God! You didn’t get much sleep then.’

Roche made a face. ‘He started squealing for his lawyer straight away.’

‘Sorry.’

A grin broke through her tiredness and he was suddenly struck by how good she looked. Lose that thought right now , he ordered himself.

‘Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to track her down yet.’

‘Better get on with it then.’

Roche put a hand on his arm. ‘There’s one other thing. There was a bit of a scuffle when I brought him in. He’s got a few cuts and bruises.’

Nothing he doesn’t deserve , the inspector thought.

‘I know, I know.’ Roche held up a hand. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. But when we found his porn stash I just wanted to kill the old bastard.’

A not altogether unreasonable point of view. Carlyle nodded.

‘When I told him he was coming down the station, he started mouthing off about a conspiracy against the Church. Then he told me I was going to hell and that’s when-’

‘You bounced his head off the wall a few times?’

‘He had it coming.’

‘This isn’t the 1970s,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘We’re not The Sweeney .’

Roche gave him a blank look.

‘Sweeney Todd. Cockney rhyming slang – Flying Squad; it was a TV show, Regan and Carter.’ He smiled as he recalled his underage self sneaking into the ABC Cinema on Fulham Broadway to see the X-certificate movie version of the show. In those days, no one bothered to kick you out at the end, so he’d stayed in to watch it three times in a row. Duality. ‘ “ You’re nicked ”, that was their catchphrase.’

Roche couldn’t have looked any less interested. ‘Didn’t they do a remake of that?’

‘It was shit,’ Carlyle told her, with all the authority of Pauline Kael on crack. ‘Ray Winstone and some ten-year-old dickhead rapper. Utter shit.’

‘Mm.’

‘Not a patch on the original.’

‘Aha.’ Roche’s interest edged another notch downwards.

I’m just a sad old bastard , Carlyle observed. Move on . ‘When you were bashing the guy up, were there any witnesses? Any chance of any of the action being caught on a security camera?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing to worry about in that regard. I went into the flat alone.’

‘Good.’

Roche gave him a meaningful look. ‘But if it were to come back to us, I don’t want to get into trouble over this.’

Meaning: I don’t want to get in trouble dealing with something that is your bloody crusade.

‘Fair enough. Are your union dues paid up?’

An expression of concern crept across her face. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Always better to have the Federation on your side,’ Carlyle advised, ‘just in case. Frankly, there’s nothing they can’t get you out of, short of shooting the Commissioner. And you wouldn’t do that, would you?’ Roche just laughed.

Taking a final swig of his Diet Coke, the inspector thought about the situation for a moment. Then, opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out one of the tools of the trade, an extendable steel baton. It was barely a quarter of an inch in diameter and weighed only a few grams. But you could use it to break a bloke’s arm with just a flick of the wrist.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘B3.’

‘When we get down to the basement,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘just follow my lead.’

‘Okay,’ said Roche, without any conviction.

Sticking the baton under his jacket, he kicked the drawer closed with the toe of his shoe. ‘Let’s go.’

Under his shock of unruly snow-white hair, Father Francis McGowan looked like a man who had spent a night in a cell. He also looked like a man who had walked, face first, into a door – which, of course, he had. Carlyle noted the bruising on his left cheek and a cut under his right eye. The injuries were hardly serious, but there was no way that they would go unnoticed. At least Roche had given him a plaster and a cup of coffee.

‘She hit me!’ Shifting in his seat, McGowan pointed a bony finger at Roche, who was hovering half a yard behind the inspector.

Carlyle said nothing.

‘Where’s my lawyer?’ the priest asked in a quavering voice.

‘We’re still trying to contact her.’ Roche’s voice sounded flat and bored.

Carlyle took out his baton and slowly extended it to its full twenty-six inches, trying not to grin as McGowan’s eyes grew wide and he glanced at the security camera high on the wall behind Carlyle’s head.

‘I want my lawyer, now!’

His own eyes gleaming with mischief, Carlyle gently tapped the baton against the side of his leg. ‘Tell me, Father, are you happy?’

‘Huh?’ The priest seemed genuinely confused by the question.

‘Are you happy?’

McGowan looked at him suspiciously. ‘You mean right now?’

‘In general.’

The old man gazed around, as if searching for divine inspiration. Finding none, he stammered: ‘I d-don’t understand.’

‘I’m not happy,’ said Carlyle quietly.

‘Me neither,’ said Roche, quickly getting into the spirit of things.

The priest frowned. ‘Are you asking for confession?’

‘I’m angry,’ said Carlyle, ignoring the question. ‘In fact, I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!’ Laughing, he did a little shuffle, a skip and a hop, raising the baton above his head, in a vague approximation of a member of the Riot Squad. Despite having been out of service for three weeks, the WTC9SHR miniature bullet camera exploded with a satisfying bang, sending pieces of glass and plastic flying across the room, towards the elderly man cowering in his chair behind the desk.

Maybe now , the inspector thought, someone will look into getting it fixed.

Leaning against the far wall, Roche looked at him open-mouthed, as if genuinely surprised at the quality of his acting skills.

‘It’s a line from a film,’ Carlyle shrugged, pulling a piece of glass from his hair. ‘More or less.’

She glared at him and he recoiled slightly from the anger in her green eyes.

‘ Network ,’ he tried to explain. ‘Peter Finch. Great movie.’

Still nothing, other than a slight shake of the head which sent a strand of red hair falling across her face. She pushed it away.