James Craig - Man of Sorrows

‘On reflection,’ Carlyle remarked, ‘sounds like it might be worth a try.’

Roche dropped the BlackBerry back into her bag. ‘At the end of the day, it’s just a job, isn’t it? A way to make a living.’

‘It’s good to have something to fall back on,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘particularly at times like this.’

Simpson appeared from down the hallway. ‘I’m glad you two find this amusing.’ However, her stern words were undermined by the smile dancing around her lips.

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Funny old world.’

‘They were taking part in a torture session, apparently,’ said Simpson evenly, as if it were the most common thing in the world, ‘with another dominatrix who did a runner when our man pegged out.’

‘They did at least call 999,’ Roche interjected.

‘We think he may have choked on a rubber ball,’ Simpson continued, ‘or died after taking nitrous oxide.’

And when Carlyle looked mystified, Roche cheerily informed him: ‘It’s used as an anaesthetic to make sex sessions last longer.’

Carlyle felt his buttocks involuntarily tighten. ‘Nice.’

‘He was found wearing a leather “gimp” mask with a ball on a chain around his neck,’ Simpson said. ‘That was taken off when the ambulance crew tried to resuscitate him. Anyway, we’ll have to wait for the results of the post-mortem examination to know precisely what caused his death.’

‘Will the, erm, ladies be charged with anything?’ Carlyle asked.

‘That,’ said Simpson, ‘will ultimately be a matter for the CPS. If they’ve got any sense, they’ll not pursue it, but you never know.’

‘I wonder if his wife knew about his penchant for S amp;M?’ said Roche.

Simpson, herself well aware of the vagaries of married life, gave a sad smile. ‘Mrs Dugdale lives at the family home in Surrey; Gavin spent most of his time in London. I think they had been living separate lives for quite some time.’

‘Maybe,’ Roche replied, ‘but this is still gonna be a hell of a shock.’

Simpson gave her a shit happens shrug. ‘I think we need to take a look at how this will impact on your various ongoing investigations,’ she said.

‘Does this mean you’re coming back?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Looks like it.’ Simpson didn’t sound too happy at the prospect. ‘I’ve already been told by the higher-ups that that is the plan. I was due to go back to Canada at the weekend, but that’s now on hold.’

‘Great,’ said Carlyle happily. He quickly ran her through where they were on their different cases.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Roche when he’d finished. Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she headed for the door. ‘Time for lunch.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Carlyle objected as he followed her out, unable to imagine his appetite returning for quite some time.

Francis McGowan lit up a Dorchester Superking and started puffing vigorously.

Taking a step away from the smoke, Abigail Slater shot him an irritated look. ‘I didn’t know that you smoked.’

‘I have many vices,’ said the priest grimly.

Slater took a seat in one of the pews, shivering against the cold. ‘Are you even allowed to smoke in here?’

McGowan shrugged and took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘I can’t believe they didn’t sack that policeman,’ he said bitterly.

‘Don’t fret,’ Slater told him. ‘The hearing was postponed because one of the panel didn’t turn up. They’ll reschedule it in another week or two.’

‘I could be in jail by then.’

Most probably , thought Slater. ‘Possibly. But there’s no point in worrying about that right now.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’ After taking a final drag, McGowan tossed the butt onto the flagstone floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Bending down, he picked up the remains of the cigarette and placed it carefully in the pocket of his trousers. ‘They’ll put me in with the kiddie-fiddlers.’

Slater yawned. ‘You should have thought about that before you paid a fifteen-year-old boy to give you oral sex. I am sure we will be able to get this all sorted,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was still interested in her client. ‘The policeman will be discredited and we will get the charges against you dropped.’

‘But how?’ McGowan wailed. The door to the church opened and a gaunt and tired-looking young woman appeared. Nodding nervously at McGowan and Slater, she hurried past. McGowan waited for her to light a candle and begin her prayers before turning back to Slater. ‘Even if you do,’ he breathed, ‘Wagner says they will kick me out of here.’

‘What?’

‘The Monsignor has told me that it is time to move on.’ McGowan gave her a pained look. ‘It is not right.’

Slater half-suppressed a snort of laughter. The capacity of some people for self-delusion never ceased to amaze.

‘I have been here almost twenty years,’ the priest continued, his voice rising. ‘This is my home. I am too old to go anywhere else.’

‘The Monsignor has to look at the interests of everyone.’

‘But it is just not right!’ McGowan repeated, going red in the face. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his cigarettes again and fumbled with the packet before pulling one out and sticking it in his mouth. ‘You must speak to him.’

Slater looked at him expressionlessly.

‘You must!’ McGowan hissed, still searching for his lighter. A look of desperation – or was it low cunning? – appeared in his eyes. ‘Otherwise,’ he croaked, ‘who knows what I might have to say to the police?’

‘Okay,’ Slater sighed, struggling to believe that the devious old sod was trying to strong-arm her. ‘I will see what I can do.’

The inspector reluctantly followed Roche to a Costa Coffee on Canary Wharf’s North Colonnade, cradling a double espresso while his sergeant tucked into an oversized ham and egg bloomer awash in tomato sauce.

‘All in all, that’s a bit of a result,’ said Roche, swallowing the last of her sandwich and wiping the corners of her mouth to remove stray traces of ketchup.

‘The sandwich?’ Carlyle asked obtusely.

‘No,’ Roche said primly, taking a mouthful of her latte. ‘Dugdale’s Jesus impersonation.’

‘I think it was more like St Andrew,’ Carlyle corrected her, thinking of the Patron Saint of Scotland, crucified on an X-shaped cross, or saltire, as he deemed himself unworthy to be crucified on the same type of cross as the Son of God.

‘Who?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Whatever. His timing was perfect.’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Bit of a sad way to go.’

‘I can think of a lot worse,’ Roche protested.

‘Yes, but even so.’

Roche frowned. ‘But you hated the bastard.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘But I don’t need to hate him any more – do I?’

‘Doesn’t sound like you,’ Roche grunted.

Carlyle rubbed a hand over his face. ‘There’s a saying that if you sit by the side of the river long enough, you’ll see the bodies of your enemies floating by.’

Roche almost choked on her coffee. ‘How very . . . philosophical of you,’ she said.

‘I’ve found it a very helpful thought down the years,’ Carlyle explained, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘They float away and you forget about them. It’s better than revenge. The inevitability of the process makes it very soothing.’

‘If you say so, Chief.’ Roche grinned. ‘The question is: what will it mean for your disciplinary hearing?’

‘Simpson will sort it out.’

Roche looked at him carefully. ‘You two are quite close, aren’t you?’

Suddenly Carlyle felt quite defensive. ‘I wouldn’t say close ,’ he replied, ‘but we’ve worked together a long time.’