James Craig: Man of Sorrows

‘Another question,’ Cole sighed. ‘But I’ll indulge you. Let’s put it this way. I think you’re a good guy. You deserve to be told what happened.’

But I know what happened , Carlyle thought. You just want to show off .

‘When I get off this boat,’ Cole continued, ‘that’ll be it. I’m off. No more London. I’ll enjoy a quiet retirement far away. Gotha Insurance will pay out on the shortfall and everyone will move on.’

‘Apart from the three people who died,’ Carlyle mused.

‘The girl from the store – well, that was an accident; not my fault. Carla deserved it – she was always a pain in the arse. Why my brother ever married her, I’ll never know. And as for that idiot boy of hers . . .’

‘He rolled over on you, by the way,’ Carlyle lied.

‘That doesn’t surprise me. No backbone at all. The same goes for his idiot friend for that matter.’

Not going to disagree with you on that one , Carlyle thought.

‘But,’ Cole continued, ‘as you would expect, I factored that into my planning. If I’d been relying on Colin to keep his mouth shut, I would have deserved to get caught.’ As the boat approached the stop at Camden Lock, Carlyle saw a small knot of half-a-dozen tourists waiting to get on. Following his line of vision, Cole gave him a sympathetic pat on the back with his free hand. ‘Just sit tight, Inspector. This is not your stop. And, remember, don’t try anything funny. “Canal-boat slaughter” wouldn’t look too good on your CV, would it?’

Despite everything, Carlyle chuckled. ‘No. I suppose not.’

Leaning forward, Cole grinned happily. ‘You are a very pragmatic man, Inspector. That is why I thought we should have this meeting. I knew that you would take it all in good spirit and not try anything silly.’

Camden Lock was its usual dirty, tourist-infested self. Carlyle watched the new passengers clamber on board and waited for them to set off again. The boat was quite full now, with a couple sitting next to him chatting away happily in Spanish and a woman with a young boy of maybe six or seven in a row on the other side of the aisle. His window of opportunity, if it had ever existed, had gone.

Turning his head slightly towards Cole, he lowered his voice until it was barely audible over the spluttering engine. ‘I can hardly take three murders in good spirit.’

‘I explained the first two,’ said Cole huffily. ‘Miss Lagerbäck was, I admit, more gratuitous. I suppose I should have walked away, but she was always such an irritating cow, I just felt like it. Did you see that picture she had in her office? What a total narcissist.’

Great arse though . ‘And the jewels?’

‘They were all pre-sold long before Colin and Damian went anywhere near St James’s. That’s the thing about my line of work – you have to know all the villains.’

Carlyle folded his arms. ‘Same for me.’

‘Exactly,’ said Cole, with the cheery air of a bloke enjoying his first good man-to-man chat in ages. ‘You didn’t do me any favours by recovering so much of the stuff. But my needs are modest and I’ve got more than enough to see me through the rest of my days.’

A thought struck Carlyle. ‘What about Mrs Cole?’

Cole grinned. ‘She’s under the floorboards in the kitchen, at home.’

‘What?’

The insurance man’s grin grew wider. ‘Only joking! Only joking! Mrs C and I got a divorce – ooh, must be more than twenty years ago now. Last I heard, she’d moved to Norwich.’

Poor woman , thought Carlyle, genuinely horrified at the thought of anyone having to live beyond Zone One of the tube map. Up ahead, the huge aviary cages of London Zoo appeared on either side of the canal. Cole tapped Carlyle’s foot with the toe of his shoe. ‘This is your stop,’ he said. ‘I’ll be staying on. Don’t make a fuss and I won’t have to shoot anyone by accident.’

‘Understood,’ said Carlyle.

‘Good,’ Cole said cosily. ‘I’m glad we had this little chat. Aren’t you?’

Carlyle grunted. ‘Sure.’

‘I wanted to be able to give you closure.’

Maybe it’s a cry for help , Carlyle thought. Maybe he wants me to throw him in the canal so he can get caught on a shopping trolley and drown .

‘Here.’ Cole reached over the inspector’s shoulder and pressed something into his hand.

Carlyle looked down at what looked like a little bug jewel. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a small gift for you – a memento of our little adventure – an eighteen-carat gold, diamond and ruby bee brooch. That would set you back the best part of nine grand, retail price. Mrs Carlyle will love it.’

Happily , thought Carlyle as he pocketed the brooch, my wife isn ’ t that kind of woman.

The boat pulled up at the Zoo stop and people started getting off. Cole shooed him away. ‘Now off you go, before I start shooting.’

‘Eh?’ Carlyle hesitated and immediately felt the barrel of the gun against his spine once again.

‘Go on,’ Cole hissed. ‘And don’t even think about trying to get help. You really don’t want to piss me off. There are still women and children on this boat.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Getting to his feet, the inspector joined the queue of passengers disembarking, shuffling along the length of the boat and stepping onto the concrete jetty. A path led up a small wooded incline, leading to the zoo. Checking that Cole hadn’t followed him, he jogged up the path, jumping behind the first big tree he could find. Pleased with himself for carrying two phones, he pulled out his BlackBerry and found Roche’s number. Hitting call, he heard it ring twice before he dropped off the network. ‘Shit!’ Realizing that he only had one bar of signal, he sprinted up the hill and tried again. This time, the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Fuck!’ Ignoring the dirty look of a woman passing with her kids, he ended the call and hit the number for the desk at the station.

He listened to it ring for what seemed like an eternity. ‘C’mon! C’mon!’

Finally, someone picked up. ‘Charing Cross police station,’ said a weary voice.

‘Who’s that?’ Carlyle demanded.

There was a pause. ‘What?’

‘This is Carlyle,’ he said angrily, struggling to keep his frustration in check. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Oh, okay, Inspector. This is Butler.’

‘Butler,’ Carlyle sighed. Sergeant Robert Butler was a Brummie who had been stationed at Charing Cross for a little over six months. It was a fate that seemed to bemuse and dismay him in equal measure, as if he had landed in London by accident and couldn’t manage to find his way home. Even by the standards of the Metropolitan Police, he was somewhat thick. Telling himself to speak clearly and s-l-o-w-l-y, Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Listen carefully. We have a very serious situation. This is what I need you to do . . .’

Putting the phone down on the sergeant, Carlyle wondered what his next step should be. As he did so, his phone went off in his hand. When he saw it was Simpson, he answered. ‘We’ve got a big problem,’ he said immediately. Before she could say anything, he quickly outlined the situation. As he did so, he saw another narrowboat approaching the jetty.

‘I’ll get straight over there,’ said Simpson.

‘See you there.’ Skipping back down the hill, the inspector jumped onto the jetty as the bright red boat, with Bert’s Boat Trips emblazoned on the side, pulled up. Happily, there was no one else waiting to embark. Carlyle counted six passengers, plus the skipper, or whatever he was called, already on board. Pulling out his warrant card, he leaped on board.