James Craig - Man of Sorrows

‘I want a drink.’

‘Fine.’ If Holyrod felt rather miffed by her attitude, it didn’t seem to bother his cock, which was now almost good to go. He gestured towards the mini-bar. ‘Help yourself. But I’ve only got half an hour.’

Turning away from him, Slater grabbed a couple of miniatures of Smirnoff Black and dumped the contents into a 50ml glass. Throwing back her head, she downed the contents in a single gulp.

‘Feel better now?’ Holyrod asked hopefully.

Looking at him in the mirror on the wall above the mini-bar, she shook her head. ‘I just don’t feel in the mood.’

Holyrod began to soften. ‘What?’ he said, a hint of desperation entering his voice. ‘Not even a quick blowjob?’

With no more vodka on hand, Slater started on the Gordon’s. ‘You didn’t sort out the policeman,’ she said abruptly.

‘For God’s sake!’ Holyrod threw himself back onto the bed in exasperation. ‘I’m the fucking Mayor!’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t go round interfering with police investigations just because . . . because . . .’

‘Because I’m a good shag?’ said Slater angrily, attacking the gin with gusto.

‘Hah!’ Holyrod laughed. ‘I’ve had better,’ he said meanly, immediately regretting the lie.

‘Fuck you!’ Slater screamed, hurling the now empty glass at his head. Taking evasive action, he fell off the bed just as the tumbler smashed against the headboard.

Lying on the carpet, he listened to her storm out of the suite. ‘That went well,’ he said to himself, as the door clicked shut. Slowly, he got to his feet. Tucking himself back into his trousers, he opened the minibar to see what was left to drink.

Tomorrow is the day , Carlyle thought nervously, as he gazed at Helen sitting on the sofa, concentrating on her Sudoku puzzle. Either we get the all clear, breathe a sigh of relief and get on with our lives or . . . not .

If it turned out that Helen didn’t have the faulty BRCA2 gene, Carlyle knew that, for him at least, the whole thing would be ancient history in a matter of days.

On the other hand, if she did have it, he would plough on trying to fight the problem head on.

But what if they fought and lost?

Looking up from the paper, Helen caught him staring. ‘Stop spying on me,’ she ordered. ‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’

‘N-no, of course not,’ he stammered, embarrassed. He pointed at her empty mug on the coffee table. ‘Want some more tea?’

She shook her head. ‘For God’s sake, John! Just leave me in peace. Go to bed . . . or go and find something to do.’

Without another word, he padded into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While he waited for the water to boil, he checked out the back cover of the latest Commissario Brunetti novel, which he had been saving for a moment when he could give it the attention that it deserved. The prospect of a couple of hours in Venice before bed filled him with some kind of happiness, and he managed a half-smile as he placed the book on the worktop and pulled a bag of green tea from the box on top of the microwave. Dropping the bag into a chipped Fulham FC mug, a Christmas present from his daughter several years earlier, he added boiling water. Just as he was removing the bag, his phone started ringing. Tossing the bag into the sink, he pulled the handset out of his pocket.

‘Carlyle.’

‘John, it’s Rose Scripps.’ The background traffic noise told him that she was out on the street.

‘Hi.’

‘Apologies for calling you so late.’

‘No problem.’ Carlyle took a sip of his scalding tea and winced. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m at the church. McGowan’s on the roof. He’s threatening to jump.’

Carlyle thought about that for a moment. ‘Nice one. If he doesn’t bottle it, see if you can record the action on your mobile for me. Make sure you get a nice close-up of the mess on the road.’

‘I’m serious,’ Rose said sternly.

‘So am I.’

‘Look, you have to get down here.’

Carlyle slurped his tea noisily. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Inspector, we have a very serious situation here. The man says he is going to kill himself and he is demanding to speak to you.’

Carlyle let out a deep breath. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

‘Commander Simpson is on her way. And I’ve already seen that lawyer woman skulking about.’

‘Fine,’ said Carlyle huffily. ‘I’ll be there to see the whole damn freakshow in person. See if you can keep him from taking a dive for the next ten minutes or so. If I’m coming down, I don’t want to miss the action.’ Ending the call, he leaned back against the sink while he finished the last of his tea. Placing the mug next to the used tea bag, he glanced over at his book. ‘Looks like Venice will have to wait,’ he mumbled to himself, as he headed off to explain to Helen where he was going.

The slate roof of St Boniface’s fell away steeply to a lead-lined gutter about ten inches wide. Between the gutter and the edge of the building was a stone parapet about a foot high and the same again wide. Illuminated by spotlights that had been part of the church’s earlier refurbishment works, McGowan stood swaying on the parapet, at a point just below the spire. Just looking at him made Carlyle, who had no head for heights whatsoever, feel physically sick.

‘How did he get up there?’ Simpson asked.

‘You can access the roof via a skylight on the other side.’ Rose Scripps pointed at a figure crouching in the gutter at the other end of the roof. ‘That’s how our negotiator got up there.’

Carlyle looked around at the assembled circus: three police vans, two ambulances, two television trucks, a dozen or so uniforms and a growing crowd of gawkers. ‘Who is it?’

‘He’s called Angel,’ Rose said. ‘Sergeant Fletcher Angel. A very experienced guy, apparently.’

‘You can’t go wrong with an Angel,’ Carlyle quipped. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘Okay, I think,’ said Rose. ‘It’s hard to communicate with McGowan because he won’t let anyone get too close and he doesn’t have a mobile or anything,’

‘Well, at least he hasn’t jumped,’ said Simpson.

At that moment, there was an incomprehensible cry from up above. The crowd gasped as all eyes turned to the heavens. For a moment, McGowan seemed to teeter on the edge before stepping off the parapet back into the gutter.

‘Not yet, anyway,’ said Rose.

Carlyle gestured at Abigail Slater, pacing up and down behind the police cordon, talking animatedly into a mobile phone. ‘The best result would be if he did jump and landed on his bitch of a lawyer.’

Simpson and Scripps both shot him disgusted looks.

‘Hey,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘you can’t blame a boy for dreaming, can you? It would solve the problem of my hearing.’

Simpson gestured to the heavens with her chin. ‘Are you going up?’

‘Looks like it. Do we know what has prompted this little drama?’

Rose shook her head. ‘I asked the lawyer but she said she didn’t know. I’m sure she’s lying but there’s nothing I can do about that.’

‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, reluctantly deciding to bite the bullet. ‘Wish me luck.’

Not waiting for a response, he strode off in the direction of the church.

What was it Roche had told him? You need to put your chimp back in the box. The chimp theory might be bullshit, but if there was ever a time to give it a go, this was it. Now was not the time to get carried away with emotion, unless you wanted to risk crashing to your death. Taking a couple of slow, deep breaths, he closed his eyes and imagined locking away his inner primate. Putting the key safely in his pocket, he opened his eyes and blinked twice.