James Craig - Man of Sorrows

‘Oh fuck.’

‘I think I heard her say something about you “not answering your bloody phone”.’

‘Mm.’ Looking down, it didn’t take him long to pick out his wife and daughter. Alice waved at him cheerily and he almost felt like crying with gratitude. Helen’s expression, however, was a different matter entirely.

‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Pushing her way past Simpson and Rose Scripps, Helen rammed an angry index finger into his chest. Carlyle reached over to give her a hug, but she brushed him away. ‘You stupid bloody bastard!’ she shouted, almost sobbing with rage, pointing to the skies. ‘What the fuck were you doing up there?’

Alice appeared at her mother’s side, giggling. Helen was not given to such foul-mouthed tirades and her daughter couldn’t help but be amused. ‘Dad!’ she shouted. ‘You were on the telly!’

The adrenaline was rapidly wearing off and Carlyle felt weary to his bones. ‘Let’s talk about it on the way home,’ he said, bending down to kiss his daughter.

Stepping closer, Helen sniffed him theatrically. ‘Have you been drinking?’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Not here. I’m fine. Everything else we can talk about in private. Let’s go home.’ He glanced over at Simpson, who nodded her agreement. ‘See?’ he grinned. ‘You can’t get this kind of excitement in Canada.’

Simpson laughed. ‘I’m on the first flight out of Heathrow tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, right. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Taking Alice’s hand, Carlyle forced a reluctant Helen to take his arm. Together, the three of them marched through the police cordon and off into the London night.

As he approached the front desk the next morning, Carlyle saw Roche engaged in an argument with a scruffy-looking kid. Nodding at his sergeant, Carlyle approached warily. ‘Everything okay?’

‘I want my money!’ said the boy, stamping his foot in a way that made Carlyle want to laugh.

‘Inspector,’ said a weary-sounding Roche, ‘this is Sam Smallbone. He wants to claim a reward for information provided regarding the St James’s Diamonds robbery.’

‘I want my money!’ Smallbone repeated.

Carlyle tried to look thoughtful. ‘Isn’t that a matter for the insurance company, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Roche, playing along. ‘I’ve been trying to explain to Sam – er, Mr Smallbone – that that is how it works but . . .’

‘I’ll never get nuffink from those bloody crooks!’ Smallbone protested.

Not an unreasonable assumption , Carlyle thought. ‘What information did you actually provide?’ he asked.

Smallbone gestured at Roche. ‘Tell ’im.’

With a sigh, Roche explained what had happened. When she had finished, Carlyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, sir,’ he said finally, ‘first, I have to thank you on behalf of the Metropolitan Police . . .’ Fearing the brush-off, Smallbone made to protest, but Carlyle held up a hand. ‘And I am sure that we can come up with something suitable. If you wait here for ten minutes, the sergeant will be back to see you.’ Smallbone looked doubtful, but he gave a small nod of agreement.

Taking Roche by the arm, Carlyle began walking her down the corridor, into the station proper.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, once the boy was out of earshot.

‘I’ll do what I said,’ Carlyle replied, ‘get him a few quid. Go upstairs and I’ll swing by your desk in a few minutes.’

‘There you go.’ Tossing a small brown paper envelope onto Roche’s desk, the inspector said, ‘There’s two hundred and fifty quid in there. That’s the best I could do.’

Roche looked at the envelope. ‘I don’t think that’s quite what he had in mind.’

‘Well, it’s all he’s gonna get. Tell him it’s better than nothing.’

‘Fair enough,’ Roche said. ‘Where did it come from?’

‘I signed it out as a payment for one of my CIs.’

‘God bless Confidential Informants,’ Roche grinned. Getting to her feet, she grabbed the envelope. ‘I’ll go down and give Sammy Boy the good news.’

Carlyle nodded at the black bin-liner by her chair. ‘Clearing out?’

‘Yeah,’ said Roche sheepishly. ‘I start in SO15 in a couple of weeks but I’m gonna take some time off, so this is my last day in Charing Cross.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ll be having a leaving drink, of course,’ she added, ‘but I haven’t sorted that out yet.’

‘Sure,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘End of an era.’

‘Yeah.’ Roche stared at her shoes. ‘I do have something for you, though.’ Pushing her chair away, she reached under her desk and pulled out Helmut Newton’s outsized print of the young Katrin Lagerbäck. ‘I know you were a big fan. Here.’

Reluctantly, Carlyle took the print. ‘Isn’t that evidence?’ he asked.

‘Her firm threw it out when they closed down the office. I rescued it from the trash.’

He blushed slightly. ‘Thanks. Not sure where I’ll put it, but it was a nice thought.’

‘My pleasure.’ She waved the envelope. ‘Let me go and give Sam his reward. I’ll see you later.’

It took Carlyle less than fifteen minutes to bash out a short account of his escapade on the roof of St Boniface’s Church the night before. He was just printing out a copy when Simpson appeared. ‘Good timing,’ he told her, gesturing in the direction of the printer. ‘That’s my take on what happened.’

‘Your “take” on what happened,’ Simpson said as she plucked the single sheet of A4 from the printer. ‘You never oversell yourself, do you, Inspector?’

Carlyle gave the smallest of bows. ‘I try not to.’

Simpson scanned the text. ‘Anyway, it’s not like there’s anyone who’s going to be able to contradict you about what happened up there.’

‘No.’

‘There was some film producer once,’ Simpson mused, ‘who had a great line: “there are three sides to every story – yours, mine and the truth”.’

Carlyle laughed. ‘Not in this case.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘No Hollywood endings for us.’

‘No.’

Carlyle looked up at his boss. ‘Will McGowan’s skydive have any impact on the hearing?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ Simpson told him, ‘although the whole thing does seem a bit cursed. Assume it’s still on and I’ll let you know if I hear any different.’ She watched a doubtful look cloud his face. ‘Don’t worry, John. It will get sorted.’

‘Okay.’

Simpson gestured at one of the various piles of papers on his desk. On the top of this one was the letter from HR about his redundancy terms. ‘You’re not still thinking about that, are you?’

‘What? Early retirement? No.’ Reaching over, the inspector grasped the letter and tore it up, tossing the pile of scraps back on his desk. ‘Not at all.’

‘Good.’ Simpson looked pleased. ‘By the way, I saw Alison Roche downstairs. I hear that you’ll be needing a new sergeant.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘Shame,’ said Simpson. ‘I know you rated her.’

‘These things happen,’ Carlyle said philosophically. ‘It’s what she wants to do.’

‘Any ideas on who you’d like as a replacement?’

He shook his head. ‘Nope.’

‘Okay. Let’s think about it.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Meanwhile, I do have one bit of good news for you.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Trevor Cole was caught this morning, trying to get on a ferry at Dover.’

‘Excellent.’ Carlyle half-heartedly waved a triumphant fist in front of his face. ‘At least that’s a result . . .’ Suddenly remembering the diamond and ruby bee brooch, he pulled it from his pocket and tossed it underarm to Simpson, who caught it at the second attempt. ‘Cole gave me that as a memento yesterday,’ he explained, getting to his feet. ‘Can you deal with it for me?’