James Craig: Man of Sorrows

On the third floor the inspector sat at his desk and reread the email from his union, the Police Federation. Reading it for a third time, he shook his head in frustration.

‘Wankers!’ he said aloud. Ignoring the disapproving glance of a passing WPC, he hit the print button. After about five seconds, a printer called ‘Vigilance’ on the far side of the floor wheezed into action. With a groan, he pushed himself out of his chair and went to collect the two sheets of A4 that it had started to spew out.

As he returned to his desk, he saw Roche appearing out of the lift. Folding one copy of the email, he dropped it in the pocket of his jacket, which was hung on the back of his chair. The other he handed to his sergeant as she approached him.

‘What’s this?’ Roche asked, taking the piece of paper.

‘It’s a memo from the Federation,’ Carlyle said flatly, ‘about voluntary redundancies.’ It had been more than three months since the Commissioner, a political appointee unpopular with many officers, had announced that the Met would have to make sizeable job cuts in the wake of the never-ending financial crisis that was affecting the whole of the public sector. Since then, everyone had been waiting for information about numbers and, more importantly, what that might mean for their own job.

Roche screwed up her face. ‘This won’t affect us, will it?’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Roche looked blankly at the paper in her hand. ‘Jesus.’

Carlyle tried to offer what reassurance he could. ‘I haven’t really been through anything like this before,’ he said, ‘but I think it’s very unlikely that you have got much to worry about.’

She looked at him doubtfully.

‘Your career is clearly on an upward path,’ he continued. ‘They will definitely want to keep you.’

‘What about you?’

That’s a different equation altogether , he thought dolefully. ‘Basically,’ he said, pointing at the email, ‘the Federation are saying, if you get anything from HR, do nothing without talking to them first.’

Roche folded the sheet of A4 and folded it again before stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Thanks.’

‘It’s nothing. The important thing is not to worry about it. Just be aware of what the Federation are saying.’

‘Makes sense,’ she nodded, flopping into a nearby chair.

‘So,’ said Carlyle, as he sat back down at his desk, ‘McGowan’s lawyer. What’s she like?’

Roche stuck a hand into the front pocket of her jeans and pulled out Abigail Slater’s business card. ‘She comes across as your bog standard corporate bitch,’ she said, reaching forward and tossing the card onto Carlyle’s desk.

Picking up the card, Carlyle laughed. ‘Alpha female, you mean?’

‘Whatever.’ Roche sighed. ‘They’re ten a penny these days. All they do is show that, given the chance, women can be just as rubbish as men.’

Carlyle chuckled. ‘You liked her then?’

Roche shot him a frosty look. ‘She and the priest certainly made an odd couple. I need to see what I can find out about the Catholic Legal Network but, basically, she just seems like your average smug lawyer with God on her side.’

‘And McGowan?’

‘Father McGowan,’ Roche glanced around the room and lowered her voice, ‘looks like he’s in reasonable shape, given you tried to beat the crap out of him not so long ago.’

‘I didn’t beat the crap out of him.’ Carlyle wagged an admonishing finger at his sergeant. ‘It was just a bit of role play to help him forget about the circumstances of his arrest.’

‘Whatever,’ Roche said, yawning. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Weber will be able to write it up the right way and then basically it will be a case of our word against his.’

‘Two upstanding police officers versus a bent priest.’

‘Exactly,’ Roche said. ‘I think it’ll be fine.’

The phone on Carlyle’s desk started ringing. The inspector hesitated. On the one hand, he wanted to go home. This would be the first time he’d managed to have dinner with his wife and daughter in almost a week. On the other hand, getting one over on the pervert priest had given him a smidgeon of job satisfaction for the first time in a while. He picked up the phone on the sixth ring.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector, it’s Kevin Price downstairs.’

‘Yes?’ Carlyle’s bonhomie, which rarely if ever extended to the front desk, evaporated. He looked at Roche warily.

‘We’ve reports of shots fired at a jewellery store on New Bond Street,’ said the desk sergeant matter-of-factly. ‘Uniforms have left already.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle jumped to his feet. ‘I’ve got Roche here with me – we’re on our way.’

The black cab gently nosed into the heavy rush-hour traffic on Grosvenor Street, heading west in the direction of Hyde Park. Paula held her breath as she watched a police Range Rover, siren blazing, racing towards them, forcing its way down the gap in the middle of the two-lane road as drivers pulled over to either kerb. As it sped past, she was just in time to see it turn into New Bond Street before she let out a whimper.

‘Result!’ The driver smacked a triumphant palm against the steering wheel.

Sitting next to her in the back, the white guy patted her thigh. ‘Don’t worry love,’ he leered. ‘It’s almost over.’

Bond Street was named after Sir Thomas Bond, a follower of King Charles II. Old Bond Street was laid out in 1686 and was extended towards Oxford Street to the north in 1721, when it became New Bond Street. Once a street of private homes for the gentry of Georgian London, it had long since been home to a range of luxury retailers and art dealers. Specializing in ‘the accessories of gracious living’, St James’s Diamonds had occupied the nineteenth-century stucco townhouse at number 122 since 1971. Now the place looked like a battle zone. Stepping carefully through the shattered glass on the pavement, Carlyle glanced up at the small Royal coat-of-arms above the door. Squinting, he made out the legend below the crest: By Royal Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Buying and selling the loveliest jewellery for over two hundred years. With a nod, the inspector flashed his warrant card at the uniform by the door and stepped inside.

They had finally made it on to Park Lane and, stuck behind a procession of tourist coaches, they were crawling north at an average speed of about four miles per hour. It was sweltering in the back of the cab and Paula moved to open her window. Immediately, the white guy reached over and smacked her hand away from the button.

‘Leave it!’ he said angrily. He was sweating heavily himself. She could see that he was wearing heavy make-up, like an actor or a TV presenter. As the temperature rose further, it looked as if his face was beginning to melt.

The traffic began edging slowly towards the next set of traffic-lights. Overhead, Paula could make out the steady thud of a helicopter. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as she pulled her skirt towards her knees.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ the white guy grinned. ‘Just sit back and enjoy the ride.’

After what seemed like an eternity, the last of the alarms fell silent. Thank fuck for that . Carlyle rubbed the back of his head, trying to forestall the headache that he knew was brewing. Folding his arms, he stood in the middle of St James’s Diamonds and looked down at the protective powder-blue booties over his shoes. Why did they have to be powder blue? he wondered sourly. It just makes you look like even more of a dick than is necessary. Careful to avoid stepping on anything, he turned slowly through 360 degrees, taking in the scene. The store had been badly damaged, with glass and jewellery strewn across the floor, along with empty display cases. On first glance, the whole thing looked like an amateurish smash and grab raid. How much had actually been taken was far from clear.