James Craig - Man of Sorrows

Disregarding the PR woman, Carlyle eyed Dugdale suspiciously. Their paths had crossed once before, on a case where Carlyle had worked with one of Dugdale’s officers in SO15, the Counter Terrorism Command Unit. Things hadn’t ended happily, not least for the SO15 officer, David Ronan, who had been murdered in the line of duty. Externally, the Met had put a brave face on the whole thing, holding the usual enquiry to sweep as much as possible under the carpet. Internally, the matter was deemed a complete fiasco and Dugdale, who had been conspicuously behind the curve, had shouldered much of the blame. His career prospects had taken a serious hit and any lingering thoughts he might have had about reaching the dizzy heights of Assistant Commissioner had been destroyed. Carlyle, with no career prospects to begin with, simply shrugged the matter off. He knew perfectly well, however, that he had made another senior enemy in the process.

Dugdale’s watery blue eyes flicked up and down the road before settling back on Carlyle. In his turn, the Inspector made no attempt to hide the fact that he was scrutinizing his superior carefully. Up close, Dugdale seemed to have aged a decade in less than a year. He was heavier than Carlyle remembered and the colour in his cheeks suggested a considerable taste for drink. His expression was that of a man with a bad case of piles.

‘Is everything under control, Inspector?’

‘Er, yes,’ Carlyle said, trying to keep the bemusement out of his voice. ‘But I’m not aware that there’s anything here that will be of interest to SO15.’

Dugdale shot him a filthy look. ‘I would have thought you knew . . .’

Carlyle gave a gesture signifying his complete absence of knowledge.

‘I left SO15 at the beginning of the year,’ Dugdale said stiffly. ‘As of right now I will be standing in for Commander Simpson while she is in Canada.’

Oh fucking great, the perfect end to a perfect day.

‘So I will need a full update on the situation here, as will Miss . . .’

‘Mahon,’ interjected the PR girl, making it sound like Ma-on.

‘Miss Mahon,’ Dugdale continued, ‘will need to organize a press briefing.’

‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, grinning inanely. ‘Sergeant Roche will get you up to speed while I proceed with the investigation.’ Ignoring the annoyed look on Roche’s face, he turned on his heel and began marching quickly down the street.

Carlyle stepped into interview room B3 and looked around as if he hadn’t seen it in a while. His eye caught the remains of the bullet camera hanging from the wall in the corner and he let out a small laugh.

‘What happened to that?’

Carlyle turned to Martin Luckman and shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

Raising his eyebrows, the St James’s Diamonds store manager took a sip from a can of Coke. Placing the can on the table next to an open packet of Benson amp; Hedges, he watched as Carlyle pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the desk and sat down.

‘I’m Inspector John Carlyle,’ he said in what he hoped was a reassuring manner as he took his first close look at the man. ‘I will be leading the investigation into this afternoon’s events.’

Luckman nodded. He was not particularly tall – it was hard to guess his height with him sitting down, but maybe five foot eight – with a slight build and curly, sandy hair that reached his shirt collar at the back but was receding at the temples. With a bland, oval face and a worried expression, he certainly didn’t look like the kind of guy who you would go to, to spend a hundred grand on a watch.

Luckman dropped his gaze to the table and began playing with his cigarette packet.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Carlyle officiously. ‘You can’t smoke in here.’

‘No, of course.’ Luckman closed the lid on the Benson amp; Hedges and placed it back on the table.

‘I work with Sergeant Roche,’ Carlyle continued, ‘who has already spoken to you at New Bond Street.’ Resisting the urge to look under the table to see if Luckman had managed to change his trousers, he tried a surreptitious sniff. Unable to detect any lingering odour of piss coming from the witness, he pulled his chair closer to the table.

‘Nice lady,’ said Luckman, in a way that suggested he would rather continue that conversation than start a new one with the inspector.

‘She is next door speaking to your security guard, Mohammed.’

‘Mo,’ Luckman smiled. ‘Mo Hendricks. He’s a lovely guy.’ The smile mutated into a frown. ‘I was really worried when he started wheezing like that. I knew he had asthma, but he’d never been as bad as that.’

‘I presume,’ said Carlyle, unencumbered by any knowledge about the condition, ‘that the stress of the robbery will have brought on the attack. I’m sure he’ll be okay after a good night’s sleep.’

‘Yes,’ Luckman said, taking another swig of his Coke. ‘But what about Paula?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘No news yet. But we have a lot of people out looking for her.’

Luckman looked far from reassured. ‘I can imagine.’

‘And,’ Carlyle lied with an easy smile, ‘I’m sure that we’ll find her sooner rather than later, safe and sound. Once the robbers have used her to help make their getaway, they’ll let her go.’

‘I hope so,’ Luckman said limply.

‘And how about you?’ Carlyle asked. ‘How are you feeling?’

Luckman finished the last of his Coke and sighed theatrically. ‘Okay, I suppose.’ He clasped his hands together and leaned forward in his chair. ‘I think that after the initial shock wears off, you’re just happy to have got through it alive, don’t you think?’

‘That seems reasonable,’ said Carlyle, reaching over and switching on the Sony BX800 MP3 digital voice-recorder in the middle of the table. He looked at his watch and spoke to the machine. ‘The time is now seven fifty-three p.m. Present in the room are Inspector John Carlyle and the witness Martin Luckman.’ He looked back at the store manager. ‘Now, Mr Luckman, why don’t you just tell me, in your own words, what exactly happened this afternoon?’

It was after 9 p.m. when they had finished interviewing Luckman and Hendricks. Both men had been given the medical all-clear and sent home to get some rest. Realizing that he was starving hungry, Carlyle got hold of Roche and they went out of the building to get something to eat. He chose the Box café on Henrietta Street, barely a minute from the station, just down from the piazza, on the grounds that it would be cheap and relatively free of tourists. When they arrived, the place was empty and it was clear that the owner, a Ukrainian called Myron Sabo, was well on the way to shutting up for the night. He was just about to say, ‘Closed’ when he looked up from washing the floor and saw Carlyle. Nodding cautious acknowledgement of a semi-regular customer who was also a policeman, he put down his mop and gestured at a table by the window.

As Carlyle and Roche took their seats, Myron flipped over the Open sign to Closed on the door and shuffled over to take their order. Carlyle went for a cheese omelette and a Diet Coke, while Roche chose a pasta salad and an orange juice.

‘Excuse me a second,’ she said, as Myron disappeared into the kitchen. ‘I just need to make a quick call.’

‘No problem.’ As Roche slipped out of the door and onto the pavement, Carlyle pulled out his own mobile to call Russell Blake. He let it ring and waited for the forensics technician’s voicemail to kick in. ‘Russell, it’s John Carlyle. I was after an update on New Bond Street. Give me a call. Thanks.’ He put the phone back in his pocket and watched Roche paw the kerbside with the toe of her left shoe. She had her back turned to him and her voice was raised slightly, suggesting a somewhat fractious conversation. Carlyle tried not to eavesdrop – but not very hard.