Sins of the Fathers (36 page)

Simpson said crossly, ‘You really do take your damned pragmatism too far sometimes, don’t you?’

Carlyle waved a hand in the air. ‘Why does no one care about what happens to Rebecca?’

‘That is just not your problem,’ Simpson insisted. ‘McQuarrie’s statement clearly implicates Belekhsan.’

McQuarrie’s statement?
You should have left that to me
. Carlyle groaned. ‘Who did the interview?’

‘Thomas.’ Chief Inspector Lesley Thomas was a twenty-year veteran who had worked out of Charing Cross for the last three years. Carlyle didn’t know her that well but he knew she had a good rep as a solid cop. ‘I’ve watched the video. It was always going to be enough for the DPP.’

‘But still, that’s not the matter in hand.’

‘It is, as far as they’re concerned,’ said Simpson patiently. ‘Think of it from their point of view: if they tried to let Belekhsan skate, they’d get chopped up into little pieces in court, never mind the newspapers.’

‘So what about the Connollys?’ Carlyle knew that he sounded like a pig-headed fifteen year old, but he kept going.

‘You know the various different issues that Westminster Social Services have with Mr and Mrs Connolly.’

The inspector gave a reluctant nod.

‘She is not currently deemed fit and his age and medical history are also issues.’

‘Medical history?’

‘He had a minor stroke a couple of years ago.’

‘He looked fit enough to me,’ was all Carlyle could think of to say.

Simpson got to her feet, signalling that her patience was not infinite. ‘Well, I suppose we should all be grateful that you’re not a doctor then, shouldn’t we?’

Unable to manage a smile, Carlyle stood up, too. ‘So that’s it?’

‘Chief Inspector Thomas will oversee the final report for the DPP,’ was Simpson’s final word on the matter.

The inspector nodded.

‘And, as I told the Deputy Commissioner, I will look after Abigail Slater.’

‘Thanks.’ Genuinely grateful, he didn’t feel the need to ask the Commander what she had in mind.

Simpson gestured towards the door. ‘You’ve had a hell of a lot on your plate recently, John. Maybe you should take a few days off.’

‘Good idea.’ This time Carlyle did manage a smile. ‘Maybe I will.’ He thought about Inspector Sophie Watkins and Savage and Umar, all of them off for one reason or another. Bloody hell, at this rate the station wouldn’t have anyone left. But they would cope; they always did.

Standing in the Tesco on Garrick Street, Carlyle thoughtfully eyed the bottles of spirits lined up on the shelf just above his head. Not a great drinker, he hadn’t kept a bottle of Jameson’s at home for at least a couple of months. Still, needing to unwind, he had an inkling that a little drink might go down nicely this evening.

To aid his decision-making process, the supermarket was offering a fiver off a bottle. ‘What’s not to like?’ he mumbled to himself as he placed one in his basket, alongside a bunch of bananas and a jumbo pack of Jaffa Cakes. Joining the self-service queue, he looked up at the rolling news playing on the TV hanging from the ceiling. A ticker along the bottom of the screen informed him that French police had arrested a dozen fishermen accused of smuggling illegal immigrants into the UK. Maybe that was how they got Fassbender in, Carlyle mused. In truth, he didn’t care much one way or the other. Border security was not one of his great passions.

Returning his attention to the basket, the inspector was belatedly struck by the random and, frankly, rather dissolute nature of its contents. Not wanting to be subjected to an inquest into his eccentric choice of purchases when he got home, he decided to ring Helen and see if there was anything else they needed at home. Putting the basket on the floor, he fumbled for his phone. Pulling up his wife’s number, he hit call just as the handset started vibrating in his hand.

‘Helen?’

‘Hello?’

Bollocks. Carlyle realized that he had mistakenly taken the incoming call. ‘What is it, Ange?’

For once the desk sergeant was all business. ‘You need to get over to Belgrave Square – quick.’

The inspector arrived to a cacophony of horns. A corner of the square had been taped off and traffic was backed up in all directions. The rush-hour was in full swing and the mood was turning ugly as drivers began to comprehend the severity of the delay.

Inside the police cordon, he counted more than a dozen emergency vehicles. A uniform intercepted him as he ducked under the tape but Carlyle quickly flashed his ID and was allowed to proceed.

‘Inspector!’

It took him a moment to recognize one of the uniforms who had been on duty on Rosebery Avenue when Pippa Collingwood had been run down by a mail van.

‘What happened?’

‘Two old guys started going at it in the middle of the road.’ The PC gestured towards the white screens that had already been set up on a section of pavement. ‘One of them had a knife.’

Carlyle’s gaze followed a trail of blood snaking across the paving stones, trickling into the gutter. Nearby, a pair of paramedics were in deep discussion by the side of an ambulance. Their lack of urgency told its own story. Leaving the constable to try and keep the gawkers at bay, he walked over to the screens and peered inside.

The body lay in the recovery position, although all attempts at resuscitation had clearly failed. Squatting down, the inspector looked directly into the dead man’s face. Was there a wry smile on his lips – or was he just imagining it?

A female forensics technician appeared at the gap in the screens. ‘Sir,’ she said politely, ‘I need you to step outside.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle slowly stood up.

‘We haven’t made an ID yet.’ The woman pointed at the body with a latex-sheathed finger. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Yeah.’ Carlyle did not go into any further detail.

‘Nasty business,’ the woman observed. ‘The knife was still in his chest when we got here – it was driven almost all the way through his body.’

‘Crime of passion,’ Carlyle mumbled.

The tech looked at him blankly.

‘What kind of knife was it?’

‘Small kitchen knife. Looked expensive. The kind you get from Heal’s or John Lewis. Serrated blade. Yellow handle.’

Carlyle thought back to the collection of knives in Daniel Sands’s flat. ‘Where is the other guy?’

‘They’re treating him in one of the ambulances. He’s only got minor injuries, as far as I know.’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Has he been arrested yet?’

‘No idea.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ Taking one last look at the corpse sprawled on the pavement, he turned and walked away.

In charge of the scene was a detective inspector from Victoria called Paula Willmer. Carlyle knew her in passing, although, as far as he could recall, they had never actually worked together. Standing next to a police Range Rover, talking on her mobile, Willmer caught sight of him as he approached, signalling that she was just wrapping up her conversation.

Carlyle hovered at a respectful distance, staring at the tarmac in an attempt to keep all of the surrounding chaos at bay.

Finishing the call, Willmer stuffed the phone back into the breast pocket of her jacket. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘It’s my case,’ said Carlyle, ‘kind of.’

‘Really?’ Willmer’s face brightened. ‘You mean you’re going to take it off my hands?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Mind? Are you kidding? I’d be delighted.’ She looked as if she might spring forward and give him a kiss. Carlyle took a step backwards, just in case. ‘I’ve got more than enough on my plate as it is without having to deal with a murder investigation. Apart from anything else, my husband’s supposed to be taking me to dinner tonight. It’s the first time in more than six months we’ve had a “date”. If I cancel, he’s going to go spare.’

‘I can understand.’ Carlyle tried to recall the last time he’d taken Helen out. It certainly wasn’t in the last six months. On the spot, he made a vow that he would take his wife to dinner at the next possible opportunity. Not tonight, though.

‘I owe you a big favour for doing this,’ Willmer smiled.

‘Not really.’ Carlyle gave her a ninety-second version of the Lillian Sands story. ‘It should be fairly straightforward to deal with.’

‘Bloody hell. That sounds complicated enough to me. Anyway, it’s all yours.’

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle’s phone started vibrating. He checked the incoming number.

Umar.

He hit receive and stepped away from Willmer. ‘What news?’

‘A baby girl. Six pounds, seven ounces.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘She’s perfect,’ Umar gushed. ‘Born just over an hour ago. I think we’re going to call her Ella Jane.’

‘That’s great.’ Carlyle watched another couple of techies in their white boilersuits head towards the screens. ‘How’s Christina?’

‘Doing well. Everybody’s fine. Tired, but okay.’

‘Good, good.’

‘I think we’re gonna have to postpone the wedding, though.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘You can do it whenever.’

‘Yeah. In the meantime, there’s just one thing I wanted to ask you about.’

Carlyle lifted his gaze to the heavens. ‘Yes?’

‘About my paternity leave . . .’

‘We will take care of all that. You look after mum and baby and we can sort out the details later.’

After offering further congratulations, Carlyle finished the call and made his way over to the nearest of the ambulances. The back doors were open, allowing him to look inside at the old man sitting on the gurney. The front of the man’s shirt was stained almost black. His hands were covered in blood that was not his own and a bloody palm print had been smeared across his forehead. The expression on his face was a mixture of anger, confusion and exhaustion.

Blood
, the inspector thought,
will have blood
.

It took several moments for the man to realize that he was not alone.

‘This is your fault,’ he growled.

Carlyle said nothing.

‘You should have stopped this from happening. You knew that idiot was stalking me.’

‘You killed him,’ Carlyle pointed out.

‘He came out of nowhere with the knife in his hand. I had to defend myself. What else could I have possibly done?’

‘Save it for the judge.’ Carlyle began fumbling for the handcuffs in his back pocket.

Struggling to his feet, the man lashed out, aiming a dirty shoe at Carlyle’s head. But his target was too far away and he only succeeded in kicking over a cardiac monitor before slumping back on to the gurney. ‘There was no alternative,’ he wailed. ‘He would have killed me; pre-meditated murder was what it would have been.’

Pulling out the cuffs, the inspector cleared his throat. ‘Paul Fassbender, you are under arrest for the manslaughter of Daniel Sands.’

Fassbender looked on in silent fury while Carlyle read the caution.

‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ The inspector paused. ‘Do you understand?’

Fassbender’s eyes narrowed. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘In that case, sir, please step out of the ambulance.’

As Carlyle waited for Fassbender to comply with his request, he felt a fat raindrop explode against his skull, followed by another. Looking up at the darkening sky, he uttered a selection of curses. He was always getting the weather wrong. ‘Why,’ he muttered to himself, ‘didn’t you wear your bloody raincoat?’