Then We Die (29 page)

Taking a seat at the table, Lorna Gordon daintily sipped tea while shamelessly eavesdropping on her son’s conversation. Opening a packet of biscuits, she offered Carlyle a chocolate digestive. When he declined, she took one, broke it in two and stuck one half in her mouth.

‘So what do you suggest that I do?’ Carlyle hissed down the phone.

‘That all sounded very interesting,’ said Lorna drily, once Carlyle had ended his call.

‘Just work.’ Carlyle dropped the phone into an inside pocket. Changing his mind, he extracted a biscuit from the packet and began munching it noisily.

She gave him one of her stern looks. ‘Your work seems very dangerous at the moment. It must be incredibly stressful for Helen – and Alice too.’

‘It comes with the job,’ Carlyle mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. He reached over to the packet for another, but his mother slapped his hand away.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘if that’s what the job involves, perhaps it’s time to think about doing something else.’

Carlyle stared at her, shocked. Originally, neither of his parents had wanted him to be a policeman but, after a couple of arguments, they had accepted his decision. Once he had started his training, it had never again been a topic of discussion. As far as he was concerned, his career was none of their business.

‘Surely now, as a parent yourself, you can understand how hard it is for me to see you getting shot at?’

‘Ma . . .’

‘What about your friend? What about
his
mother?’

Carlyle didn’t have the heart to tell her that Joe Szyszkowski’s mother had died ten years ago. Sipping more tea, he waited for her to finish saying her piece.

‘It was never like this in the beginning. Now it seems that it’s just a matter of time before it’s you yourself that goes and gets shot. This is all just too dangerous. Your family shouldn’t have to put up with this. That’s not right.’

An idea popped into his head and a large grin spread across his face.

‘What’s so funny?’

Carlyle stuck up a hand. ‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘People might start thinking that you like causing all this upset.’

‘Not at all.’ He finished his tea. ‘It’s just the job.’

‘Pah! That’s such an easy thing to say.’

‘Ma, enough! I understand what you’re saying.’

‘So why don’t you do something about it?’

This time he held up both hands. ‘Okay, okay, I will pack the job in . . .’

She eyed him suspiciously.

‘. . . if you and Dad get back together.’

Lorna put her mug down on the table and folded her arms. ‘This is nothing to do with your father and me.’

Mimicking her body language, Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘You talk about being stressed out by my job – well, what stresses
me
out is you two behaving like children.’ Ignoring the shock on her face, he ploughed on. ‘Whatever happened years –
decades
– ago, you should be able to sort it out. Whatever mistakes the old fella made, he should be able to make amends without being condemned to some shitty bedsit in Hammersmith for the rest of his life. For God’s sake, what good does this do anyone?’

‘This is something that your father and I have to deal with ourselves,’ she replied quietly.

‘He wants to come back.’

‘I’m sure he does.’

‘So,’ he smiled, ‘I’m offering you a deal.’

She tried to smile back but couldn’t quite manage it. ‘John,’ she said eventually, ‘I don’t think that there’s any chance of your father and me getting back together.’

‘Why not?’ he asked, exasperated beyond belief by her stubbornness.

Her gaze drifted towards the window. ‘Because I’ve started seeing someone else.’

‘What the fuck?’ he stammered.

‘John Carlyle! I will not have that kind of language in my house. Swearing is the sign of a poor education and a limited vocabulary.’

Don
’
t try and bullshit your way out of this
,
Mother
, Carlyle thought, gritting his teeth. ‘Does Dad know about this?’

‘It’s none of his business,’ she said tartly. ‘And, for that matter, it’s none of your business either.’

‘Spoken by the woman who just told me I had to pack in my job because she didn’t care for it.’

‘That is something completely different,’ she harrumphed. ‘Don’t you want me to enjoy some happiness?’

‘I want you to grow up.’

‘My conscience is clear.’

‘It’s not your conscience that I’m worried about.’

‘Look,’ she said firmly, pointing a bony index finger at his chest, ‘we only get one shot at this life – all of us.’

Jesus
, thought Carlyle.
She
’
s turning into a fucking life coach
.

‘How many years have I got left?’ she wondered.

‘All the more reason not to waste them on pissing about in this vendetta against Dad.’

‘This is no vendetta. We only get a few years, then we die . . .’

Carlyle was reminded of the similar sentiments expressed by Sol Abramyan in the Palm Court of the Ritz Hotel. The idea of his mum being on the same philosophical wavelength as the arms dealer made him smile.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, Ma, nothing.’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle leaned over the table and kissed his mother on the forehead. ‘Thanks for the tea. I need to get going.’ Without waiting for a reply, he fled before she could start telling him anything about this new man in her life.

‘Good to see you again.’ Ambrose Watson held out a meaty paw and Carlyle shook it. He was beginning to warm to this corpulent Internal Investigations Command man, which was just as well, given the increasing regularity of their meetings. For his part, Ambrose seemed to be relatively at ease with the taciturn inspector. Maybe they were getting used to each other.

Not wishing to endure another session in the basement at Charing Cross, Carlyle had suggested a meeting on neutral ground, a café called Madigan’s, just off Golden Square, on the west side of Soho. Sipping his second macchiato, he watched queasily as Ambrose demolished a Full English Breakfast, followed, rather improbably, by a huge slice of chocolate cake.

‘Best meal of the day,’ said Ambrose, as he stacked his empty plates, then he signalled to the waitress behind the counter that he would very much like another mug of milky tea.

‘Absolutely.’
It
’
ll be a miracle if you don
’
t drop down dead with a coronary before this investigation is over
, Carlyle thought. With Ambrose’s gluttony effectively killing off his own appetite, he was sticking to coffee alone. He now felt happily wired as the caffeine raced through his bloodstream.

After the waitress brought the fresh tea and had cleared the table, Ambrose reached into his battered briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘First things first,’ he said, slapping them down and returning to his bag for a pen. ‘The Hooper business has been closed.’

‘Commander Simpson already told me,’ Carlyle said, nodding. Even so, he still felt a surge of relief at the further confirmation of this happy news.

‘She’s a good woman, Carole Simpson,’ Ambrose grunted, finally pulling out a red biro. ‘You are very lucky to have her on your side.’

‘So people keep telling me,’ Carlyle said, in a tone that sounded rather more sarcastic than he intended.

Ambrose shot him a quizzical look.

‘How do you know her?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Our paths have crossed several times,’ Ambrose replied cautiously, realizing that he could now be boxing himself into a corner.

‘Were you involved in the investigation regarding her husband?’

Ambrose gave his head a little shake, as he added a heaped teaspoon of sugar to his tea. ‘I cannot comment on any of that,’ he said, lifting the mug to his lips. ‘But it was, as you can imagine, a very difficult situation for the Commander. I think everyone agrees that she handled it with great dignity and professionalism.’

‘It can’t have been easy, having your husband exposed as a crook like that.’

‘Of course not.’ Ambrose slurped a mouthful of tea. ‘A lesser woman – a lesser officer – would have crumbled under the strain.’

‘And she knew nothing about his whole scam?’

‘Husbands deceive wives all the time.’ Ambrose raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

‘Yes, they have,’ Carlyle agreed. Finishing his coffee, he moved on. ‘And regarding Hooper, will they ever find out who killed him?’

‘That is a very good question,’ said Ambrose, lowering his voice and glancing around theatrically. ‘However, it doesn’t look like it at the moment.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well,’ said the big man, ‘things have been left on the backburner since we found almost two hundred and fifty grams of heroin and almost twelve grand, in used fifties, in the man’s flat. Everyone just wants to forget that Inspector Sam Hooper ever existed. There’s a major investigation going on into the Middle Market Drugs Project – I’d say it’s very likely that the operation will be wound up sooner rather than later.’

Dominic will piss himself
, Carlyle thought. ‘Really?’

‘The whole thing is a real mess,’ Ambrose sighed. ‘Nobody wants to touch it with a barge-pole.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Anyway,’ Ambrose said cheerily, ‘back to the matter in hand. I hear that you’re undergoing counselling for what happened in Hyde Park.’

Carlyle almost fell off his chair. ‘
What?
’

Ambrose blushed furiously. ‘It’s not a big deal,’ he stammered. ‘Completely standard in these type of situations, in fact.’

‘And supposed to be completely confidential,’ Carlyle snapped.

‘Yes, yes, absolutely.’

The inspector leaned across the table, all the better to give Ambrose the hard word. ‘So it’s not something that should appear in any IIC report.’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘And if my rights are breached in any way,’ Carlyle went on, ‘the Union will come down on those responsible like a ton of bricks.’ Carlyle didn’t have much time for the Police Federation. As far as he was concerned, they were the worst kind of nit-picking, jobsworth bureaucrats. But, at the same time, he was more than happy to make use of their services when it suited him.

‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Ambrose spluttered, ‘that will never happen. My apologies for even mentioning it.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Carlyle scratched his chin. ‘Maybe it’s better that we have this conversation now; get it out of the way.’ He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘So, how can I help?’

‘Well,’ Ambrose lifted a sheet of paper from the top of his pile of documents and squinted at it. ‘I’ve read through your statement regarding Hyde Park, which seems thorough enough.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I just wondered if now, on reflection, you had anything that you wanted to add?’

Carlyle made a show of thinking about the question for a few moments. ‘No,’ he said finally.

Ambrose gave him a slightly pained look. ‘It’s just that I can’t seem to get my head round what you were doing there in the first place.’

Good bloody question
, Carlyle thought. ‘I was meeting with Fadi Kashkesh,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t know that the other two victims were going to be there.’

‘Yes, but why meet in the park?’

‘It was his suggestion,’ Carlyle lied. ‘He said he felt safer out in the open.’

Ambrose sighed. ‘And how wrong that belief proved to be.’

‘Quite.’

‘And you, Inspector . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘How are you coping? Any flashbacks? Survivor’s guilt? Trouble sleeping at night?’

‘That,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘is between me and my shrink.’

‘Fair point,’ Ambrose laughed. Scooping up his papers, he dropped them back in his briefcase, along with the unused biro. ‘Well, I think we can leave it at that for now. I know where to find you.’

‘Of course.’

‘Frankly, it’s going to take months to wade through all the witness statements and reports. Then there’s the IPCC and God knows what other investigations that will have to take place.’ Ambrose gave Carlyle a weak smile. ‘I can see my whole life disappearing in front of me.’

Your choice
, thought Carlyle.

‘But it’s great that you’ve managed to take it all in your stride.’ Struggling to his feet, he again offered Carlyle his hand. ‘Good luck, Inspector. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Okay.’

Out on the street, Ambrose hailed a black cab and hoisted himself into the back seat. It was only after the taxi had disappeared off into the traffic that Carlyle realized he’d been left with the bill for breakfast.

‘I’m going to kill the little bastard!’

‘Calm down.’

‘I’m going to fucking kill him!’

‘Look, just calm DOWN!’ Standing in the middle of the kitchen, Carlyle put an arm round Helen and pulled her close. She tried to squirm away from him but he held on tight. He could feel her rapid heartbeat as she dug her fingernails into his back. ‘We will sort this out,’ he said quietly. ‘I promise.’

‘Okay,’ she said doubtfully, finally pulling away.

‘Where is Alice now?’

‘She’s in her bedroom, pretending to be asleep.’

‘I see.’ Carlyle leaned against the fridge and blew out a breath. ‘So tell me again what happened.’

‘I already told you,’ Helen said. ‘The school rang me at work to say that Alice had been sent home and suspended for three days. They had found what they said was a small amount of cannabis in her locker. We have to go in for a meeting at the school the day after tomorrow.’

Great
, thought Carlyle,
that’s just what I need: my first trip to the Headmaster’s office in more than thirty years
. ‘What did she have to say for herself?’

‘When I asked her about it, she got very annoyed and started screaming at me to mind my own business,’ Helen said. ‘I asked her if it was Stuart’s dope and she told me to fuck off.’

Jesus
, Carlyle thought.

‘That’s your fault.’ Helen gave him a scowl. ‘You’ve never watched your language around the house.’

Carlyle was feeling too tired to get into an argument. ‘Let me talk to her,’ he said, trying to sound as conciliatory as possible.