desk next to his, Joe wondered what his boss was up to. Carlyle had made himself scarce over the last few days, which presumably meant he was off chasing after the young girl he had found in the park. If he ever needed something he would call. Until then, Joe was more than happy to wait.
Letting out a loud burp, he looked around guiltily to see if anyone had heard. Happily, no one else on the floor at that time of the morning showed any indication of noticing. Joe stood up and stretched. He would make a cup of tea and then get down to his report. Definitely.
As he stepped towards the kitchen, the phone on Carlyle’s desk started to ring. Joe looked at it warily. The phone kept ringing. Eventually, Joe picked it up. ‘Inspector Carlyle’s phone. .’
‘Carlyle?’
Joe didn’t recognise the voice, but the woman sounded agitated. ‘The inspector isn’t here at the moment. I am one of his colleagues. Can I be of any assistance?’
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked suspiciously.
‘Joe Szyszkowski.’
‘And you work with Carlyle?’
‘Yes,’ said Joe, wishing now that he’d never picked the bloody thing up. ‘I’m his sergeant.’
‘Can you get a message to him?’
‘Of course,’ Joe replied testily. He was regretting that he hadn’t bought a second bacon roll.
‘It’s urgent,’ the woman hissed. ‘He’ll want to speak to me.’
‘Okay.’ Joe grabbed a pencil and a Post-it note from the desk. ‘Fire away.’
‘Tell him to call Alexa Matthews immediately.’
‘Will he know what it’s about?’ Joe asked, in his best bureaucratic tone, but the line had already gone dead.
‘You can trust Joe.’
‘Why should I trust him? I sure as shit don’t trust you.’
Carlyle glanced at Joe and grinned. ‘Alexa is one of my favourite ex-colleagues.’
Joe Szyszkowski took a sip of his London Pride and said nothing.
Alexa Matthews didn’t smile. She’d emptied her umpteenth double gin and tonic and wanted another. And also a smoke. ‘Carlyle always was an annoying little shit,’ she observed grimly, to no one in particular.
The three police officers were sitting in the snug bar of the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street, north of Soho. The Fitzroy was famous for having been a haunt of intellectuals like Dylan Thomas and George Orwell in the early to mid twentieth century. Now it was a generic, brewery-owned public house with more than its fair share of tourists and all the atmosphere of a bus station.
In short, it was a perfect location for their present rendezvous.
Matthews thrust her empty glass at the sergeant. ‘Get me another drink, will ya?’
Reluctantly, Joe took the glass and stood up. He shot Carlyle a reproachful look and headed for the bar without enquiring if he, too, wanted a refill.
‘Make it a double,’ Matthews called to Joe’s retreating back.
He pretended not to hear.
She turned to Carlyle. ‘What did you bring him here for?’
Carlyle finished his Jameson, and felt the whiskey’s warmth spread through his stomach. Hopefully Joe would do the decent thing and bring him another. ‘I need the help,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it all on my own.’
‘I’m not sure I want him to know about this business.’
‘Alexa,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘Joe works with me. I’ve known him a long time. I came to you because I wanted to sort out the mess in SO14.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘I will do that — with Joe’s help. And, of course, with your help as well.’
Matthews gave him a look. They both knew that to be a very ambitious statement.
‘So, what do you want to tell me?’
Joe reappeared from behind a gaggle of students and carefully placed the fresh drinks on the table. Carlyle grabbed the Jameson gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Joe sat down on a stool and waited expectantly.
‘Okay, okay.’ Matthews took a swig of her gin. ‘Things have recently gone to shit in a big way.’
When Matthews had finished explaining about her run-in with Tommy Dolan and her subsequent carpeting by Charlie Adam, she drained the rest of her gin.
Carlyle glanced at Joe, but neither man said anything.
‘So. .’ Matthews said, staring into her glass, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
What am I going to do about it? Carlyle asked himself.
‘I’m worried that they’ll kill me next time,’ Matthews continued, ‘or else hurt Heather.’
For the first time she seemed the worse for drink and Carlyle wondered how much she’d had before arriving at the Fitzroy. ‘Nothing like that’s going to happen,’ he said soothingly. ‘Adam might be a bit of a knob, but he’s not going to do anything that stupid.’
‘He’s just a little shit,’ Matthews mumbled. ‘Anyway, it’s not him I’m worried about.’
‘Dolan,’ said Joe quietly.
‘Exactly,’ said Matthews, waving her empty glass at him. ‘Tommy
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ said Carlyle, taking the glass out of her hand and placing it carefully on the table. ‘I remember Dolan from my time in the Unit. He’s just a spiv who wants a quiet life. I’m surprised he had you beaten up, but he won’t go any further than that.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Matthews sat back, closed her eyes and sighed deeply. ‘There’s too much money involved. People have died already.’
Carlyle gave her a quizzical look. ‘What?’
‘You know how it is in SO14. Everyone works for Dolan. Joe Dalton worked for him.’
Joe made a
Matthews opened her eyes and started rubbing at her temples. ‘Christ!’ She turned to Carlyle. ‘Does this one ever
‘Which we have already asked ourselves,’ Carlyle said evenly. He didn’t like being talked down to by Alexa Matthews, but he needed her help now, so he would let it slide.
‘But not yet answered,’ Matthews shot back at him.
‘No,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘Dolan runs an investment company called United 14,’ Matthews said wearily. ‘It takes money from their various different enterprises, in order to provide a pension ‘‘top-up’’ for the boys.’
‘There’s nothing new in that,’ Carlyle remarked.
‘No, but the economy is currently in the shit. It has been harder and harder for them to make a decent return.’
‘Markets go down, they go up,’ Carlyle said airily.
‘Dolan can’t sit around and wait. His glory days at SO14 may be coming to an end.’
‘Why?’ Joe asked.
‘There is talk of bringing in another 150 armed protection officers to cut back on overtime. That means more than thirty grand a year to the likes of Dolan.’
Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Bummer.’
‘Dolan is steaming. He blames Princess Cheyenne.’
Joe and Carlyle exchanged quizzical looks. ‘Who?’ they asked in unison.
‘The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Colchester,’ Matthews sneered. ‘She’s something like tenth or eleventh in line to the throne. She’s at some crappy northern university studying the history of modern art, or some useless pile of wank like that. The annual protection bill for her alone is about four hundred grand.’
‘A bargain,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.
‘That’s nothing,’ Matthews went on. ‘The little genius now wants to go and study in America. That means
