He plastered a smile on his face that was more like a grimace and looked the man directly in the eye. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for a moment.’
‘Is that right?’ the man now yelled. ‘And what business is it of yours?’ He took half a step forward, as if contemplating a quick right hook to Carlyle’s jaw.
‘I am a police officer,’ Carlyle said quietly, ignoring the phone which had started vibrating in his pocket. In the distance, he could hear a siren approaching quickly up The Mall. He gave silent thanks to George Patrick and stood his ground, still keeping a firm grip on the girl’s shoulder.
‘This is ridiculous!’ But the man had heard the siren too, and Carlyle could see that he was unsure now about what to do.
‘I think we need to discuss this down at the police station.’ This time, Carlyle’s smile was more genuine. The siren was getting ever louder. The car would be here in a matter of seconds. He took his hand from the girl’s shoulder and stepped towards the other man. Immediately, she shot off, heading deeper into the park, in the direction of Piccadilly. Both men eyed each other, wondering who would be the first to give chase. When it was clear that his adversary was not going to move, Carlyle turned and headed after her.
The girl had a sharp turn of speed. By the time Carlyle got going, she had a start of maybe twenty metres. After tripping over a drain-cover, it took him the best part of a minute to catch up with her. Once he did, however, she stopped in her tracks, with a resigned look on her face, and let him lead her back to the now waiting police car.
Nicole Sawyer gave them a friendly greeting and ushered the girl carefully into the back of the car.
‘Where’s the bloke?’ Carlyle asked, looking around for the young man in the expensive suit.
Sawyer eyed him quizzically. ‘What bloke?’
Declining the offer of a lift back to the station, Carlyle took a direct route home to Winter Garden House, running the whole way in a little over ten minutes. After a quick shower, he threw on some fresh clothes before grabbing a banana and a couple of Jaffa Cakes. As he headed back out the door, he stopped to give his wife the briefest of explanations about what had happened in the park.
‘Poor girl.’ Helen grimaced, glancing up from the television. ‘God knows what they’ve done to her.’
Not interested in stopping to discuss who ‘they’ might be, Carlyle just shrugged and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible,’ he promised limply.
‘Sure.’ From years of experience, she knew that ‘as soon as possible’ could mean anything between half an hour and three or four days. Blowing him a half-hearted kiss in return, she returned her attention to the television.
Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in one of the ‘friendly’ interview rooms located on the third floor of Charing Cross police station, which looked out over Agar Street. The girl was now sitting at a table, happily munching a bag of cheese and onion crisps and doodling in a colouring book that Nicole Sawyer — God bless her — had rustled up from somewhere. Also on the table were the remains of a chocolate bar and an empty Coke can. If Alice gobbled that lot, Helen would have a fit, Carlyle thought. This, however, wasn’t the time or the place to be too choosy about the child’s diet.
Standing by the window, Sawyer had her back to him. She was talking on the phone and he could tell by her hushed tone that it wasn’t about work. Catching his reflection in the window, Sawyer quickly ended the call and turned around, signalling that they should step into the corridor. Finally acknowledging his presence, the girl looked up, gave Carlyle a wary stare and went back to her drawing.
Outside, Carlyle waited for Sawyer to close the door behind her. ‘Has she said anything yet?’
Sawyer shook her head. ‘Nothing I could understand. She did say something, but it wasn’t English.’
‘So she’s foreign?’ Carlyle asked in surprise, thinking about her very English ‘uncle’.
‘I suppose so,’ Sawyer shrugged.
‘Have we got a translator?’
‘Nothing doing till tomorrow morning,’ Sawyer said. ‘Do you have any idea where she’s from?’
‘Not a clue.’ Carlyle said. ‘What about a doctor?’
‘On the way. . apparently.’
‘Social Services?’
Sawyer rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’ve left a message. No one’s picking up, as usual.’
‘Christ!’ Carlyle hated dealing with Social Services. Almost without exception, the social workers he came across were unmotivated and uninspiring, he thought, always looking to do the bare minimum while hiding behind the rule book, their union agreements and political correctness. As far as he could see, it was a profession where everyone hated their job and couldn’t wait to retire on some grossly inflated public sector pension. Looking forward to his own pension, Carlyle was fairly ambivalent about that ambition. What he couldn’t abide was the general reluctance to earn their corn while they were still working.
Sawyer looked at her watch theatrically. ‘Sorry, Inspector,’ she said, ‘but my shift ended half an hour ago. I need to get home.’
‘No problem,’ Carlyle replied, through clenched teeth. Now
‘Yes. Thanks.’ Sawyer turned and propelled her fat arse along the corridor as fast as possible, before Carlyle changed his mind and condemned her to some more involuntary overtime.
Stepping back into the room, Carlyle took a seat opposite the girl. She stared at him for a moment, then glanced at the door, as if she was weighing up whether she could try and make another break for freedom.
Carlyle leaned back in his chair. What the fuck do I do now? he wondered.
The girl picked up a red crayon and began smearing it across the paper.
With some effort, he tried to assume what he hoped was his friendliest demeanour. ‘Hello, again,’ he said gently. ‘Remember me? I’m the man from the park.’ He pulled out his warrant card and slid it across the table. ‘I’m a policeman. My name is John.’
The girl looked at the ID but did not touch it.
‘What’s your name?’ What had the guy called her back at the park? Alzbetha? ‘Elizabeth?’
The girl looked at the crayon, squeezing it so tightly between her fingers that it snapped in two.
‘Is that your name?’
Carlyle watched her eyes welling up. Her bottom lip trembled. He leaned forward, waiting for the words to spill out.
Suddenly, she wiped her nose and looked at him defiantly. ‘We fuck now?’ There was no hesitation in her tone. It was almost a challenge.
‘What?’ Carlyle pushed himself away from the table, wanting to pretend that he hadn’t heard what he had just heard.
The girl stood up. ‘You want?’ she asked, trying to put on an approximation of the same cut-glass accent spoken by the man in the park. ‘We fuck?’
Without another word, Carlyle left the room. Closing the door behind him, he headed a couple of yards down the corridor. Standing in front of a road safety poster, he headbutted it twice.
The pain felt good. After it had subsided, he pulled out his mobile phone and called the desk downstairs. ‘Is the doctor here yet?’ he asked, feeling more than a little desperate.
‘Two minutes,’ Patrick replied.
‘Who is it?’
‘Weber.’
Carlyle knew Thomas Weber. He was a very nice guy. German. Very thorough. Very professional. Not the man for this job, though. ‘Get me a woman,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Trust me,’ Carlyle hissed, fighting to keep his tone even. ‘It should be a woman.’
‘But Weber is on call. .’
‘I don’t care if the King of fucking Siam is on call,’ he ranted. ‘Get — me — a — woman doctor.
