you could make was to mark someone’s card just because of their job. For Carlyle, it was a basic fact of life that any group of individuals, whether collected together by profession, religion or, rather more importantly, allegiance to a particular football team, would provide a mixed bunch: good, bad and indifferent. ‘All things are relative,’ his father would always say, ‘and all people, too.’ Alexander Carlyle had arrived in London from Glasgow in the 1950s, escaping de-industrialisation and relentless economic decline at home. Pragmatic to the core, he had taken a variety of jobs to keep the family unit together. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’ he would also tell his son over the dinner-table, ‘and don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.’ It was sound advice that the inspector had often taken to heart. That, as much as anything else, made him happy to be his father’s son.
Watson hadn’t made a great first impression, but Carlyle realised that he had to give him a chance to redeem himself. ‘This is down to Dolan,’ he declared evenly. ‘There have now been two violent deaths in SO14, and Tommy Dolan is the connection between them.’
‘But PC Dalton was suicide,’ Watson argued.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘but why did he kill himself? Dolan was involved in something that Dalton couldn’t stomach being caught up in any longer.’
Watson made a face like he was constipated. ‘So he decapitated himself with some nylon rope?’
‘I think. .’ Carlyle looked at Simpson who gave a slight nod, signalling that he should proceed, ‘that Dolan is running some kind of prostitution service. Working with various colleagues, he is providing a range of girls to top- end clients. He may even be using some of the rooms at Buckingham Palace for such entertaining. The income goes into an investment company called United 14, which is a secret pension fund for Tommy himself and his cronies.’
Watson sat in silence for some moments, looking like a hungry man who had missed his lunch. ‘Do you,’ he said finally, his voice weak, ‘have any. .
‘Nothing that we are in a position to share at this time,’ Carlyle said quickly, while avoiding Simpson’s gaze.
Relieved that this was just a kite-flying exercise, Watson perked up a bit. ‘How could Dolan have done all this?’ he asked.
‘He’s been there a long time.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘He knows everybody who works in the Palace, and knows everything that goes on there. He has an eye for a fast buck. Also he’s no fool.’
‘But still,’ Watson pushed back, ‘what about his commanding officer? Surely this type of thing couldn’t be going on behind his back.’
‘Charlie Adam is a fool,’ Carlyle said. ‘I don’t think he’s involved but, whether he knows about it or not, I don’t think he could actually do anything to stop it.’
‘Have you spoken to Dolan?’
‘He’s hiding behind his union rep,’ Carlyle said, ‘and saying nothing. I don’t suppose he personally torched Matthews and her girlfriend. Someone else will have done the dirty work.’
How had this meeting gone so badly wrong? Watson wondered. He shifted in his seat, keen to get out of the room.
‘How do you suggest we proceed?’ Simpson said swiftly, before he could bolt.
Carlyle nodded at the unhappy fat man. ‘Ambrose needs to speak to Dolan. Make it known to him that he’s being investigated. That will help undermine any union investigation into Joe and me.’
‘But. .’
Carlyle stood up and gave Watson a comforting pat on the shoulder. ‘Look into United 14. Then give me a call when you’ve got something. But keep it discreet. I don’t want it known that we’re working together.’
‘We are?’ Watson looked at Simpson pleadingly. All he got in return was a smile.
‘Keep that to yourself,’ Carlyle joked. ‘I have enough image problems as it is without people knowing that I’m working alongside internal affairs.’
‘What will you be up to now?’ Watson asked wearily, ready to play along in order to get this conversation over with.
Carlyle was already at the door. ‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ he said over his shoulder, grinning at the back of the IIC man’s head. ‘Don’t forget to keep me in the loop.’
Five minutes after leaving Simpson and Watson, Carlyle crossed Praed Street and made his way under the arch leading to the old section of St Mary’s Hospital. Letting his mind wander, the inspector contemplated the three things he knew about St Mary’s. Charles Romley Alder Wright, an English chemist, first synthesised heroin there in 1874; Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin there in 1928; and, in 1954, Elvis Costello was born there. Two of those three things he felt very grateful for; as another singer once said, two out of three ain’t bad.
Stepping inside the main hospital building, however, he immediately felt oppressed by the sense of gloom and despair that he always associated with hospitals: patients and family members shuffling about as if they had the world on their shoulders, which they probably had; or members of staff rushing around as if they were trying to juggle impossible workloads, which they probably were.
Being both squeamish
When he arrived at Shen’s door, Carlyle was pleased to see the superintendent propped up in bed, talking happily to a petite dark woman who was sitting beside the bed. Appearing tired and drawn, she looked far more in need of a lie-down than Shen himself. Or, at least, she would have done if it wasn’t for the various tubes coming out of Shen’s arm, and the large swathes of bandages visible under his pyjama jacket.
As Carlyle gave a gentle knock on the door, the woman whispered something in Shen’s ear, then shuffled out of the room without acknowledging Carlyle’s presence.
Shen smiled weakly. ‘John,’ he croaked, ‘come in.’
Carlyle took the vacated seat, and watched the woman give him another dirty look before stalking down the corridor. He turned to Shen. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal. My wife isn’t very fond of policemen at the moment.’
Carlyle unbuttoned his jacket. ‘That’s understandable.’
Shen slowly lifted a plastic mug from his bedside table and sucked some water through a straw. ‘Yes, it is.’ His gaze darkened. ‘I think Maria’s going through some form of post-traumatic stress about what happened. Thank God for her mother — and that’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say — looking after the kids.’
‘Mm. .’ Carlyle didn’t know what else to say.
‘She wants me to quit.’
‘The mother-in-law?’
‘No.’ Shen half-laughed, half-coughed. ‘Well maybe her, too, but Maria is hassling me to pack it in.’
Carlyle watched an attractive young nurse walk past the door. ‘Will you?’
‘No, of course not. What else could I do? I could get some kind of pension but it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough to get the kids through university, assuming that they want to go. Besides, I’m too young. Anyway, I’ve told her that I’m not likely to run into Ihor Chepoyak again, so what’s the problem?’
Carlyle thought about the nurse — very blonde, very pretty. ‘I’m sorry. .’
‘Ah!’ Shen held up a hand. ‘These things happen. It was my own fault. Maria knows that. I think that’s why she’s so freaked about the whole thing.’
‘What about your friend Ihor?’ Carlyle asked.
Shen let out a long breath. ‘I would assume he’d made it back to Kiev about the time I was coming out of surgery. He’ll never be caught.’
‘No.’
‘But look on the bright side. That probably means he’ll eventually end up face-down in a muddy field somewhere minus the back of his head.’ Shen took another sip of water. ‘At least, that’s what I hope happens to the bastard.’
‘And what’s happening on your patch?’
Shen grimaced. ‘Ah, well, it’s a good time to be off sick. That will be a mess for a while. Lots of arguments, lots of violence until the next alpha male scumbag emerges, just like Ihor did a few years ago.’
‘And the girl. . Olga?’
‘No idea.’ Shen yawned. ‘Look, John, thanks for coming, but Maria will be back in a minute and-’
