‘My treat,’ said Helen, reading his mind.
‘Fine,’ he said, with no great enthusiasm.
Conversation over, Helen returned her attention to the cooking programme. Bored, Carlyle went back to the kitchen to make himself a cup of green tea. As he was dunking the bag in boiling water, his mobile started buzzing on the worktop next to the sink.
He picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘John? It’s Carole Simpson.’
‘Commander. .’
‘Sorry to call you so late.’
Leaning against the sink, Carlyle took a sip of his tea. ‘It’s not a problem.’
‘Good. Well, I just wanted to let you know of a few developments.’
She sounds distant, Carlyle thought, distracted. He wondered if that meant more problems with her husband. ‘Joe already told me about United 14,’ he ventured.
‘Yes? Okay. I think that we’ll get quite a lot out of that — thanks to Mr Dolan’s record-keeping.’
‘Good.’
‘There are a couple of other things though. The first is that there is going to be a review into the workings of SO14. It will be announced next week. The commissioner will try to slip something out under the radar, but the media will probably get hold of it all the same.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle told her. ‘I will keep my mouth shut.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting-’
‘I know, I know. But just for the avoidance of doubt, you don’t have to worry about me blabbing to any journos.’
‘Good. Thank you.’
‘The whole thing will be a load of bollocks anyway,’ Carlyle said sourly. ‘There will be an investigation that takes months, if not years, then there will be a few cosmetic changes and everyone will go on wasting taxpayers’ money with gay abandon.’
Simpson sighed. ‘Doesn’t being so cynical all the time tire you out?’
‘It’s not cynicism,’ Carlyle harrumphed, ‘it’s realism.’
‘The other thing,’ said Simpson, clearly keen to move the conversation along, ‘is Alexa Matthews and Heather Ramsden. The case is now being closed. Their deaths will be attributed to Dolan.’
‘I think that he probably
The next day, wrapped up in an overcoat and scarf, Carlyle sat under one of the large paraffin heaters outside Bar Italia on Frith Street, cradling a demitasse containing the last drops of his double macchiato, in order to stop the over-zealous waitress snatching it away too soon. It was a beautiful morning, clear blue skies, with an invigorating nip in the air, and the good citizens of Soho were going about their business in their usual desultory fashion. Having nothing to say, Carlyle idly watched a young woman walking a trio of small dogs towards Soho Square. As she stopped to let one of her dogs take a piss on a bag of rubbish, a police car pulled up. A young officer got out of the passenger seat and crossed the road, heading towards the cafe. Seeing Carlyle, he nodded. Carlyle responded in kind and watched him disappear inside.
‘Who was that?’ Rose Scripps asked, popping the last bite of a ham and cheese panini into her mouth.
‘No idea.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe he works out of Charing Cross.’
‘You’re not very curious, are you?’ she teased. ‘For a policeman, I mean.’
‘No,’ Carlyle said, amused, ‘I suppose not. You can’t be interested in everything though, can you?’ The waitress, a hard-looking Polish girl, appeared beside their table and made another grab for his cup. This time he gave it up. ‘I’ll have another one, please,’ he said to her, then looked towards Rose.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ she said.
‘And I’ll have the bill as well.’
The young woman nodded and headed back inside.
Carlyle stared into the middle distance. It was barely a week since they had come back from Switzerland, but things had moved on quickly. Their little adventure had already been consigned to the distant past, and that was the way Carlyle liked it.
The waitress reappeared with the bill, but not the coffee. Carlyle dropped a ten-pound note on the tray, digging some change out of his pocket to make up a half-decent tip.
‘Thanks for breakfast,’ said Rose.
‘My pleasure,’ said Carlyle. ‘How are things at CEOP?’
‘Fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Closing down Falkirk’s enterprise is a big win for us. That will keep everyone happy for a while.’
‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle. ‘But it never stops, does it?’
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I get my new partner next week. A woman this time, which is good. Maybe you know her?’ She mentioned a name.
‘Nope,’ Carlyle said. The waitress brought the fresh coffee and took away his cash.
Rose watched her go. ‘The
‘Well done.’ Carlyle meant it, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. Not wanting Rose to think that he was being insincere, he ploughed on, ‘Really, I think that is great news.’
‘It’s early days,’ Rose replied chirpily, ‘but they say she’s settling in well.’
‘Let’s hope she learns enough not to try and come back here.’ He meant it as a joke, but the look on Rose’s face told him that his remark had fallen very flat.
‘We are going to keep in touch by email,’ Rose said stiffly. ‘I want to try and help her, if I can.’
‘Let me know if I can do anything, too.’
‘I will.’ Her face softened and she leaned across the table to pat his hand. ‘You can be sure of that.’
Not for the first time, Carlyle felt himself blush in her presence. After a moment, he removed his hand and placed it on his lap.
‘I have to get going,’ said Rose, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘Did you hear about Shen?’
‘No.’ Looking up at her, Carlyle had to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s quit the Force.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I reckon that his wife made him do it.’
I can believe that, Carlyle thought. ‘Do you think he was bent?’
Rose frowned. ‘I really don’t know. Not worth worrying about now, I suppose.’
‘Probably not.’
Rose hoisted her bag on to her shoulder. Hesitating, she offered Carlyle a hand in farewell. Without getting up, he shook it. ‘Thanks for all your help,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It was good working together.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled, eyes lowered.
‘I’ll see you around.’
‘Yes.’
She turned and crossed the road. Sipping his coffee, Carlyle watched her head into Old Compton Street and disappear.
Finishing his second macchiato, he became conscious of someone standing in front of him.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
‘Yes?’ Again he had to squint into the sun to look up at the tall man, easily six foot plus, with silver hair shaved close to the scalp. Dark rings under his watery blue eyes suggested someone who had enjoyed very little sleep in recent weeks.
‘I am Kelvin Matthews, Alexa’s father.’ He gestured back across the road to a large woman standing just outside Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club; she was eyeing them both with a tortured expression on her face. ‘And that’s her
