of stations that had constituted his ‘career’ – including Shepherds Bush, Southwark, Brixton, Paddington Green and Bethnal Green. He had moved slowly through the ranks, from constable to sergeant to inspector, having a go at most things: vice, drugs, fraud, homicide and even a short and inglorious spell at Buckingham Palace in the Royal Protection Unit.
Despite picking up more than his fair share of commendations, Carlyle knew that he had never really been considered as part of the team. He was not ‘one of us’, nor was he a ‘safe pair of hands’. Somehow, he had survived, though, without ever becoming part of the family. How had that happened? The powers that be were doubtless as surprised as Carlyle himself that he was still around. Over the years, he had evolved into a jack of all trades and master of none. He had put down roots of a sort, like a tree stuck in the pavement: stable but not necessarily happy.
Climbing the steps, he glanced at the rather modest Charing Cross Police Station sign, which sat below a small and very grubby royal crest. Above the crest, a chaotic rainbow-coloured flag hung limply from its pole, the usual Union Jack having been replaced in recognition of Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Month, whatever that was. Inside, the place was unusually empty, save for a lone figure slumped comatose in the corner.
Walter Poonoosamy, commonly known as ‘Dog’, was a drunk, a regular nuisance or a local mini-celebrity, depending on your point of view. Dog’s moniker came from his habit of approaching tourists who were aimlessly wandering about the piazza and asking for their help in finding his pet Labrador, called Lucky. Lucky, he explained, was his one companion in life, and as luck would have it he had gone missing that very day. As far as anyone knew, there never had been any such animal, but he fitted the stereotype of a down-and-out’s faithful friend, which, combined with Dog’s not inconsiderable acting ability and persistence in the face of a raging thirst, was usually sufficient to tug at the heartstrings of the gormless enough to easily cover the cost of a couple of 1.5 litre bottles of Diamond White cider, which was his preferred tipple. It was urban legend that one tear-stained performance had prompted a middle-aged American lady from Wyoming to hand over a fifty-pound note and tell the bemused tramp to ‘Go get yourself a new dog’.
Tonight, Carlyle could smell evidence of the comprehensive but unscheduled toilet stop which explained why no one had yet tried to move Dog on from his bench. Carlyle observed a sensible exclusion zone around the wino, as he stepped towards the desk where the duty sergeant – an amiable, middle-aged guy called Dave Prentice – was tossing a pair of latex gloves to a disgruntled, sleepy-looking PCSO whom Carlyle didn’t recognise. There was a large bottle of disinfectant on the desk, alongside a mop and a bucket of recently boiled water mixed with some industrial-strength disinfectant. The cleaners wouldn’t arrive until at least six-thirty, which meant a PCSO had to be press-ganged into action meanwhile. Police Community Support Officers were volunteers who signed on to help the regular police in their spare time, though, with no power to arrest suspected criminals, they were widely derided as ‘plastic policemen’. Bored and unmotivated, they were responsible for most cases of gross misconduct among Metropolitan Police staff, usually involving drinking offences and motoring crimes. Twenty or so got sacked each year and, in general, Carlyle tried to have as little to do with them as possible.
‘Hurry up and get him out of here,’ Prentice grumbled to the PCSO, knowing that there was no question of Dog going into a cell tonight. Ever since a report from the Metropolitan Police’s Custody Directorate had calculated that a night spent in the slammer cost a whopping?667, considerably more than the likes of the Dorchester Hotel (?395) and the Ritz (?390), the pressure was on to keep as many of them empty as possible. The hospitality at Charing Cross was therefore reserved for celebrities (C-list and above) and serious criminals only. Definitely no drunks, therefore. Equally, no local hospital would admit Dog, so it was a matter of finding somewhere else to sleep off his stupor.
‘Just get him round the corner and stick him in a doorway,’ Prentice suggested. ‘He’ll find his way home soon enough.’
The PCSO grunted and pulled on the latex gloves. He didn’t even acknowledge Carlyle as he moved gingerly towards the snoring wino. Carlyle mentally wished him luck and headed in the opposite direction.
Prentice eyed him quizzically as he approached the front desk. ‘Back already, John?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Forgot my bloody keys.’
For a man who could really not care less, Prentice did a good job of managing a small grimace of sympathy. ‘Unlucky.’
‘Yeah, I know. I got almost all the way home before I realised,’ Carlyle replied, sounding suitably sorry for himself. ‘If I buzzed the front door, Helen would go bananas,’ he added, ‘even if I didn’t wake Alice up, too, what with her having school in the morning.’
Prentice nodded sympathetically. He had three kids himself, two girls and a boy, and knew all about the ups and downs of family life. At the same time, he lived near Theydon Bois, a village on the north-east periphery of London, near Epping Forest, which was famous for not possessing any street lights. Fifteen miles from Charing Cross, it took the best part of an hour on the Central Line for Dave to get home, so he would have had no qualms about waking the kids and getting his missus out of bed if he found himself stuck on the doorstep in deepest, darkest Essex.
Conscious of someone behind him, Carlyle turned to see a skinny, blond-haired, twenty-something man approaching the desk. He wore a pained expression – all cheekbones and attitude – and was fashionably dressed in an expensive-looking, two-button, single-breasted black suit and a crisp white shirt. As he reached the desk, Carlyle could read the legend The Garden in tiny grey script on his breast pocket. The Garden was an upmarket ‘boutique’ hotel only two minutes’ walk away, on St Martin’s Lane, just up the road from Trafalgar Square. It was a haunt of minor celebrities and gossip columnists, always full of self-important people doing self-important things.
The young man ignored Carlyle. Without saying a word, he handed Prentice a white envelope and turned to leave.
‘Hold on, there.’ Carlyle placed a gentle hand on the visitor’s shoulder. ‘What is this?’
The man stopped, turned and gave him a neutral look. ‘I guess it’s a letter.’
‘I can see that, sir,’ Carlyle said, with considerable effort, not least because ‘sir’ was not a word he felt comfortable in using. He took the envelope from Prentice and looked at the address in black capitals on the front: BY HAND – FAO THE DUTY OFFICER, CHARING CROSS POLICE STATION. He glanced back at the young man. ‘Who gave you this?’
‘The chief concierge at the hotel.’ The man shrugged, like that should be obvious.
Carlyle felt his mood harden. He could be obtuse himself often enough, when he felt like it, but he didn’t like it in others. Not when he was on the receiving end. He glared at the man, who took a step backwards till he was leaning against the desk.
‘What’s your name?’ Carlyle growled.
‘Anders.’
‘Second name?’
‘Brolin. Anders Brolin. I am from Sweden.’
‘No shit,’ Carlyle looked at Prentice and grunted, ‘straight out of central casting.’ Prentice raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing.’ Carlyle looked the young man up and down. ‘Where in Sweden are you from?’
‘Skane.’
That didn’t mean anything to Carlyle. ‘Where?’
‘It’s in the south of the country,’ the man said slowly, clearly, to accommodate both the geographical ignorance of the English and the fact that he was talking to a couple of policemen. ‘I am from a town called Ystad.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Brolin seemed to perk up a little at the thought of home. ‘It’s nice but very quiet. Nothing ever happens there.’ He almost smiled, then thought better of it. ‘It’s a good place to be a policeman.’
‘Not like London.’
‘Not like London, no. Here there are too many…’ Brolin paused.
Carlyle stepped in: ‘Too many wankers?’
‘Yes,’ Brolin gave a tired smile, ‘far too many.’
‘So,’ Carlyle waved the envelope gently in the air, ‘what about this?’
‘This is nothing to do with me,’ Brolin said, making an involuntary jerk of the head in the direction of the front
