underground, the metro. Montserrat Morilles has been dubbed ‘La Diosa del Metro’, the Metro Goddess. She told reporters: ‘Chile is still a pretty timid country. People aren’t very extroverted and we want to take aim at that and make Chile a happier country. ’
Carlyle stuck his head out from under the duvet and switched off the clock radio. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and watched his wife get dressed. Standing at the bottom of the bed, with her back to him, Helen tossed her T-shirt on to the floor and reached over for a pearl bra that had been left hanging on a nearby chair. She slipped it on casually and checked herself in the wardrobe mirror. Carlyle watched her buttocks twitch and felt a twitch of his own.
One of the many things he loved about his wife was her beautiful arse. It was a very fine arse; pert, smooth and not quite symmetrical. A wave of enthusiasm crept over him; he wanted to jump out of bed and grab it. Another twitch. He gave himself a vigorous scratch in order to confirm what he already knew — his morning erection was quite spectacular.
How much time did they have? He heard the television spring into life in the living room. Alice would be grabbing fifteen minutes of crap while eating her breakfast, before going to school. That would be more than enough time. First, however, he needed to piss. He was just about to swing his feet out of the bed when Helen turned to him and gave him one of her worrying smiles. Apart from the bra, which showed a generous amount of areola, she was still naked. Apparently oblivious to her provocative appearance, she asked casually, ‘Did you ever accept a freebie?’
‘Good morning to you too.’ Carlyle shrank back inside the duvet. The last thing he wanted to do now was to resume the previous night’s conversation. Helen had picked up on a story in one of the Sunday newspapers about an inspector from the Harrow station who had been arrested on a raid in a local brothel. The paper had speculated that the officer had provided security for the establishment, known as Auntie Jayne’s, in return for payments of cash and services. This had led Helen to loudly speculate about the inability of police officers to resist the temptations that The Job had to offer. Rather than keeping his own counsel, Carlyle had foolishly attempted to mount a defence of both his colleagues and, by extension, himself.
Glancing in the direction of his crotch, she raised her eyebrows. ‘Well?’
‘Define “freebie”.’
‘You know,’ Helen put her hands on her hips, provocatively challenging him, teasing him. ‘Did you ever go with a… whore?’
Whore. The word was carefully chosen: both derogatory and accusing.
Carlyle blinked twice and stared at the ceiling. His erection was beginning to wane. What a way to start a Monday morning, being quizzed by his wife on his sexual history and his ethical standards. It was like being at work: you didn’t have to be guilty to feel guilty.
He gave his situation as much thought as he could, knowing that he didn’t have much time. Sitting up in bed, he put on his most dispassionate expression, which proved not to be too difficult at that time of the morning.
‘No.’
Helen stepped into a pair of faded panties that did not match the bra. ‘Are you sure? Most men have, you know. It’s not a big deal.’
Carlyle didn’t believe that last comment for a second. He knew a ‘big deal’ when he saw one. Scratching his head, he faked a yawn, playing for time. A light touch was needed here. Discarding dispassionate, he stuck on his face the most relaxed grin he could manage and ploughed on. ‘Which do you mean? Could I have forgotten banging a hooker? Or am I telling you the truth?’
‘Either.’ Helen pulled a light brown jumper over her head and picked up a pair of black jeans. ‘Both.’
Deciding that attack was the best form of defence, Carlyle tossed aside the duvet with a flourish and slid out of bed. He had nothing to declare but his semi-erection. Scratching his balls, he stepped forward and gently kissed his wife on the forehead. ‘I don’t think so
… I mean, I would have remembered.’
Stepping away from him, Helen quickly buttoned up her jeans. Involuntarily, Carlyle grabbed his cock and squeezed it gently before giving his balls another pleasurable scratch. Now he really needed to piss, but he couldn’t duck out of the bedroom too quickly, it would look like he was running away.
‘So you’re sure?’
Yesterday’s boxers lay on the floor next to his own jeans. He picked them up and gave them a quick sniff — not too bad… they would do for another day. ‘Look,’ he said, struggling into the underpants, careful to revert to her choice of language, ‘there are whores and there are whores. Your average crackhead is not, in my experience, much like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.’
Helen looked him up and down, reminding him — not that he needed reminding — that married life really was a continuous assessment. ‘So, if they had been prettier, or cleaner…’
There was no going back now. He tried another grin. ‘Julia Roberts isn’t really my type anyway.’
‘But what if they looked like, I don’t know — the girl in that Bond film — Eva Green?’
Eva Green? ‘They don’t.’
Helen started brushing her hair. ‘But if they did? And if all you had to do was hand over the money?’
This time he did grin. ‘Policemen don’t have to pay. We get freebies, remember? Which is just as well, given the cash — or rather the lack of cash — in my pocket.’
Helen now smiled her checkmate smile. ‘So you would? Or you did?’
So much for humour. Carlyle’s grin vanished, as his heart sank. ‘I need to piss,’ he said quietly.
FOUR
The inspector sat outside Il Buffone, enjoying the gentle morning sunshine. The tiny 1950s-style Italian cafe sat just across the road from his flat on Macklin Street, on the corner of Drury Lane in the north-east section of Covent Garden. Inside, there was just enough room for the counter and two tattered booths, each of which could seat four people, or six at a squeeze. It was a case of risk a random dining companion inside or take one of the small tables outside on the street, where you were more likely to be left alone. Besides, the exhaust fumes were free.
Although he didn’t appreciate any company at breakfast, Carlyle’s preference was to eat inside where he could sit under the poster of the 1984 Juventus scudetto-winning squad. The poster was torn and faded, curling at the edges and held together with Sellotape. Marcello had tried to replace it several times, most recently with the Italian World Cup-winning team of 2006. Always, however, the protests of Carlyle, and a few other regulars who knew their football, forced him to return the team of Trapattoni and Platini to their rightful place.
Today, however, Carlyle had hit the morning rush-hour and both inside booths were full. Sticking his head through the door, Carlyle didn’t spot anyone who seemed like they were about to leave. Hovering in the doorway, he looked pleadingly at Marcello, the owner, who just nodded and said: ‘I’ll bring it out.’
The inspector had barely sat down when Marcello appeared at his table, dropping a double macchiato in front of him, along with an extremely impressive-looking cherry Danish that positively begged to be eaten. Carlyle looked down at the pastry and felt the drool building up inside his cheeks. He then gave Marcello what he hoped was an expression of humble gratitude.
‘I thought you’d like that,’ Marcello grinned, already heading back inside. ‘See? It’s gonna be a great day.’
Carlyle took a sip of the macchiato, letting it scald his throat, finishing his coffee before taking a knife and carefully cutting the pastry into quarters. Picking up the largest piece, he closed his eyes and contemplated the imminent sugar rush.
‘ Hey! ’
The first slice of Danish was just about to reach his mouth when he heard the blast of a horn, followed by the screech of brakes. A woman started to scream. Looking up, he saw an old man in a cream raincoat on the ground in front of a white fruit-and-veg delivery van, by the zebra crossing in front of the Sun pub on Drury Lane, less than twenty yards away. Carlyle looked at the slice sadly and dropped it back on his plate. Ignoring the growling of his stomach, he got up from his table and strolled towards the scene of the accident while signalling to Marcello — who
