TWENTY-THREE
It was hot and Carlyle was bothered. Standing on the cobbles of Covent Garden piazza, inside the flaccid police tape, he wiped some sweat from his brow and looked at the tourists staring back at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do than gawp at some poor bloke who had keeled over while playing the bongos for their entertainment? Over the last hour, people had come and gone, but nevertheless the crowd had been growing steadily. Now it was easily more than a hundred strong, which was probably a much bigger audience than poor Dennis Felix had ever enjoyed while he was alive. Carlyle was almost tempted to pass the dead man’s hat round and ask for contributions towards the funeral expenses. If nothing else, that would have cleared away the crowd.
Standing next to him, sweating profusely, was Sergeant Dave Prentice. On a rare and unwelcome foray from his usual position behind the front desk at the station, he was reciting the basic facts that had so far been gleaned about the unfortunate musician: ‘Mid-thirties apparently. From Estonia apparently. Lives somewhere in East London.’
‘Apparently,’ Carlyle said, without thinking.
Prentice shot him a dirty look. ‘He’s been playing at this pitch three or four times a week for over a year.’
‘Well done,’ said Carlyle, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘That was quick.’
‘Speak to her.’ Prentice pointed at a woman standing nearby. ‘She knows him.’
Carlyle caught the woman’s eye and beckoned her over. Young and gaunt, she was about 5 feet 4 inches, with dark rings round her eyes that matched her black hair. You need a good feed and some prolonged exposure to sunlight, he thought. She was dressed in baggy green trousers and a cropped pink vest, allowing her to display a selection of rings protruding from her belly button. With too much jewellery and not enough make-up, she looked primed to run away and join the circus. Maybe she already had.
‘I’m Inspector Carlyle and I work with Sergeant Prentice here.’
The girl stepped directly in front of Carlyle, but said nothing. Despite the heat, she was shivering and he could see that she had been crying.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
The girl eyed him suspiciously. Then she glanced at the body lying on a trolley, hidden under a blanket, waiting to be taken away by the crew that had edged their ambulance to one corner of the square.
‘It’s not a trick question,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of empathy already exhausted.
‘Kylie.’
How unlucky, thought Carlyle, to be named after a midget Australian pop star. He focused his gaze on a spot an inch above her head. ‘Okay, Kylie, what can you tell me about Mr Felix?’
‘He was from Tallinn, in Estonia.’ She scratched her neck. ‘That’s like, Russia, I think. Somewhere round there anyway.’
‘What else?’
Kylie thought it over at length. ‘I’ve known him for about six months,’ she said finally.
‘How?’
‘How what?’ She gave him a look like an inquisitive puppy.
Carlyle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he thought. Don’t let little things wind you up. You have to try and keep things under control.
‘How did you know him?’ Were you fucking him? Did he try and dump you? Could you have cared enough to try and kill him? How did he die?
‘I work over there.’ She pointed to a fast-food trailer that had been parked by the entrance to the Jubilee Hall gym.
Carlyle realised that he hadn’t been to the gym for almost a week. He felt sluggish. I need a workout, he thought.
‘Dennis would often stop by for a smoothie and a chat. And I would listen to him play. He was good. Did an amazing version of “Wonderwall”.’
Shame I missed that one, Carlyle thought. ‘So what happened this morning?’
‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘I saw him arrive and set up. He started drumming and then I had to get a customer a cappuccino. When I looked again, Felix was kind of slumped over to one side. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.’ Her eyes lost focus. ‘Maybe they thought it was part of his act.’
‘Why would they do that?’
She ignored his question. ‘I knew something was wrong, so I went over to see if I could help. I gave him a shake and then checked for a pulse… but there was nothing.’ She paused and a tear appeared at the corner of her right eye.
Give it a rest, Carlyle thought uncharitably. All you did was sell the poor sod the odd juice.
‘Did he do drugs?’
She looked at him blankly in a way that Carlyle read as: Yes, of course he did, you idiot! ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
She shook her head. ‘I never saw Felix touch anything illegal.’
I’d need some serious drugs if I had to play the bloody bongo drums all day, Carlyle mused. ‘Okay, was he ill?’
‘No, no, he was very healthy.’
‘What else did he do?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Apart from play for the tourists here?’
‘He loved his music. He often worked with kids doing drumming workshops.’
‘Here?’
‘No, in Hackney. He also had his own band. They’re called Toompea. They play alternative folk rock.’
‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle was switching off; this dead guy was getting less interesting by the second.
Kylie looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for another question, but his mind had gone blank.
‘John?’ He was saved by Susan Phillips, who had appeared from somewhere.
He held up a hand to signal to the pathologist that he would come over in a minute. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Give Sergeant Prentice here your details, and we will be in touch.’
‘What happened to him?’ Kylie asked.
‘That’s what we need to find out. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, let us know straight away.’ Turning away from the girl before she could start crying again, he stepped over to the pathologist and smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Susan.’
‘You, too, John. You’ve got an interesting one here.’
Based ten minutes up the road, at Holborn police station, Susan Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than fifteen years. Slim and blonde, with a healthy glow and a cheery smile, she brought a smidgen of much-needed glamour to The Job. More to the point, she was quick, no-nonsense and dependable — just what Carlyle liked in a colleague. They had worked together many times before and he was always pleased to see her at a crime scene.
‘What can you tell me?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Not a lot,’ Phillips grinned, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses back up her nose.
‘Foul play?’ he asked casually.
‘No signs of it that I can see, first off.’
‘Heart attack, then? The girl says he just kind of keeled over.’
‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘He’s still young, but it can happen. I’m sorry, but I can’t speculate at this stage. It’s not immediately apparent what killed him. We’re going to take him away now. I’ll get him on to the slab and let you know what I find out.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘No problem,’ Phillips said. ‘Let’s speak later.’
The body was carefully loaded into the ambulance by a couple of paramedics. Carlyle watched as it slowly edged its way into the traffic on Bow Street before heading away from the piazza.
