Never Apologise, Never Explain (2 page)

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 café 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 showed no interest at all in the mini-drama unfolding outside his door – that he would be needing another coffee.

Drury Lane was a relatively uncongested single-lane, one-way street, heading south to north. It could get you all the way from the Aldwych to High Holborn while avoiding the busier streets nearby. In order to get to the traffic lights at the north end that little bit quicker, drivers of all descriptions liked to put their foot to the floor and race up the thoroughfare as quickly as possible. The whole exercise was completely pointless since average traffic speeds in Central London remained a stately ten miles an hour, essentially the same as for the horse-drawn carriages more than a century earlier. Carlyle, who didn’t own a car, could never understand the common urge to hurtle 200 yards only to spend longer at the next stop. Maybe it was a genetic condition; more likely these drivers were just tossers. Either way, it was a miracle that there weren’t more accidents.

In this case, the front wheels of the van had stopped on the zebra crossing itself but it wasn’t clear if it had actually hit the old man. Leaning out of his window, the van driver was remonstrating with the woman bystander who had now stopped screaming.

‘It’s a zebra crossing!’ the woman shouted, seemingly oblivious to Carlyle’s arrival.

‘The silly old fucker just walked straight out,’ the driver snarled, looking like he wanted to reach out of the window and grab her by the throat. He revved the engine, but couldn’t move with the man still sprawling out in front of him. A taxi now pulled up behind the van, the cabbie giving an extended blast on his horn, just in case anyone had missed the fact that he was there.

‘If you hadn’t been going so fast,’ the woman replied, ‘this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Mind your own fucking business, you stupid bitch,’ the man shot back, his attention now focusing on Carlyle, who was writing down his registration number.

‘Oi! Fuckface!’ The driver stuck his head further out of the window of the van. ‘What do you think
you’re
doing?’ Sweat was beading on his shaven head. He was wearing a replica of the new Spurs away strip for next season, a fetching mocha and brown number in a retro style. Carlyle thought about arresting him just for that. Instead, he showed the driver his ID and told him to switch off his engine. That prompted the taxi driver behind to let loose with another long blast on his horn. Carlyle ignored him. Already the traffic was backing up towards Great Queen Street and beyond, but that wasn’t his problem. They could wait. He turned back to the old man and helped him up.

‘Are you okay, Harry?’ Carlyle asked.

Harry Ripley dusted himself down and fiddled with a button on his coat. He smiled sadly, like a man who fully expected to find himself dumped in the middle of the road every now and again. ‘Hello, Inspector.’

‘Did he hit you?’

The old man gazed at the tarmac. ‘No. I’m all right.’

‘Was it his fault?’

‘I’d say fifty-fifty.’

Carlyle nodded back in the direction of the café. ‘I’m just having a coffee in Il Buffone, so why don’t you come and join me?’ The old man nodded and shuffled back on to the pavement, before heading slowly towards Carlyle’s table. The driver took this as his cue to restart his engine. Carlyle stepped back in front of the van, holding up his hand as if he was a traffic cop. ‘Not so fast, sunshine. Hold your horses.’

The queue of traffic was now well into double figures and the cacophony of complaints was growing. The woman who had remonstrated with the driver was hovering on the pavement outside the Sun, as if unsure whether to stay or go. Carlyle turned to her and smiled, which only seemed to make her more uncomfortable. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right now, I can sort this.’

‘Don’t you want a statement or something?’ the woman asked.

No, I bloody don’t, thought Carlyle. The paperwork would be the kiss of death; his day would be over before it had even started. How come members of the public only wanted to be helpful when it wasn’t necessary? ‘No, it’s fine.’ He tried to sound grateful. ‘I’ll be able to handle it. Thanks for stopping.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle looked down at his shoes, trying not to smile.
Are you sure?
How many times over the years had he been asked that question? He was a policeman. Of course he was sure. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Well, if you change your mind,’ the woman said, ‘I work at the launderette at the far end of Betterton Street.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘You can get me in there.’

‘I know it,’ Carlyle said, which was true. When the Carlyle family washing-machine had exploded earlier in the year, he had been a regular customer. ‘Thanks.’

Reluctantly, the woman turned and walked away, leaving Carlyle to return his attention to the van driver. He moved to the driver’s door. ‘Name?’

The man couldn’t have looked any more pained if someone was poised to stick a red-hot poker up his arse. ‘Smith.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

‘No, really,’ the man said, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, ‘it is Smith. Dennis Smith.’ He fished out his driver’s licence and flashed it through the window.

Ignoring the card, Carlyle leaned towards the window. ‘Okay, Dennis, you seem to have violated various traffic laws here, as well as behaving in a way that could easily have led to a breach of the peace.’ Talking bollocks, of course, but getting his attention. ‘And that’s before we talk about any actual injury to the victim’s person. Or about you calling me “fuckface”.’

‘But,’ Smith complained, ‘you just sent him off to get a coffee. He’s not hurt at all. Anyway, it was his fault.’

Carlyle let his gaze wander round the inside of the van. ‘Are you up here often?’

Smith shifted in his seat. ‘A bit.’

‘Well, I’m round here all the time and I don’t want to see any more boy-racer shit from . . .’ he stood up to look at the name on the side of the van ‘. . .
Fred’s Fabulous Fruit ’n’ Veg
.’