Sins of the Fathers (10 page)

Belatedly, Savage realized he was pushing his luck. ‘Sorry, Inspector.’ He held up a hand. ‘It’s Watkins’s job really.’

‘Doesn’t bloody help me much,’ Carlyle groused. ‘Does it?’

Sticking another cigarette between his lips, Savage said nothing.

Carlyle pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket to check the time. It was too late to go back to bed. The working day had begun. ‘Finish up here and meet me back at the station – we can see what we’ve got.’

As he walked away from the car, he heard Savage mumble something that sounded like, ‘Whatever.’

Sod you too
, thought Carlyle. Head down, he marched along the road, walking in the direction of Waterloo. Almost immediately, he was conscious of someone falling in step beside him. Looking round, he saw a young man wearing a Take That T-shirt under a parka. Tall and thin, he was carrying a Tesco plastic bag containing what looked like a selection of microwave meals. His eyes were two dark pinpricks, marking him out as a stoner.

‘I know who did it,’ he said.

‘What?’ Carlyle stopped.

‘The bloke who had his head stuck on the railings, I know who did it.’ The youth did a little dance on the tarmac. Unshaven and gaunt, he had a mop of curly hair that looked like it had been casually plonked on the top of his head. An unused cigarette was stuck behind his left ear.

Please God
, Carlyle offered up a silent prayer,
not another nutter
. ‘Yeah?’

The man nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah.’

Carlyle let out a long breath. ‘I tell you what,’ he pointed at Savage, who was still sitting in the car, ‘go and talk to Sergeant Savage – the guy in the Range Rover. He is in charge here.’

The man looked at Carlyle doubtfully.

‘He will want to take a full statement,’ Carlyle insisted. ‘Go on.’ He watched as the man headed reluctantly towards Savage, before continuing on his way at a brisk pace.

Under the railway arches by the Royal Festival Hall was the 93 Coffee Bar. It was not yet 5.15 – sunrise was still the best part of forty-five minutes away – and the Closed sign was still in place. But the lights were on and as he approached, Carlyle could see activity inside. Reaching the door, he knocked firmly on the glass and waited. After a few moments, a tired-looking blonde woman stuck her head out of a doorway at the back.

‘We’re closed,’ she shouted, without looking up.

Carlyle grinned and knocked again.

‘I said . . .’ Finally glancing in his direction, she stopped in mid-sentence and smiled. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she hastened to the door, turned the lock and pulled it open. ‘What brings you here?’ Standing on her toes, she reached over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Carlyle gestured back towards the river. ‘Long night.’ Stepping inside, he explained about the head on the railings as she re-locked the door.

She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

‘It’s not funny, Laura,’ Carlyle said with mock seriousness. But he was laughing too. It was good to see a friendly face. He would have liked to go home and jump into bed, but that was not an option so at least he could meet the working day with a full stomach.

Laura Stevenson read his mind. ‘Full English?’

Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Eggs, chips and beans. White toast, no butter. But with some green tea, if you have it.’

Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Green tea?’

‘Green tea,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘My one concession to healthy living these days. Sometimes.’

‘Fine. Just give me a minute.’

‘Thanks.’ As she nipped behind the counter, Carlyle looked at the small montage of photos on the wall behind the till. He soon found the one he had been looking for, in the top right-hand corner where it had been for the last thirty years or so. A teenage Laura was standing on a crowded Brighton beach with her arm round her father. The sun was shining and the sky was blue, and both of them were smiling. Carlyle had taken the picture.

John Carlyle had only been two years on the Force when he had helped Eamonn Stevenson track down his daughter. Laura had been ‘kidnapped’ by her mother, who had whisked her off from the family home in Bermondsey to a squat in Kilburn. Social Services wouldn’t intervene, so Carlyle had gone with Eamonn to get her back. When the mother’s new boyfriend had put up a fight, Carlyle had busted his kneecap with a length of lead pipe. From then on, he became an honorary member of the family. He still remembered that day out at the seaside. Outside of moments with Helen and Alice, it was one of his happiest memories.

‘How’s your dad?’ Carlyle asked.

‘So-so.’ Laura reached into a box of green tea bags. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Carlyle couldn’t remember. He smiled ruefully. ‘Not for a while.’

‘He’s almost seventy-four now.’ Laura dropped four slices of bread into an outsized toaster. ‘He’s doing okay, considering, just getting a bit slow.’ She caught his eye. ‘He’d love to see you.’

Carlyle sighed inwardly. It was impossible to keep up with everyone. Eamonn and Laura had sorted themselves out and moved on. So had he. Carlyle had had his own life to lead. Between pounding the beat and his assiduous courting of the reluctant Helen, there had been precious little time left for much else. Occasionally he would drop into the café, which Eamonn had taken over from his uncle, only to leave embarrassed by the fact that he would never be allowed to pay for anything. Carlyle knew that Eamonn’s gratitude was genuine, but it made him uncomfortable. It was hard enough making a living from the café without handing out free meals, and he didn’t want to feel like a freeloader.

‘How’s Sean?’ he asked, moving the conversation on. Sean Taylor, Laura’s husband, was a copper, a sergeant working out of the Streatham station. Husband and wife worked like dogs to send their daughter to a private boarding school for girls in Kent.

‘He’s fine, a bit worried about the cuts.’

‘Aren’t we all.’

Nodding, Laura handed him a mug and pulled the toast out of the machine in one fluid movement. ‘Lightly toasted, just the way you like it.’

Carlyle nodded happily.

‘We can’t afford any problems at the moment. Julie’s going to university soon. The fees are ridiculous.’

‘I know.’ Carlyle sipped his tea. It burned the back of his throat and he purred contentedly. ‘Ridiculous.’

Laura dropped the toast on a plate and turned her attention to the eggs and chips. ‘Wait till it’s Alice’s turn.’

I’m absolutely dreading it
, Carlyle thought. Helen had already started saving for the possibility. At the current rate of progress, Carlyle had calculated, they would be able to cover the first year’s fees in about thirty-five years. Moving away from the counter, he picked up a copy of yesterday’s
Metro
from a rack on the wall and took a seat at a table by the window. Flicking through the news pages, he read a story about a gang smuggling illegal immigrants into the country in specially built compartments in lorries.

‘If people are that desperate,’ he said to himself, ‘let them bloody come.’

Laura appeared with his food and put the plate carefully onto the table. ‘What are you muttering about?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Moving the paper to one side, he licked his lips.

‘Careful,’ she warned him, ‘it’s hot.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ Carlyle grabbed a bottle of ketchup and applied it liberally to his chips. Right on cue, his stomach started rumbling and he began unceremoniously shovelling food into his mouth. Flipping the Open sign at the door, Laura slipped behind the counter to get ready for the morning rush.

As the clock crept around towards six, a steady stream of customers appeared – a mix of roadsweepers, bin men and some construction workers, along with a few early office workers and the odd jogger in search of a caffeine boost to help them on their run. Laura had cleared his plate away and Carlyle, his belly now more than full, was lingering over a second mug of green tea as he finished reading yesterday’s paper. London’s new mayor was promoting a new cycle scheme while reducing Congestion Charging, making it easier for people to clog up London’s streets with their Chelsea Tractors and other vehicles. Typical bloody politician, Carlyle thought. Over the years, he’d had several run-ins with the previous mayor; it was good to see that the new guy was keeping up the time-honoured tradition of being totally useless.

Closing the paper, he folded it neatly and put it back on the rack. He took his empty cup over to the counter where Laura was taking the order of a couple of traffic wardens. Placing the cup on the counter, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. Ignoring Laura’s shake of the head, he removed a tenner and dropped it into the tips jar by the till.

Their order taken, the traffic wardens retreated to their table. Laura gave him a pained look. ‘John.’

Carlyle fished a couple of pound coins out of his trouser pocket and added them to the jar. ‘Those university fees are a killer.’

She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘No. Thank
you
. That was just what I needed.’ Reaching over the counter, he kissed her on the forehead. ‘Say hi to Eamonn for me. I’ll try and get to see him soon.’

‘Will do.’ The smile wavered slightly. They both knew that it wouldn’t happen.

‘I’ll see you later.’

She turned back to the Gaggia coffee machine. ‘Good luck with the head.’

‘Luck?’ Carlyle laughed as he reached the door. ‘Luck doesn’t come into it.’

Out on the pavement, Carlyle turned left, heading towards the river. Climbing the steps by the side of the Royal Festival Hall he crossed the footbridge that ran alongside the railway bridge leading into Charing Cross train station. It took him less than five minutes to get over the river and walk down John Adam Street to the Little Adelphi apartment building. Ayumi Ninomiya and her flatmate shared Flat 5A. Looking in vain for the porter, Carlyle buzzed the flat.

No reply.

He stood on the pavement for a few seconds and tried again, longer this time, counting slowly up to thirty before stopping.

Still nothing.

Ah well, it was worth a try. What should he do next? The day stretched tediously ahead of him; Carlyle knew that he had a long To Do list, but he felt unable to prioritize. He was tired and finding it hard to focus. Usually, he liked to do the easiest and quickest things first, getting them out of the way so that he could chalk up a few wins while giving the harder problems time to solve themselves or, at least, go away. If the tricky things were still on his desk when he got around to looking at them, then at least they would get his undivided attention. This morning, however, there were no ‘quick wins’ on offer. The reality was that he didn’t want to do anything.

His lassitude was interrupted by the phone ringing in his pocket.

‘Carlyle.’

‘It’s Umar.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I tried to call you last night.’

‘I know, I know. I got waylaid.’ Crossing the road, the inspector started towards Adam Street, which would take him on to the Strand. From there it was a short walk to the police station. ‘How did the antenatal class go?’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Umar hastily, disinclined to explain to his boss how he’d been hit on by a lesbian mum-to-be in the crudest manner imaginable. ‘I’m at the station. Did you read my report?’

‘Yes.’ It took Carlyle a couple of moments to recall the basic facts of the Schaeffer case. ‘We’ve got a lot to do.’

Umar grunted. His boss was becoming a master at stating the obvious. ‘Where do you want to start?’

Carlyle’s reply was drowned out as a red Porsche 911 Turbo roared down the street and came to a screeching halt outside the Little Adelphi.

‘Inspector?’

Carlyle turned and began walking back in the direction he’d come from. ‘I’ll have to call you back,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

‘No, wait.’ Carlyle stepped into the middle of the road and squinted at the Porsche’s numberplate. Lowering his voice, he read out the registration. ‘Find out who owns that car.’

‘Sure.’ Umar read it back.

‘That’s it.’

‘Okay. I’ll check.

Umar clicked off the call.

Keeping the phone stuck to his ear, Carlyle walked slowly past the Porsche as a rotund, red-faced guy in his sixties struggled out of the driver’s seat. Leaving the door open, the man jogged round to the passenger side and offered a hand to his young companion as she climbed sleekly out of the car with a spectacular array of shopping bags. The man looked exhausted but he smiled brightly as he lined the bags up in front of the entrance of the apartment building. Once the shopping was all present and correct, the girl dutifully leaned forward to let the man kiss her on the lips. The man grinned and said something that Carlyle couldn’t hear before jumping back into the car and disappearing round the corner. Carlyle waited until the girl had picked up all of her bags and was keying in the code to open the front door of the building before he strolled over to her.

‘Miki Kasaba?’

Pretty but tired, her face encrusted with far too much make-up, the girl looked at him blankly. If she was surprised at being accosted by an unknown man in the street, it didn’t show. The lock clicked open and she pushed the door ajar.

Carlyle flashed his ID. ‘I’m from the police. I wanted to ask you about Ayumi.’

A flicker of concern crossed the girl’s face. ‘Have you found her?’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Help me with the bags.’ Pushing the door fully open, Miki slipped into the lobby, leaving the inspector to follow.

By the time he reached the lift, laden down with the shopping, she was holding the doors open for him, muttering something under her breath in Japanese. Stepping inside, Carlyle put the bags down on the floor and waited for the doors to close behind him. ‘Her father has come to London,’ he explained, once they were on their way. ‘He was trying to get hold of you.’

Miki nodded but said nothing. On the second floor, the doors pinged open and she strode out, once again leaving the inspector to pick up the bags. Carlyle followed the girl down a long, dimly lit corridor. Stopping outside 5A, she fished a key out of her jacket pocket, saying, ‘It’s been a long night.’