Sins of the Fathers (3 page)

‘Thank you very much.’ Carlyle grinned, looking sheepish. ‘That’s very considerate of you.’ His squeamishness was a well-known joke around the police stations of Central London. He took the bag. ‘What have we got?’

‘It clearly wasn’t a robbery,’ Phillips said, scratching the end of her nose with a latex-gloved hand. ‘There’s several hundred pounds in the wallet and the watch looks expensive.’

Carlyle nodded. ‘Umar told me his name was—’ Too late, he realized that he had forgotten that particular detail.

‘Julian Schaeffer.’ A bead of sweat ran down the side of Phillips’s face. ‘There’s a business card in the wallet which gives his profession as “financial consultant”. He was reading
The Times
when he was shot.’

‘I’m more a
Mirror
man, myself. The question is: what was he doing here in the middle of a working day?’

Phillips wiped away the sweat with her forearm. ‘Maybe he couldn’t get childcare. It is half-term, after all.’

Carlyle was less than convinced. ‘Guy who works in finance, expensive watch, well dressed?’

Phillips added, ‘Expensive suit.’

‘Not the kind of bloke you would expect to sign up to do the child minding.’

‘Well, it looks like he did today.’ Phillips started back to the tent. ‘I’ll let you know what else I find out, but you can reasonably assume it was the shots to the chest that killed him.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle cheerily. As she disappeared back inside, he felt a big fat raindrop land on the top of his head. Keen to avoid a soaking, he began jogging across the grass in search of cover.

The Kipferl Austrian café at Coram’s Fields was basically a few sheltered tables in front of a counter at the end of a colonnade. Sitting at one of the tables, Umar was finishing a Coke. Damp and out of breath, the inspector could feel his blood sugar plummeting and his temper fraying. Consulting the menu, written up on a large blackboard, he turned to a hassled-looking girl in a red bandana behind the counter.

‘What’s a Grosser Brauner?’

‘It’s like a double macchiato,’ the girl replied.

‘Perfect. I’ll have one of those, please.’ Carlyle stuck a hand in his pocket, in search of some change. Fortunately, he appeared to be in funds.

‘Anything to eat?’ The girl shuffled behind the counter while Carlyle peered at the selection under the glass. Cee Lo Green’s ‘Forget You’ was playing on a small DAB radio stationed on top of a fridge. The alternative, rather more explicit version of the song was a current favourite of Alice’s; she liked to play it loudly, on a regular basis, in an attempt to irritate her parents.

Carlyle watched the girl handle the shiny Gaggia coffee machine behind the counter quickly and expertly. When she handed him the coffee, he pointed at the sign by one of the plates in the display.

‘Why is it called
Jewish
applecake?’

The girl shrugged without replying.

The rumbling of his stomach suggested that the origin of the name was an irrelevance, compared to the succulent-looking apples encased in enticing pastry. The inspector pulled a selection of coins from his pocket. ‘I’ll have a slice of that too.’

The cake was delicious. More importantly, the coffee was excellent – hot, sharp and envigorating – just the way it should be. It took Carlyle less than two minutes to polish off both. The inspector liked to consider himself an aficionado in such matters and he was happy to pronounce himself more than satisfied. He licked the crumbs from his fingers and wondered if another Grosser Brauner was in order.

Umar watched his superior’s questionable table manners with obvious distaste. ‘What shall we do now?’

‘I’d better go and talk to the kid.’ Carlyle gestured towards a woman in a business suit marching determinedly towards them carrying a briefcase. ‘Presumably this is the shrink.’ He waited until she had almost reached their table before getting to his feet.

In her buttoned-up jacket and a skirt that came down below her knees, the woman looked like a character out of a 1950s B-movie. Tall and slim, she had short black hair and brown eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses that rested neatly on her cheekbones. It was an austere look but not unattractive.

Stopping in front of Carlyle, she offered a hand and they shook.

‘Sergeant Sligo?’

Umar tittered. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Carlyle.’

She looked at him blankly.

‘Inspector John Carlyle. I’m in charge here.’

‘Good to know that someone is. I’m Moira Aust, Central Family Support. Sorry it’s taken me so long to get here, but I was giving a lecture at UCL when I got the call.’

‘What was the lecture about?’ Umar enquired, preparing to ramp up the charm.

‘Well . . .’

‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ Carlyle interrupted. ‘Let’s go and see the girl.’

‘Of course,’ Aust nodded. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Er . . .’ Carlyle looked at Umar.

‘Rebecca.’

‘Good,’ said Aust primly. ‘Let’s go and see Rebecca.’

Standing in the empty classroom, Carlyle glared at the scruffy woman in a dirty uniform sitting on a desk, jabbering away into her phone.

‘You know what? I’m not sure I fancy a Mexican tonight – maybe some Thai.’ The PSCO looked up at Carlyle as if to say
I’m on the phone here
,
do you mind?
‘No, definitely not Indian, not after last time.’

Somehow Carlyle resisted the temptation to give her a smack round the ear. ‘Where’s Rebecca?’ he demanded.

‘Hold on a sec.’ The woman broke off her conversation to point over towards the door. ‘She went to the loo.’ She immediately returned to her call. ‘Sorry about that. Yeah, Thai probably.’

Shaking his head, Carlyle left the classroom and headed back down the corridor to the reception. Off to the right were male and female toilets.

‘Let me go and check.’ Aust hurried past him and ducked into the ladies. Seconds later, she came back. ‘Not here.’

Umar dived into the gents, returning almost immediately, alone.

This cannot be happening
. Carlyle felt the applecake begin to weigh in his stomach. ‘How many people have we got on site?’ he asked Umar.

‘Including us? Four. Plus one on the gate, the PSCO back there, the forensics team and Dr Aust.’

Oh sweet Jesus, now he really was beginning to feel sick. ‘Okay. I’ll search the nursery. You take the doctor and organize a sweep of the rest of the site. If we’ve lost this kid we’re in real trouble.’

‘So, where is Rebecca?’ Hands on hips, Umar stared across the deserted park. After more than an hour searching, they had come up with nothing. Aust had wisely departed the scene, citing another appointment.

Carlyle ran a hand across his neck. His head could roll for this. What a way to end a long if not particularly distinguished career – losing a small girl in a park in the wake of her father’s murder.

In his hyper-anxious state, the inspector suddenly became conscious of his mobile starting to vibrate in his pocket. Praying for some good news, he lifted it to his ear.

‘I need you to come to my office.’ The voice on the other end of the line was cool and insistent.

The inspector felt his anxiety spike. ‘Now?’

‘I promise that it won’t take very long.’

How long does it take to get sacked? Carlyle wondered if his next call should be to a Police Federation Rep. ‘We are in the middle of—’

‘I know what you’re doing,’ Commander Carole Simpson snapped. ‘I’ll expect you in the next hour.’

The line went dead. Carlyle said to Umar, ‘Looks like I need to go over to Paddington Green.’

An expression of severe dismay crossed the sergeant’s face. ‘What – now?’

The inspector gave him an
I
’
m only obeying orders
kind of shrug.

‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘What do you think? See if you can get a lead on what happened to the kid.’

The background hum of children playing was immensely soothing. Sitting on a bench by the café outside the Diana Memorial Playground in Kensington Gardens, Daniel Sands watched the endless flow of people entering the park through the wrought-iron gates off to his right. The sun had come out. A couple of boys, aged six or seven, rushed past, shrieking as they headed for the wooden pirate ship that dominated the play area. A pretty blonde woman followed behind, carrying their jackets. Daniel Sands smiled at the woman as she passed. The woman eyed him warily, conscious that he was an old man sitting on his own outside a space that was commonly the domain of small children and young parents. Understanding her thought process, Sands refused to take any offence.

Taking a sip of his tea, he scanned the front page of that morning’s
Telegraph
. The main story concerned a ‘super-injunction’ that had been taken out by a so-called ‘leading businessman’, in order to prevent the media reporting details of an alleged affair with a reality TV star turned model. What hope was there for the media, he wondered, when even the
Telegraph
– previously the most staid and conservative of titles – was obsessed by this kind of rubbish? The reason he bought the paper in the first place was because he expected it to insulate him from the kind of base behaviour that the rest of the world seemed to wallow in.

‘Mr Sands?’

‘Yes.’ Folding up his paper, Daniel looked up at a tall, well-built man standing in front of him, his face partially concealed behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. He was younger than Daniel had expected, probably not yet out of his twenties. His shaven head and no-nonsense demeanour made him look like a soldier.

Getting to his feet, Daniel extended a hand and they shook. ‘I’m Daniel Sands.’

‘Dominic Sandbrook.’

Daniel caught the glint in the man’s eye. ‘DS,’ he chuckled. ‘The same initials as mine, and I like the “Sand” bit. That’s not your real name, is it?’

‘No, of course not.’ The man calling himself Sandbrook took a seat on the bench. ‘But it will do.’ A broad grin spread across his face. ‘Unless you would like to call me something else?’

‘No, no, that’s fine.’ Daniel gestured towards the café. ‘Would you like a drink?’

The man shook his head.

‘Well . . .’ Suddenly unsure of what to say, Daniel sat back down.

Behind them came the sudden sound of a child’s scream, followed by a series of sobs which were slowly absorbed back into the general hubbub. The newcomer stared into the middle distance, waiting for the relative calm to return. ‘We are ready to proceed,’ he said, not looking at Daniel. ‘Have you come to a decision?’

Daniel suddenly felt like a fool. An old man unable to put the past behind him. It was all so long ago. What was he doing?

The man waited patiently.

Letting the emotion pass, Daniel watched a squirrel jump on to the next table, sniff the remains of a discarded muffin and scoot away. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘I want him brought back.’

‘That is the harder option.’ The man looked at Daniel with compassion. ‘Not to mention more expensive. A bullet in the head is far cheaper and a lot more . . .’ he groped for a word, ‘
definitive
.’

A calm descended on Daniel; he had made up his mind. ‘But this is not about revenge,’ he said. ‘It is about justice.’

The man calling himself Sandbrook bit his lower lip. ‘If it was me, it would be about revenge.’

Daniel smiled sadly. ‘Just be grateful that it isn’t you in this position.’

The man nodded. ‘You have the bank account details?’

‘Yes. I will make the transfer today.’

‘Good. In the absence of any unforeseen developments, we will make the delivery within fifteen days of receipt of funds. We will call you twice: once when we have the package in our possession and then to confirm its safe arrival in the UK, ready for collection.’

The package. Daniel grinned. It was like being in a bad spy movie. That would make him who – Alec Guinness? ‘How will you get the package into the country?’

The man got to his feet. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘As I said, this is the harder option. Better that you don’t know the details. It is not as easy as it would be on the continent, obviously. The border controls here are stricter. It can be done, but failure to repatriate is one of the risk factors. Success is not guaranteed.’

‘I understand.’ Daniel wished that he hadn’t asked the question.

‘And if we do successfully repatriate, the courts may not hold him.’

‘There is an outstanding arrest warrant.’

‘Which has never been vigorously pursued,’ Sandbrook gently pointed out.

A look of disgust passed across Daniel’s face. ‘The Italians – they do not care. They have a killer living in their midst and no one bats an eyelid. The Germans and the French declined to help. The Swiss wouldn’t even open an investigation.’

Sandbrook nodded. ‘Everyone has their own priorities.’

‘Priorities?’ Daniel let out a harsh laugh. ‘You don’t have children, do you?’

‘I have a couple of nieces.’

‘It’s not the same. When you have your own child, you will understand. When you are a parent, the only priority can be your child. He has to be brought back here. The English have jurisdiction: the English will try him.’

‘Yes, but the alleged crime was a long time ago. And then there are the circumstances in which he is being brought back. A good lawyer will have plenty of room for manoeuvre. It will be a media storm and, even if he loses, there is every chance he will be let out on appeal.’

‘I will have a good lawyer, too,’ Daniel ground out. ‘English justice is the best in the world. There can be no going back.’

‘It is good that you believe that,’ the man said quietly.

Daniel turned in his seat to better look him in the face. ‘And you? What do you believe in? Only the money?’

‘Not at all,’ the man said evenly. ‘My colleagues and I, we have to pay the bills but we are fortunate in that we can choose our clients. We would not have taken you on if we did not believe in your case.’

Daniel thought about the large sum he would be transferring later this afternoon. It would pay for a lot of expenses. ‘Would you have taken me on if I had no money?’