Sitting at his desk in Charing Cross, the inspector aimlessly surfed the internet while studiously avoiding doing any work. If Simpson wanted him to keep a low profile that was fine by him. Picking up his mobile, he rang Helen. It was a while since he had taken his wife to lunch, and he fancied a burrito from the Mexican place near her office. But the call went straight to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. If she didn’t call him back in time, he would grab a sandwich. Yawning, he returned his attention to the story of an Oscar-winning actress whose husband was being ‘linked’ with a tattoo model. ‘Tattoo model,’ Carlyle mused, marvelling at the girl’s picture. ‘Now that’s what I call a proper job.’
Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder, holding an oversized doughnut, covered in white icing, in front of his mouth. In his other hand he carried a page ripped from a magazine. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, waving the story at Carlyle, ‘from the Sunday Times Rich List. It says: ‘‘like us, the Queen has suffered from the effects of falling share prices and property values. .’’ yada, yada, yada. . ‘‘excluding the vast Crown Estate and royal art collection, worth more than?16 billion — but her wealth in jewellery, horses, stamps and paintings takes her to?270 million. .’’’
Carlyle was still captivated by the tattoo model. ‘My heart bleeds.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘Only in England could you try and claim someone worth more than sixteen billion quid was only worth two hundred and seventy million.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Imagine being down to your last two hundred odd mill.’
‘But she isn’t,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘That’s the point.’
‘I suppose.’ Taking a large, almost ceremonial bite of his doughnut, Joe sent pieces of icing flying all over Carlyle’s desk.
‘Hey!’ Carlyle squawked in protest.
‘Sorry,’ said Joe, in a manner suggesting that he was not sorry in the slightest.
‘Messy pig,’ Carlyle fussed, sweeping the crumbs on to the floor.
Dropping the magazine story on Carlyle’s desk, Joe pointed the remainder of his doughnut at the image on his boss’s computer screen of a blonde bimbo in a tiny powder-blue bikini pouting for the camera. The tattoos covered so much of her body that it was impossible to work out exactly what they were supposed to represent. ‘I see that you’re broadening your taste in pornography then,’ he joked.
‘I’m not sure if I go for the excessively inky look,’ Carlyle pondered.
‘No need to be coy, Inspector.’ Sticking the remainder of the doughnut in his mouth, Joe flopped into a nearby chair.
‘Really?’ huffed Carlyle. ‘Would you go for something like that?’
‘Who is she, anyway?’
‘Don’t you keep up with current affairs?’ Carlyle laughed. He then explained the situation with the tattoo model, happy to be talking about something other than his Swiss adventure.
Joe chewed thoughtfully. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Speaking of which, did you hear that they’ve closed down Dolan’s investment company?’
‘United 14?’
‘Yeah. Apparently it had assets of more than twenty million quid.’
Carlyle let out a low whistle. ‘Not bad. Not exactly in Her Majesty’s league, but not to be sniffed at.’
‘And they think there might be more of it, stashed away in various companies in the Caymans and the British Virgin Islands. There were loads of documents in Dolan’s garage — the finance guys are still going through them.’
‘Mm.’
‘He had a Porsche and a Range Rover there, too — almost a hundred grand’s worth of motors. Plus, he had almost twenty grand in cash under his bed.’
‘A real business big-shot,’ Carlyle snorted.
‘United 14 had almost thirty SO14 or former SO14 guys as its investors,’ Joe continued. ‘Of those still working, six have already resigned. .’
‘Including that little shit Charlie Adam?’
‘Yeah,’ Joe nodded, ‘he was one of them.’
Carlyle thought about that for a second. ‘So maybe he did rather more than just look the other way?’
‘Another two have been suspended,’ Joe carried on, ‘pending a formal investigation. The ones that had already retired have had their police pensions frozen.’
‘What about the connection to Falkirk?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Falkirk’s company, Black Prince Elite, was also an investor in United 14.’
‘What will happen to the cash?’
‘It will either be confiscated or squandered on legal fees if they try and fight it in the courts.’
‘Result!’ Carlyle punched the air in triumph. ‘With a bit of luck, those bent bastards will lose all their cash and run up big legal fees as well.’
‘Yeah,’ Joe laughed.
‘And end up living in cardboard boxes under Charing Cross arches. Sleeping in their own piss and getting arse-raped for their last can of Special Brew.’
‘You are a right vindictive bastard,’ Joe said admiringly, ‘aren’t you?’
‘Someone’s got to be,’ said Carlyle humbly.
‘There’s more,’ said Joe, grinning. ‘The chief financial officer at Black Prince was identified as the guy who was in that pod at the London Eye with the underage girl. He was picked up a couple of hours ago. CEOP are questioning him right now.’
‘Fuck me sideways,’ said Carlyle, grinning himself now. ‘I didn’t realise that it was bloody Christmas!’ He grabbed the mobile from his desk. ‘I’d better give Rose a call.’
Joe had sloped off again, presumably in search of another doughnut. He’s putting on too much timber, Carlyle thought. The fitness levels required of policemen these days was abysmal but, even so, there were limits. Joe didn’t look like he could run ten yards without suffering a coronary.
His mobile started vibrating on the desk. Helen? Or Rose? He answered it cautiously. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Inspector. .’
The accent was familiar, but for a second he was thrown. ‘This is Carlyle,’ he said, sticking to what he knew.
‘And this is Olga!’
Olga? Olga! Carlyle struggled to remember her real name. Alexandra. . Alexandra something. This was not a call that he had ever expected to receive. Sifting one-handed through a pile of papers on his desk, he tried to concentrate. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Nice to speak to you too,’ Alex Gazizulin replied tartly.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m here in London,’ she said, her tone bright. ‘Why else would I call you?’
Carlyle had long since given up trying to work out what was going on in this woman’s head. Deciding to go with the flow, he tried relaxing into the conversation. ‘I don’t know why you would bother calling me,’ he laughed, ‘other than to show off, since you are always one step ahead.’
‘Very true, Inspector,’ she teased, ‘but at least you are smart enough to understand that. That makes you much smarter than most men.’
It was a compliment of sorts. ‘So? What can I do for you?’
‘I have brought you a present.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have found the girl’s mother,’ Alex said, sounding highly pleased with herself. ‘Alzbetha Tishtenko’s mother. And I have brought her from the Ukraine to London.’
‘Mm.’ Carlyle thought of the small urn still sitting on top of the microwave in his kitchen at home.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alex asked. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? I thought you wanted to find her.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle hastily. ‘You have done a good thing. Thank you.’
‘You are very welcome,’ said Alex, sounding somewhat mollified.
‘What about the father?’
‘The father?’ Alex laughed. ‘Who knows? The mother certainly doesn’t. Anyway, who cares?’
Carlyle grunted something that could have been considered assent. Getting to the bottom of his pile of papers, he still couldn’t find what he was looking for. Cursing under his breath, he started again from the top, going through each sheet more carefully this time.
‘Men,’ Alex mused, ‘are basically useless.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle was familiar with this line of argument, from Helen’s frequent lectures on the subject.
‘This one,’ Alex continued, warming to her theme, ‘is a typical example. He abandoned his child and the mother of his child. Not an uncommon scenario where I come from.’
‘Not an uncommon scenario anywhere,’ Carlyle interjected.
‘He probably drank himself to death years ago. At least, I hope so.’
‘We need to meet up,’ Carlyle said, thinking it through. ‘I’ve had an idea for Alzbetha’s ashes.’ He explained his plan.
‘Inspector Carlyle,’ she purred, ‘you are a very thoughtful man. Maybe a bit sentimental also, but that is good. Make the arrangements. I will call you back later.’
‘What about you?’ Carlyle asked swiftly. He had finally found the piece of paper he was looking for. Tossing everything else on to the floor, he placed the arrest warrant for Alexandra Gazizulin right in front of him.
‘This will be my last trip to London for a while,’ Alex said. ‘We are pulling out of the UK. I have decided it’s not worth trying to rebuild our operations here.’
‘Now that Falkirk is dead?’
‘That wasn’t really the major consideration,’ she said carefully, ‘but it was a factor.’
‘Thank you for saving my life, by the way,’ Carlyle told her. ‘Ihor turned up at just the right moment.’
‘My pleasure, Inspector.’ He could hear genuine warmth in her voice. ‘I am glad that Ihor actually managed to do what he was told, for once.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘That is not something you need to worry about,’ she snapped, the warmth gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘He compromised our business here, and it will take him a long time to repair his reputation. He will, as the saying goes, be living in the dog’s house for some time.’
Better than being dead, Carlyle thought. ‘So where will you go next?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alex sighed. ‘There are plenty of opportunities. Choosing one is difficult.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said, though not having a clue.
‘One thing I will promise you, however, is that there will be no more trafficking of children. I have put a stop to that. No one under sixteen will be sent away. That is my new rule.’
A misery merchant with a heart of gold! Carlyle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Why not make the minimum age eighteen?’ he replied finally.
‘Half of our girls are under eighteen, Inspector,’ she said calmly — like the CEO of a car-maker explaining the sales breakdown of his different models. ‘You have to be realistic. Less than seven per cent of them are under sixteen. We have to be realistic. I had to argue for a long time even to get agreement on that. There are many people who do not have the same concerns about such things.’
This conversation was starting to drive Carlyle insane. ‘Call me tomorrow,’ he said, ending the call before his brain melted.
‘Do you want me to reheat your coffee, or maybe make you a new one?’
In response, Carlyle handed over the untouched latte that had been sitting in front of him for the last twenty minutes. ‘Thanks, Marcello.’ Seated in the back booth of Il Buffone, with the Closed sign on the door, he wished he had the energy to do more than brood over his recent conversation with ‘Olga’.
In many ways, the case had been successfully concluded. And now, as an unexpected bonus, it looked like he would get the chance to arrest Alex Gazizulin on suspicion of being an accessory to murder, attempted murder and child-trafficking. He knew that he should focus on the positives of his investigation, even as he continued to focus on the negatives. As the ancient Gaggia machine wheezed into action, he let out a heavy sigh. As far as he could see, the glass would always be half-empty.
Marcello placed the reheated coffee back on the table just as Joe Szyszkowski pushed his way through the door and slumped into the booth opposite Carlyle.
‘We’re closed,’ said Marcello. ‘Can’t you read the sign on the bloody door?’ But his smile gave him away. ‘What you havin’?’ he asked, as he retreated behind the counter.
Joe held up a hand. ‘I’m good, Marcello, thanks. I just need a word with the inspector.’
Marcello grunted and disappeared into his storeroom at the back.
Carlyle took a sip of his coffee and waited for his sergeant to elucidate.
Out of his pocket, Joe pulled a small box, about half the size of a paperback book and a couple of inches thick. He placed it on the table next to Carlyle’s mug. ‘This arrived for you by courier this afternoon.’
Carlyle could see that the box, wrapped in brown paper, was addressed to him at the station. He looked up at Joe. ‘Has it been X-rayed?’
‘Yeah,’ Joe nodded. ‘The scan was a bit inconclusive, but I read the note and assumed it would be okay.’ He handed over a crumpled envelope that had already been slit open along the top.
Carlyle unfolded a small sheet of paper and scanned the handwritten note:
Inspector Carlyle,
I wanted to thank you for completing the investigation into the background to Joe Dalton’s suicide. From what I gather, my Joe was caught up in some very horrible things, but it is always better to know the truth.
Enclosed is a little memento from my studio, I hope you like it.
Kind regards, Fiona Allcock
Always better to know the truth? I’m not sure about that, Carlyle thought morosely, not much cheered by the fact that the taxidermist had sent him a present. He eyed the box suspiciously. ‘Open it,’ he said to his Joe.
Sensing his boss’s uncertainty, the sergeant sat back in his seat and shook his head. ‘It’s addressed to you.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle stood up and grabbed a knife from behind the counter. Returning to his seat, he carefully removed the wrapping paper. Inside was something resembling an oversized matchbox. Pushing out the inner tray, he peered inside. Two little black eyes stared back up at him.
‘Fuck!’ With a shudder, he dropped the box back on to the table.
Laughing, Joe yelled out, ‘Marcello, come and see this!’
Wiping his hands on a tea towel, the cafe proprietor moved round the end of the counter to stand by their table. ‘What have you got?’
Carlyle gingerly tilted the box so that he could see inside.
Marcello’s eyes grew wide. ‘Madre di Dio! Get that thing out of here! I can’t have a dead mouse in my cafe!’
‘But, Marcello,’ said Joe, laughing even harder now, ‘it’s not a rodent — it’s a work of art.’