‘He’s OK, really,’ Sonia claimed.
‘If you say so.’ The inspector took a sip of his tea and signalled to the waitress behind the counter for the bill. ‘Breakfast is on me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So,’ he continued, finally getting down to business, ‘you said you had something for me?’
‘Yes.’ Finishing her tea, Sonia placed the cup back on the saucer. ‘I hear you were asking about Marvin Taylor?’
Jeez, Carlyle thought, how is it that everyone always knows my business? ‘How did you hear that?’
‘I have my sources,’ she said cheekily, ‘just like you.’
Another thought popped into his head. Instead of batting it away, he asked: ‘Did you know him?’
‘In passing. I’d seen him around a few times.’
Thank God for that. The last thing he needed were skeletons to start falling out of cupboards.
Recognizing the look of relief on his face, Sonia waved an index finger at him. ‘No, no, you dirty-minded sod, he wasn’t a punter. Although, if you want, I could give you a list of cops round here who are. It’d be quite a long list too.’
‘No, thanks.’ He thought of the havoc that such information could wreak and shuddered. ‘Let’s just get back to Marvin, shall we?’
‘It wasn’t so much about Marvin as that place in Chelsea he was guarding.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve been there a lot. One of my best clients lives there, on the top floor.’
Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has anyone spoken to you about this?’
‘No, why would they? I’ve haven’t been there for over a month. The place is always deserted anyway; you never see another soul there.’
‘What about Harry?’
‘What about him?’
‘Presumably he would know that you went there.’
‘Yeah, but he hasn’t mentioned it. Probably hasn’t made the connection. Harry isn’t the kind of guy who spends a lot of time following the news.’
‘Smart bloke. So, who is the client?’
‘He was a businessman. About fifty, I’d say.’ Sonia let out a chuckle. ‘He was a seven-minute man . . . like you.’ Reaching into her bag, she rummaged around for a few moments, finally pulling out a business card and placing it on the table in front of Carlyle. ‘Voilà.’
Picking up the card, Carlyle squinted at the script.
‘You need glasses,’ Sonia observed.
‘I’ve got glasses,’ Carlyle told her ‘but I don’t really need them for reading. I tried varifocals, but they didn’t work for me.’ He squinted harder. Tallow Business Services, Michael Nicholson Managing Director. There was a mobile number and an email address. He looked at Sonia. ‘Tallow?’
‘It’s a kind of Chinese tree,’ she explained. ‘The guy did a lot of business in China, apparently.’
China. He thought back to his conversation with Roche and the mysterious call about the ‘ninjas’. It vaguely felt like he could be on to something, even though he didn’t really want to be. Holding up the card, he waved it at Sonia. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Sure.’
‘And if Nicholson gives you a call, can you let me know?’
‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He goes off on his business trips and I might not see him for months.’
The waitress appeared with the bill and Carlyle dropped a tenner and some change on the table. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
‘OK,’ Sonia smiled. ‘I’m in no rush.’
‘Thanks for the info.’ He got to his feet. ‘And I hope you don’t have too many hassles with the punters.’
The smile vanished. ‘You know what it’s like, Inspector. You never know what you’re gonna get when you walk through that door.’
FOURTEEN
The first thing Carlyle noticed when he walked into the room was the urn, a small metallic pot squatting on the mantelpiece. At first glance, he imagined that it was glowing slightly, as if it was radioactive. Distracted by its malevolent presence, it took the inspector a couple of moments to acknowledge the woman’s presence. Perched on the sofa, Naomi Taylor seemed to have shrunk since their last meeting.
Rocking backwards and forwards, she blew her nose into a handkerchief as he sat down in an armchair by the fireplace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry.’ Embarrassed, Carlyle pointed towards the pot. ‘What happened?’
Taylor’s face crumpled. ‘They cremated him,’ she sobbed.
‘Yes.’
‘We went to collect the body and they gave me . . . that.’
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Did you give your consent for the cremation to take place?’
‘No. I wasn’t even there when they did it.’ She looked up. ‘I was just given the ashes. I don’t even know that it’s him.’
‘I’m sure that-’
‘Why would they cremate him,’ she wailed, ‘without my permission? Why would they do that?’
Because they’re berks, Carlyle thought wearily. ‘What did they say?’
She mumbled something that sounded like ‘bureaucratic error’.
Carlyle scratched the back of his head. There was nothing useful he could tell the poor woman. ‘You could sue,’ he said finally.
‘No.’ Trying to compose herself, she sat back on the sofa and wiped her eyes. In a pair of jeans and a Breaking Bad ‘I am the one who knocks’ T-shirt, she looked about sixteen, even though he knew that she must be pushing forty-five. ‘They made me sign something before I could take the ashes away. My lawyer says it was a declaration that I am happy with what was done, even though I’m not, obviously.’
It looked like she was going to start sobbing again, but she blinked back the tears and pulled her knees up under her chin. Her feet were bare and the inspector noticed that her toenails were painted different colours. He looked away, focusing his attention on the far wall, which was dominated by a large photographic print of the New York City skyline at night. After some ill-tempered debate inside his head, the inspector decided that it was not hanging straight.
‘Anyway,’ Taylor continued, ‘I don’t want money.’
‘No.’
‘I want to know who killed Marvin. And why.’
Money would be easier, Carlyle thought glumly. He reluctantly met her expectant gaze. ‘Well, I have spoken to some people who are working on the investigation and there does not seem to be a lot for them to go on at the moment.’
She waited patiently for him to say more.
The inspector rubbed a hand over his face. Now was the time for him to get up, make his apologies and scarper. Only he couldn’t. On the one hand, the decapitation of Marvin Taylor was nothing to do with him. Indeed, the irony was that it probably wasn’t much to do with Marvin himself either. On the other hand, the inspector felt unable to just ignore it and walk away. Sometimes cases chose you, rather than the other way round.
‘I was, er, wondering what you might be able to tell me about Marvin’s business. In particular, whether you knew anything about the people he was working for on the night that he was killed.’
‘The other people asked me about that.’
The other people. SO15. ‘Yes.’
‘But I couldn’t tell them anything much. Marvin and I never really talked about his work.’
‘No.’
‘He was big on client confidentiality.’
‘Of course.’
She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘We use the spare bedroom as an office.’
‘Jolly good.’ Carlyle got to his feet.
‘The anti-terrorism people came and searched it the other day.’
‘Ah.’ He sat back down again.
‘They took the computer, a couple of laptops and our back-up hard drives. I asked the bloke how long till we got them back but he just said, “how long is a piece of string?”.’
‘Helpful.’
‘Marvin’s mum had to go down to PC World and get another one, so Laurie could do her homework.’
‘Yes.’ The inspector stole another glance at the urn. Marvin, you silly sod, if only you knew the trouble you’ve caused. He looked back at the wife. ‘What did the SO15 boys say that they were looking for?’
‘Dunno,’ she sniffed. ‘The same as you, I suppose.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle wondered what to do next. Maybe he should go back to Roche; see if he could do a trade with the information that Sonia Coverdale had given him. Maybe SO15 already knew about Michael Nicholson and Tallow Business Services, but maybe they didn’t.
‘They didn’t take the paper records though.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We keep paper copies of all Marvin’s files. I mean, you never know with all that electronic information, it could all just disappear in a puff of smoke one day and then where would you be? Marvin was always paranoid about losing all the data, so we had a back-up to the back-up.’
Good old Marvin. ‘Only the paranoid survive, as they say.’
Naomi Taylor blinked away a tear.
Carlyle, you idiot. ‘Sorry.’
She struggled to her feet. ‘Would you like to see them? They’re in the kitchen.’
After an hour of sifting through a pile of papers six inches thick, Carlyle was none the wiser as to the job Marvin Taylor had been doing on the night of his death. Marvin and Naomi might have been keen on keeping duplicate records, but they hadn’t been too interested in filing them in any discernible order. Moreover, it was clear that Marvin’s clients were not the kind of people who liked to provide too much information for the purposes of an invoice. Pushing his chair back from the kitchen table, he closed his eyes and yawned.
‘Who are you?’
Opening his eyes, Carlyle saw a young girl standing in the doorway. He smiled. ‘I’m John. Who are you?’
She didn’t answer his question, but went on: ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m a policeman.’ Taking his warrant card from his pocket, he held it out for her to inspect. ‘I’m looking at some information for your mother.’
The girl thought about it for a moment, then stepped into the kitchen and took the ID from his hand. Studying it carefully, she read aloud: ‘Inspector John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police.’
‘That’s me.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘You don’t look like your picture.’
‘That was taken a while ago now,’ Carlyle said, ‘when I wasn’t as old as I am now.’
The girl took one last look at the photo and handed the card back to him. ‘Not so much grey hair. And no glasses.’
‘I’m getting old,’ Carlyle shrugged, dropping the card back into his pocket. ‘It happens.’
‘Are you older than my dad?’
Carlyle felt a sick feeling in his stomach. ‘Yes, a few years older.’
‘My dad’s dead,’ the girl said matter-of-factly. ‘His ashes are in the living room.’ She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to deny it.
Trying to hide his embarrassment, Carlyle began trying to tidy the papers on the desk. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Laurie.’
‘Nice to meet you, Laurie.’
‘Did you know my dad?’
‘Yes, I did. We worked together when he was in the police. I liked him a lot. He was very good at his job.’
Laurie nodded. ‘Are you going to be here long?’
‘Not very long.’
‘Do you want to hear a joke?’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘OK, and maybe you want this for your pile.’ From behind her back she produced a sheet of A4 paper that was covered in crayon of different colours and placed it carefully on the table.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘So, what do you call a crazy chicken?’
‘A crazy chicken . . .’ Carlyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know.’
‘A cuckoo cluck, ha. Geddit?’
‘That’s a good one,’ Carlyle chuckled.
The girl folded her arms. ‘Your turn.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. He only ever had the one joke but it was a good one. ‘What do you call an exploding monkey?’
‘A what?’ The girl frowned.
‘An exploding monkey.’
‘No idea.’
‘A ba-boom.’
He watched her face fall.
‘That’s terrible.’ Pushing herself away from the table, Laurie skipped out of the room and disappeared down the hallway.
‘I quite like it,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself. Returning to the mess on the desk, he picked up the sheet of paper the child had left behind. It was immediately clear that Laurie had spent quite a bit of time colouring in one of her dad’s invoices. The mess reminded him of the art on the wall of the Garden Hotel. He should show it to Deborah Burke; maybe she could hang it in the lobby. Underneath a smear of orange crayon he noticed the date; the invoice had been raised barely a week ago.
Then he saw the name. Tallow Business Services.
‘Bingo.’
Folding the sheet of paper into quarters, he stuffed it into his pocket. Getting to his feet, he headed quickly for the door, leaving the mess of papers for someone else to deal with.
Fifty yards down the road, the phone started vibrating in his pocket.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Boss, where are you?’
‘Tsk.’ The inspector was in no mood to be quizzed by his sergeant.
‘I think you’d better get back here sharpish,’ Umar continued. ‘Simpson’s on the warpath.’
‘What’s the problem this time?’ Carlyle asked, adopting the blasé tone of a man long past caring.
‘It’s your Germans.’
My Germans? When did they become my bloody Germans? ‘What about them?’ he snapped. ‘We had a meeting scheduled for this morning. They didn’t turn up.’
‘That might be because they were beaten to a pulp in Soho last night.’
‘Fuck,’ Carlyle sighed, lengthening his stride. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’