‘I see.’ He gave her the once-over: quite tall, maybe five eight but stocky with it, not yet thirty, open, guileless face under a black fringe.
‘Bomb disposal. One of the team would go in to cut the wires and my job was to block any signals that could set it off.’
‘Sounds like a barrel of laughs. How long did you do that for?’
‘I was in the Army for almost five years – did two tours in Afghanistan.’
Here we go, Carlyle thought, bracing himself for a tale of shell-shock and body parts. ‘So why did you pack it in?’
‘Well,’ she grinned, ‘in the end, it wasn’t really compatible with being a single mum.’
‘Ah.’ Quite the surprise package, aren’t you? The inspector was beginning to take a shine to Ms McDonald. ‘And this job is?’
‘Well, I was hoping to get into the police, but what with the cuts and everything, that was a complete non-starter.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘So I got the gig at the Imperial through a mate and then ended up here. My mum helps out a lot, so it’s manageable. You’ve got to juggle a bit, but then so does everyone, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Finishing his whiskey, he placed the glass on the table.
‘Fancy another?’ she asked.
‘No, no. I’ve got to get going. Thanks again.’
‘No problem. Alex says you owe him though.’
‘In his dreams.’ A most unsavoury thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Did he get you this job?’
‘No. He might have had a say, but it was Debbie who got me in the door.’
‘Deborah,’ Carlyle corrected her.
‘I call her Debbie.’
‘You didn’t tell her what we were up to, did you?’
‘Yes – I had to. It was only prudent.’
Carlyle grimaced. ‘Prudent?’
‘Yes.’ McDonald lifted her gaze past his shoulder. ‘Speak of the devil.’
‘Here you are.’ Pulling up a chair, Deborah Burke sat down without even acknowledging the inspector’s presence. ‘I thought you might have been nobbled.’
‘It would have helped if you’d given me a heads-up,’ McDonald shot back.
Uh, oh, Carlyle thought, ready to make a speedy getaway. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the middle of a row. He had his own domestic waiting for him when he got home.
‘I sent the bloody text as soon as the bloke appeared,’ the concierge protested.
‘Oh yeah?’ McDonald pulled out her mobile and waved it above the table. ‘Where is it then?’
‘Ladies, ladies . . .’ Getting to his feet, Carlyle tried to inject some calm into the conversation. ‘All’s well that ends well and all that.’ Looking up, they grunted at him in stereo. It was, the inspector imagined, like dealing with a pair of truculent sixth-formers. ‘I am very grateful to both of you for your help,’ he continued, ‘and look forward to repaying the favour in due course. If I can ever be of assistance, you know I’m only round the corner. For the moment, however, let’s just keep this under our hats, shall we?’
There was a pause, followed by some gentle, synchronized nodding. ‘Good.’ He began shuffling backwards, trying to get out of earshot before the bickering resumed. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
NINETEEN
Waiting for a muffin to toast, Carlyle looked at the picture of the fluffy caramel tabby cat. ‘Lovely Wilf the cat has gone missing from Flat Nine,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘He is not used to being on the street, so we think he may be in hiding somewhere.’ The toaster clicked off and the muffin popped up. Crumpling the flyer in his hand, he tossed it in the direction of the sink. ‘Poor bugger is probably in a kebab by now.’
‘What are you chuntering on about?’
Reaching for the butter, he turned to find Helen in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of shorts and one of his old Fred Perry polo-shirts. The towel wrapped round her head finished off the ensemble nicely.
‘Enjoy your bath?’ he asked innocently, adding before she could reply, ‘Cup of tea?’
Leaning against the frame of the door, Helen folded her arms. ‘Yes please. Peppermint.’
‘Jolly good.’ Maybe the lovely long soak had mellowed her mood, but he couldn’t be sure. Grabbing the kettle, he filled it at the sink. ‘Look,’ he said, his back still turned, ‘I’m really sorry about missing Dad’s GP appointment. It just turned into a hell of a day.’
Appearing by his side, she slipped an arm round his waist. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Oh?’ he asked, relieved that he wasn’t going to get royally bollocked. Flipping down the lid, he plugged in the kettle and switched it on.
‘I went.’ Helen turned off the tap for him. ‘We had to wait almost an hour.’
‘Sorry, I know you’re busy too.’
‘It was fine. I didn’t want him to have to do it on his own.’
‘No.’ Carlyle opened a cupboard above his head and reached for some cups. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’
‘They’re sending him for a scan.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You really must be there for that one.’
‘Of course,’ he said stiffly.
‘And you should give him a call.’
‘Yes.’
‘Go and do it now.’ She shooed him away, in the direction of the hall. ‘I’ll sort the tea. What do you want on your muffin?’
Conscious of someone hovering in front of her desk, Deborah Burke looked up and stifled a small gasp. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Someone has been in the safe in my room,’ Sebastian Gregori said flatly.
The concierge frowned. ‘Has something been stolen?’
‘Nothing was taken. However, someone has been snooping around. I want to see the audit trail of the safe.’
Placing her hands on the top of the desk, Burke pushed herself to her feet. ‘Let me go and find the Head of Security for you.’
A pained expression settled on Gregori’s face. ‘I’m not interested in the Head of Security. Get me the manager. Right now.’
After a fairly pointless couple of minutes on the phone with his father, Carlyle tucked into his muffin with relish. Wiping a blob of butter from his chin, he sat back on the sofa and contemplated a second.
‘Want another?’ Helen smiled.
‘Thinking about it.’ Taking a mouthful of his tea, he caught an unmistakable whiff of body odour. ‘I need a shower.’
Helen murmured her agreement.
‘Presumably,’ Carlyle reflected, returning to the matter in hand, ‘it must be quite serious if they’re sending him for a scan.’
‘He is getting on. But at the moment, they’re just trying to find out what’s going on. You know what it’s like with doctors; they’re never going to commit to any definitive diagnosis if they can help it.’
Carlyle nodded at his wife’s wise words.
‘I should know,’ Helen continued, ‘I’ve worked with enough of them over the last twenty years.’
Make that thirty, Carlyle thought, but he let it slide.
‘Anyway, it’s best to know for sure,’ she said.
‘Depends what it is. If it’s cancer, I think he’d rather not know.’ For a few moments, the pair of them sat in silence, thinking about the mortality of their parents. Helen’s father had died years ago; Carlyle’s mother more recently. It was a grim business. Grim but inevitable.
‘How’s the rapper thing coming along?’ he asked finally, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Chase Race,’ Helen sighed, ‘is not a man who is used to being told no. We turned down his fifty grand, so he came back and offered us a hundred.’
‘Bugger. So what are you going to do?’
‘There’s another meeting to discuss it next week. On the plus side, he’s back with his girlfriend. On the minus, he was in the papers again yesterday, pictured snorting cocaine out of the bellybutton of a stripper.’
‘Sounds like Umar,’ Carlyle commented. ‘Those two would get on like a house on fire.’
‘What would you do?’
‘Same as you, sweetheart.’ Struggling to his feet, Carlyle planted a smacker on her forehead. ‘Take the money and run.’