As he regained his composure, Carlyle realized that he was still hungry. Stepping over the body, he recovered an almost-full packet of processed cheese slices and carefully closed the fridge door. Could he be about to eat some important evidence? Highly unlikely, he decided. Flipping over the packet, he contemplated the best-before date. ‘Only a couple of days overdue,’ he said aloud. ‘They’ll do.’
Looking down at the deceased’s frosty face, he recognized the guy immediately. Even though he had clearly been given a battering, the victim still wore the same dopey expression that Carlyle remembered from their first meeting. The Choose Your Weapons T-shirt had been replaced by one displaying a Star Wars DJ Yoda design but the overall look was still that of an outsized twelve year old.
Shit. Carlyle belatedly remembered what he had been up to before being so rudely interrupted. As a matter of routine, he stuck his head out of the back door and checked the yard. Safi was gone. No surprises there, the inspector thought grumpily. Even the damn kebab shop owner wasn’t dumb enough to hang around with a corpse stuck in his fridge.
Closing the kitchen door, he turned and looked down at the lifeless body. ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?’
Gazing helplessly up at him, Adrian Napper did not reply.
Shaking his head sadly, Carlyle tossed the packet of cheese on to the counter next to the bread and reluctantly pulled out his mobile phone.
By the time someone at Hammersmith police station managed to track down Ron Flux, the inspector was munching on his second sandwich. The combination of white bread and plastic cheese was totally tasteless but it filled a hole. Washing it down with a can of Diet Coke he’d nicked from the cabinet out front, he gave a satisfied burp just as someone came on the other end of the line.
‘What?’
The inspector placed the can onto the counter by the sink. ‘Flux? It’s Carlyle.’
The DI sounded tired and harassed. ‘What is it?’
Carlyle popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and swallowed quickly. Now was not the time to be talking with your mouth full. ‘Bad news,’ he said, adopting a suitably sombre tone. ‘I’ve found your sergeant.’
DI Flux was pacing up and down on the cobbles, his head bobbing around as if he was being attacked by an angry wasp. ‘Bloody Napper,’ he fumed. ‘What the fuck was he doing?’ It was the same lament that he had repeated maybe a dozen times in the last five minutes.
Not for the first time, Carlyle shrugged helplessly. How would I know?
The two policemen had retreated into the alley as a small army of uniforms and forensic technicians descended on the kebab shop in order to process the crime scene. Watching them going about their business, Carlyle felt a familiar sense of weariness descend on his shoulders. They were the cavalry who always arrived too late.
Staring blindly into the middle distance, Flux looked like he wanted to cry. ‘The stupid sod should never have tried something like this.’
‘No.’ The inspector stared down at his shoes. There was still the distinct whiff of ammonia in the air and he wished he was standing somewhere else. Above all, however, he regretted not giving Calvin Safi more of a kicking when he’d had the chance. No matter, he told himself, he would catch the guy soon enough.
The Alsatian down the alley started barking. Carlyle thought about going to speak to its owner but decided against it. One of the uniforms could go and tick that box. He had other priorities.
‘Stupid bugger,’ Flux groaned.
‘Did he have any kids?’
‘No,’ Flux shook his head. ‘Not married.’
Carlyle thought back to the Yoda T-shirt. Not a garment for a grown man. Probably didn’t have a girlfriend. ‘That’s something, at least.’
Flux took a reluctant step down the alley. ‘I need to go and speak to his girlfriend. She’s going to be devastated.’
Rather you than me, Carlyle thought. Breaking that kind of bad news never got any easier. ‘Yes.’
‘And his mum, as well.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle hopped from foot to foot. He really had to get out of here. ‘I’ll set about tracking down Safi and this guy Steve . . .’
‘Metcalf?’ Flux pawed the ground with his shoe. ‘That piece of shit will be up to his neck in this, for sure.’
Carlyle gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get them.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ Flux said, as if it didn’t count.
‘And the girl made it home.’
Flux looked at him blankly.
‘Jade Jones,’ Carlyle explained. ‘She made it back to Basingstoke. I checked. Her phone had died. That’s why we couldn’t get hold of her before.’
‘Silly cow.’
‘It’s something, at least.’
‘Maybe.’ Shoving his hands in his pockets, Flux turned away. ‘But really, who gives a fuck?’
Carlyle watched the Detective Inspector as he slouched down the alley, heading towards the hustle and bustle of Shepherd’s Bush Green. A succession of car horns blared in the distance, a reminder that, whatever cruelties were dispensed in its dimly lit back alleys, London never stopped moving forward. He thought about Adrian Napper slowly defrosting on the kitchen floor of a dirty kebab shop and felt a pang of jealousy. Would anyone on the job care that much if it was me that had been stuffed in a fridge? he wondered. Somehow, I doubt it.
FORTY-SIX
‘I don’t suppose that you know anything about this, do you, Mr policeman?’ Elma Reyes hurled the newspaper across her desk. Keeping his expression neutral, the inspector watched the tabloid land at his feet, making no effort to pick it up. He glanced towards Michelangelo Federici, who was sitting in a chair to his right, grinning like a naughty schoolboy. Behind him, one of Elma’s minions was standing, head bowed, with his back to the wall. The boy had an envelope in his hand, like he was waiting to deliver a letter to his boss.
‘Terror suspect’s mum runs church scam,’ the lawyer chuckled.
‘Huh?’
Federici pointed towards the paper with the toe of his badly scuffed shoe. ‘That’s the headline. It’s a complete hatchet-job on the Christian Salvation Centre and its work in the miracle and healing market. The usual garbage – riddled with factual inaccuracies and contentious opinions – wrapped up in a pseudo public-interest defence because of Elma’s relationship with the poor unfortunate Taimur.’
You mean the fact that she was his mother. Carlyle adopted an exasperated look. ‘Journalists . . .’
‘It was written by a man called-’
‘Bernard Gilmore.’ Elma spat out the name as if it was the Devil’s own smouldering sperm.
‘Thank you,’ Federici smiled at his client. ‘It was just on the tip of my tongue. Bernard Gilmore.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘Do you know him, Inspector?’
Bloody Bernie. Carlyle mimed pondering the question for a moment, carefully scanning his memory banks before slowly shaking his head. ‘No. Not as far as I can recall. I don’t think so.’
‘That damn journalist has been harassing me for years,’ Elma complained. ‘He pays people to spread lies and tittle-tattle. If I ever find his source within my organization, I’ll kill ’em.’ She shot the boy hovering by the wall a suspicious glance. ‘I swear to God I will.’
‘You could sue,’ Carlyle ventured. ‘There are limits. Even for the press.’ And Bernie knows better than anyone how to stay just the right side of them.
‘Of course we’re gonna bloody sue,’ Elma thundered. ‘We’re going to sue his bloody arse off.’