‘Bloody hell, Jazz,’ the inspector grumbled, ‘we don’t need this nonsense. You should fuck off back to Tottenham, there’s a much better market for crack up there. Down here, it’s only tourists. They don’t want that shit.’
‘But people pay more down here,’ the dwarf shrugged. ‘It’s your basic market forces at play, innit?’
Carlyle let out a long breath. What was the world coming to when even midget pushers thought they could lecture you about the economics of the bloody drugs trade? He got enough of that business school gobbledygook from his mate, Dominic Silver, a former copper turned dealer. But Dom was a one-off, a serious businessman, unlike Jazz here. ‘So what are you telling me?’ he asked. ‘You can’t buck the market?’
‘That’s very true.’
‘The customer is always right?’
‘The customer is always right,’ Jazz parroted.
‘Even when it’s illegal?’
Jazz held up a hand. ‘Don’t get me started on the failure of political leadership that gives us the so-called war on drugs.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle said quickly, ‘I won’t.’
‘I’m not trying to cause you any problems here.’
‘That’s good to know,’ the inspector said drily.
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ Jazz explained, ‘is that I’m not into volume. That’s where too many people go wrong. I’m focused on the bottom line, man, not the top line.’
Carlyle had no real idea what the annoying little sod was talking about. ‘Good for you.’
‘Profit’s what counts, not turnover. Got to get the margins right.’
‘Hm.’
Their effortlessly erudite banter about the profitability of the crack trade was unceremoniously interrupted by Celina Roper, who appeared from behind Jazz, waving a blue biro at Carlyle. ‘The Commander’s here. She wants to see you.’ The sergeant pointed her pen towards the heavens. ‘Third floor.’
Great, Carlyle thought, beginning to move towards the stairs before he could manage to think up a reason to head the other way. ‘I’d better go and see her then. Catch you later, Jazz.’
‘Sure thing, Inspector.’ Wilson gave him a small bow and resumed his slow-motion dance moves.
‘And remember to fuck off back to N17 as quick as you like.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jazz laughed, ‘I’m going. The coppers are much nicer up there for a start.’
‘Ha.’ Reaching the top of the stairs, the inspector hesitated, before sneaking back down, heading for the basement canteen.
‘I thought the desk told you I was upstairs?’
Carlyle grunted something that could not be definitively nailed as a lie.
Not waiting for an invitation, Carole Simpson pulled out the chair opposite and sat down at the canteen table. ‘Bloody hell, John. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Why is it you think you can waste my time willy-nilly?’
Willy-nilly? The inspector cleared his throat in order to stifle a laugh. ‘Sorry,’ he told her, ‘I was starving.’
The Commander did not look sympathetic.
‘It’s already been a hell of a day.’ He shovelled another forkful of chips and beans into his mouth. ‘I had to venture south of the river.’
‘Poor you,’ Simpson snapped, unsympathic. Staring into the middle distance, she waited for a woman to appear at her shoulder.
‘Here you go, Carole.’ The woman handed over a paper cup containing a peppermint tea bag and some hot water.
‘Thanks.’
Still smiling, the woman placed a second cup on the table and sat down.
‘Emma,’ said Simpson as she blew on her tea, ‘this is Inspector Carlyle. John, this is Emma Denton.’
Somewhat disconcerted by the new arrival, Carlyle set down his knife and fork. He didn’t like an audience while he was eating. Grabbing a paper napkin from the table, he wiped his mouth and gave her a friendly nod.
‘Emma is a Crown Prosecutor.’
I know who she is, Carlyle thought, which is hardly surprising, given Emma Denton’s fondness for sticking her face in front of TV cameras. He must have seen her on the news at least half a dozen times in the last year or so.
‘Chief Crown Prosecutor,’ Simpson corrected herself.
Dropping her gaze, Princess Di style, Denton gave a practised, ever so slightly embarrassed smile.
Do you ever stop smiling? Carlyle wondered. He made a show of looking her up and down in best police officer fashion. A good-looking woman, but getting a bit worn around the edges. Too many late nights, stuck in stale rooms eating takeaway pizza while ploughing through witness statements were clearly taking their toll.
‘What can I do for you?’
Looking up, the Chief Crown Prosecutor flicked a stray lock of expensively dyed blonde hair away from her face. ‘I want you to get me Calvin Safi.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Overcoming his modesty, Carlyle speared the last of the chips, waving the fork above his plate. ‘It’s a bit bloody late.’
The Chief Crown Prosecutor waited patiently for him to place the food in his mouth, chew – mouth carefully closed – and then swallow.
‘Why is that?’
‘When we catch up with him, which hopefully will be sooner rather than later, there will be a lot of people who want to talk to him.’ Picking up his mug, the inspector shot Simpson a look of grim amusement. ‘Assuming he makes it back to the Hammersmith station in one piece.’
‘For Christ’s sake, John,’ the Commander complained, ‘now is not the time for your bloody-’
‘For my what?’ Carlyle snapped. Holding the mug in front of his face, he gripped the handle tightly. He was tired and he was pissed off, and in no mood to kiss some prosecutor’s arse just to appease his boss. ‘For my bad attitude?’
A couple of uniforms passing the table, their trays laden with food, exchanged a knowing look. The station’s resident chippy bastard was going off on one again; in front of the brass, to boot. It was no wonder that the stupid sod had never managed to make it beyond inspector.
‘I was going to say,’ Simpson said sharply, ‘that now is not the time for your vigilante tendencies.’
Keeping her eyes on the inspector, Denton said nothing.
Glowering, Carlyle waited until the two uniforms had moved on, plumping for a table beyond eavesdropping distance. Placing his mug back down, he leaned forward, lowering his voice, just to be on the safe side. ‘A cop died last night. I found him. Whatever happens to Calvi before he makes it into custody, he deserves it.’
Denton gave him a patronizing look. You are being grossly unprofessional was the message. ‘So, what you are saying is-’
‘I am not saying anything,’ Carlyle hissed, cutting her short with an angry wave of his hand. ‘This is a murder investigation. A lot of people want to get their hands on the guy. There are protocols and procedures to be followed. If it is down to me, I can assure you that this will be handled properly, but you’ll have to wait your turn.’
Glancing at Simpson, Denton fiddled with a button on her expensive-looking leather jacket. ‘I appreciate that, Inspector,’ she said calmly, ‘but I want you to be aware of the big picture here.’ Carlyle began to protest but now it was her turn to cut him off. ‘The Commander tells me that, despite some presentational issues . . .’
Presentational issues? Carlyle looked at his boss. Sipping her tea demurely, Simpson did not meet his eye.
‘. . . you are a very motivated and principled colleague.’
‘Depends on what your principles are,’ Carlyle muttered.
‘And,’ Denton continued, ‘that this is particularly the case in situations involving children and young adults.’
Don’t try and butter me up. ‘So?’
‘I need to speak to Mr Calvi about matters that go far beyond the murder of Sergeant Adrian Napper. It is extremely important for us that he is taken safely into custody and processed properly so that I can do this. However, I assure you that it will not – in any way – negatively impact the Napper investigation.’