Tells me all I need to know, Carlyle thought grimly.
‘I guess it must be the right lane.’ The sergeant pointed at another sign nearby. ‘It’s not as if we want to go to Oxford, is it?’
‘No.’ Carlyle had no idea, either way.
‘This traffic is lousy.’
‘Just as well we’re not in a hurry.’
‘Eh?’
Carlyle looked at Umar, his face scrunched up like a little old man as he gazed into the middle distance, and said, ‘You need to get your eyes tested.’
‘You can drive if you want.’
‘No, thanks.’ Carlyle tried to remember the last time he’d been behind the wheel of a motor car. Driving simply wasn’t his thing. Living and working in Central London, he didn’t have much need for a motor. Most of the time, a car was a liability. And he found driving incredibly stressful; most people seemed to use it as an opportunity to unleash their inner idiot. When it came to his police work, it was a chore that he was invariably happy to leave to others. After opening the window to expel the stale air inside the vehicle, he reached for the glove compartment. ‘Was this shit-heap all you could get?’
‘Yeah,’ Umar shrugged. ‘Not much of a choice.’
‘There never is,’ Carlyle groused.
‘Three of our cars were involved in accidents last week, so we were lucky to get anything.’
‘How is that possible? This is a city where the average traffic speed is less than ten miles an hour. Cars move at the speed of chickens.’ Pulling out a battered road map, he slammed the compartment door shut. ‘We’re supposed to be the police. How the hell do we manage to have so many bloody accidents?’
A gap opened up in front of them and Umar clumsily manoeuvred into the correct lane. ‘Chickens?’ he sniggered.
‘I read somewhere that the average speed of a running chicken – apparently – is about ten miles an hour, the same as a car in London or maybe even a bit faster.’
‘And who the hell measures something like that?’ Umar asked as they edged forward at a speed considerably below 10mph.
‘Dunno.’ The inspector watched fumes spewing from the exhaust of a black cab in front of them, cursed and wound his window most of the way back up. ‘The Department of Transport, I suppose.’
‘No, no, no,’ Umar chortled. ‘Not the traffic – the chickens. Why would anyone want to measure the speed a chicken runs at? What’s the point of that?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘That is a very good question,’ he grinned, ‘but one for which there is no immediately obvious answer.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ Umar said. ‘I magine being some poor scientist who has to measure running chickens. How do you make them run in straight lines, for a start?’
‘Do they have to run in straight lines?’
‘I dunno. You’d have thought so. Anyway, chicken analyst – that’s got to be an even worse job than ours.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’ Carlyle shifted in his seat. ‘By the way, did you get the taser?’
‘It’s in the boot.’
‘You can give me a lesson later on. I feel I’ve been missing out when it comes to handling the latest in police technology.’
‘It’s not a toy,’ Umar warned him.
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘I had to sign it out.’
‘Yes.’
‘If anything goes wrong, I’m responsible.’
Don’t be such a tart. ‘Yes.’ Gazing out of the window, the inspector was mesmerized by the sight of a woman wobbling along the inside lane on one of the mayor’s hire bikes. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can’t show me the basics. It’s good to learn new tricks.’
‘Mm.’ Still hunched over the wheel, Umar seemed less than convinced.
‘Don’t worry,’ his boss said soothingly, ‘I’ll be careful with it.’ All too predictably, a single-decker bus cut in front of the cyclist, almost sending her into the gutter, face first. It’s a miracle that more people don’t die on those things, Carlyle thought. Or maybe they do, and no one notices. He vaguely remembered reading a piece a few months earlier in the Standard that claimed on Oxford Street alone a dozen or so cyclists died in accidents each year. One person a month – on one street. And no one batted an eyelid. As far as Carlyle could see, more and more people were getting on bikes. Therefore, more people would die. It stood to reason. For sure, you would never see him cycling around London. It was way too dangerous. He did not have a death wish – unlike the woman in the inside lane. ‘How much does a taser cost, anyway?’
‘Dunno.’ Umar shrugged. ‘Seven, eight hundred quid.’
‘Bargain.’
‘Although knowing the police force,’ Umar added, ‘they probably managed to hook up with some supplier who let them have a job lot at a grand and a half each.’
‘That wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest,’ Carlyle reflected. ‘We’re very good at wasting taxpayers’ money.’ He watched as another bus went past. Once again, the woman cyclist was almost run over. After a few more seconds of precarious wobbling, she was finally forced to give up the fight. To his considerable relief, Carlyle watched her dismount, haul the bike onto the pavement and start pushing it along the street in search of a docking station.
Wise move. Unfolding the map, the inspector tried to work out the route that they needed to take. After a few moments, he realized that he was wasting his time. A Chinese subway map would have made more sense to him than the mass of lines swimming in front of his face.
‘What are you doing?’ Reaching forward, Umar tapped a small screen that was stuck to the car’s dashboard. ‘Type in where we’re going and that will show you the way.’
Trying to refold the map, the inspector looked at the Sat Nav suspiciously. ‘Isn’t that the kind of thing that tells you to drive off a cliff?’
‘Don’t be such a bloody dinosaur,’ Umar laughed.
‘Me?’ Carlyle protested.
‘These things are very handy,’ Umar told him. ‘And somehow, I think that the computer will prove to be a much more reliable guide than you.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘the technology wins.’ Unable to get the map back into a reasonable shape, he tossed it over his shoulder towards the back seat, where it joined a selection of old newspapers, plastic bottles and other rubbish that had been kindly left by the car’s previous occupants. ‘I suppose we might as well give it a go. Just don’t blame me if we end up in a river or something.’
* * *
After fighting their way out of London, they headed north on the M40, stopping for a comfort break at the Cherwell Valley services. Car journeys made the inspector nauseous and he was extremely glad for the chance of some fresh air. Standing in the car park with a Coke and a Mars Bar, he let his mind go blank as he contemplated the names on the procession of lorries heading north.
Eddie Stobart.
Willi Betz.
Tillers Turf.
Good God, he thought, shaking himself from his daze, you’re turning into a bloody lorry spotter – assuming such people exist.
After a while, Umar appeared at his shoulder, his hand deep in a bag of crisps. ‘Want one?’
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘What flavour?’
‘Cheese and onion.’
Urgh. Deal-breaker. The inspector was a strictly salt and vinegar man. ‘Nah. Thanks all the same.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Umar shoved another handful of crisps into his mouth and began munching happily.
Carlyle downed the last of his cola and looked around in vain for a bin. ‘What do you make of all this stuff?’
‘What?’ Umar asked. ‘You mean the group grooming business?’
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle frowned. Why were there no bins? What was wrong with this country? Doubtless it was some kind of security measure. What was he supposed to do with his rubbish? Eat it?