‘Yes, indeed,’ Flux said tiredly. ‘Let’s hope we don’t find ourselves in the middle of an industrial dispute. We don’t want the union arguing that we’re trying to victimize one of their members.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle grinned as he stepped out on to the street. ‘That would be just our luck. But let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. We have to find the bugger first.’
‘Calvin might know where he is.’
‘He hasn’t had much to say for himself, so far,’ Carlyle replied. Crossing the road, he glanced over at Uncle Didier’s. The place still looked dead. If it was another nest of perverts, none of them were intent on riding to Safi’s rescue. ‘If we get anything out of him on the road, I’ll call you straight away.’
‘Thanks. Appreciate it. See you soon.’
I’m sure I will, Carlyle thought as he pulled open the car door.
FIFTY
Umar gave the inspector a quizzical look as he slipped into the passenger seat. ‘Another bloody cake?’
Carlyle tossed the paper bag containing the two iced doughnuts on to the dashboard. ‘It’s a long way back.’
Sticking the car into gear, the sergeant tutted as he pulled away from the kerb. ‘It’s no wonder you’re so unfit.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle protested. ‘Unfit?’ Stung by his underling’s observation, he tried to recall the last time he had visited the gym. It certainly wasn’t any time in the last month. A vague sense of shame washed over him.
Taking one hand off the steering wheel, Umar jerked a thumb at their passenger. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, he’d be halfway to Dudley by now. You’d never have caught him.’
‘Of course I would,’ Carlyle lied.
From the back seat, the prisoner piped up: ‘He beat me up, you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘You told me.’
‘Gave me a shock.’
Umar glanced in the rearview mirror. ‘Shouldn’t have run away then, should you?’
‘My lawyer will get you for this.’
‘Look,’ Carlyle snapped, ‘you have been arrested for abduction, rape and murder. You killed a policeman. I don’t really think your human rights are going to be too much of a priority here.’
‘It wasn’t me who killed that copper,’ Safi bleated, leaning forward so that his head appeared between the front seats. ‘It was Steve Metcalf.’
Carlyle looked at Umar. ‘The guy with the tattoo?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘So where is he?’
‘I dunno.’
The inspector shook his head. ‘Not much use then, are you? If you’ve got nothing to say, why don’t you just shut up and enjoy the ride?’
Safi slumped back in his seat. ‘I need a piss.’
‘You’ll have to wait,’ Carlyle said heartlessly, as Umar pulled out of Powke Street, heading for the motorway.
‘But-’
‘Look,’ the inspector said firmly, ‘if you piss on the seat, you really will be a victim of police brutality.’
An accident near Bishop’s Tachbrook had closed one of the southbound lanes on the motorway, slowing their progress to a crawl for more than twenty miles. By the time they reached the service station at Cherwell Valley, Safi was crying from the discomfort caused by his aching bladder. When the inspector finally opened the back door, the prisoner shot out of the car in search of a toilet.
‘Just as well he didn’t run that fast when you were chasing him,’ Carlyle mused.
Umar yawned. ‘I’d still have caught him, no problem.’
Rushing towards the entrance, Safi swerved past a granny and almost ran head-first into a bloke carrying a tray of drinks. ‘I hope he makes it in time,’ Carlyle chuckled.
‘Yeah,’ Umar agreed. ‘It can be tricky when you’ve got handcuffs on.’
‘Hm.’
‘Anyway, I don’t want that stink in the back all the way home.’
‘If he pisses himself, he goes in the boot.’
‘That’s the great thing about you, Inspector,’ Umar chuckled, ‘you’re all heart.’
‘So they tell me,’ Carlyle smirked as he watched their prisoner disappear inside the service station. ‘Anyway, I’ll go with him, make sure he doesn’t try and do a runner. You go and get some drinks. I’ll have a green tea.’
Inside, it was clear that the southbound facilities were laid out in the exact same way as those on the other side of the motorway: newsagent and mini-market to your left, café to your right, with the bogs straight ahead. The place was moderately busy, but not heaving. It was an unremarkable weekday afternoon with normal people going about their normal business. As he walked through the foyer, Carlyle did not break stride as he gave Flux the slightest of nods. The Detective Inspector was standing by a kiosk selling breakdown insurance. Next to him stood a tall, well-developed bloke with a vacant expression who may or may not have been a fellow police officer. Either way, Carlyle had never seen the guy before. Flux put down the leaflet he had been holding and said something to his acquaintance, who nodded and set off for the toilets.
Here we go. The gents was empty, apart from a guy washing his hands and a cleaner who was mopping the floor with disinfectant. Carlyle stepped up to a long row of urinals and unzipped himself.
‘Aahh . . .’
Aiming at the small yellow chemical cube, the inspector heard the cleaner being ordered out. There was the sound of one, two, three hand-dryers springing into action, over which he could just make out footsteps squeaking on the freshly washed floor, followed by the sound of a cubical door being kicked in. There was a scream . . . then a series of grunts and groans.
Tuning out Safi’s protests, Carlyle gave himself a shake and zipped up his jeans. Stepping over to the wash basins, he passed Flux who was standing, arms folded, next to a yellow sign on the floor that read: Sorry. Closed for cleaning. A middle-aged man in a polo shirt and checked trousers walked in, read the sign and hesitated. Flux glared at him until he got the message and left.
Washing his hands, Carlyle glanced into the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. He looked old. Much too old to be hanging around in motorway service-station toilets while a suspect was given a good beating. The dryer in front of him died as he stuck his hands in it; irritated, he hit the button and it roared back into life. Once his hands were a reasonable approximation of dry, he finished the job by wiping them on the backside of his jeans and stepped back outside. Scanning the café, he found Umar, stuck in a queue for the till. Two minutes later, Flux appeared at his shoulder.
‘We’re done. Thanks.’
‘No problem,’ Carlyle mumbled, then counted to ten before looking up. Flux and his henchman had already disappeared.
‘What was that all about?’ Umar asked, coming over.
‘I’ll explain later.’ Carlyle glanced at the cardboard tray his sergeant was holding. It contained three cups. ‘You didn’t get that muppet a drink, did you?’
‘Well,’ Umar shrugged, ‘it seemed a bit unfair not to.’
The inspector whistled out a breath. ‘Sometimes, you’re just too soft.’ He noticed the paper bag in Umar’s other hand. ‘I suppose you got him something to eat as well?’
Ignoring the question, Umar looked over his shoulder, towards the toilets. ‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘Enjoying his last moments as a free man,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘I’ll go and get him. See you back at the car.’
FIFTY-ONE
‘What the hell happened?’
Emma Denton fiddled nervously with the top button on her Chanel jacket as her gaze moved from Umar, to Carlyle and back to Calvin Safi.
Carlyle looked up at the clock on the interview-room wall. He knew that he would have to take some flak, but time was pressing. Safi looked a mess, but not that much of a mess. The full extent of his beating wouldn’t become apparent until he got to see a doctor – which, hopefully, wouldn’t be for a while yet.