Umar held up a hand. ‘Not my investigation.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘But I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘As for Will and that bitch Kara Johnson . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Your colleague said that the investigation into their deaths will take a while longer to complete. My lawyer got me bail after my father put up a large bond and I surrendered my passport. I still have to report to the police station every day, though, which is a complete and utter pain in the bum.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I suppose I can at least have a drink and-’ letting the chain fall between her breasts, she shot him an arch look ‘-sleep in my own bed.’
Umar lifted the can to his mouth and tipped back his head.
‘Speaking of which, I need a glass of wine. A large one.’ Turning in the doorway, Melissa headed for the fridge. ‘Want another beer?’
Following her into the kitchen, Umar crushed the empty can and placed it on the draining board, next to the sink, beside a large bottle of pills with the name Clozaril on the label.
Taking a bottle of Cava from the fridge, she pointed in the direction of his knees. ‘The bin is in that cupboard behind you.’
‘Come here . . .’ Umar pulled Melissa towards him, planting a kiss on her lips, trying to force his tongue into her mouth as he ran his hand across the front of her shirt.
‘Hey.’ She tried to wriggle free but Umar held her tightly. He had made his move and wasn’t going to back down at the first sign of some resistance. ‘Get off.’
Had he read this one wrong? Bemused by the girl’s apparent change of heart, Umar relaxed his grip slightly – enough for Melissa to take a half-step backwards and attempt to club him with the bottle.
‘Ow.’ He laughed, more embarrassed than hurt as it bounced off his shoulder.
‘You dirty bastard!’ she screamed, a wild look in her eyes.
‘But-’ Umar protested.
‘You were going to rape me.’ Taking another step backwards, Melissa smashed the bottle against the edge of the worktop, sending a mess of fizz and glass all over the floor. All that was left in her hand was the broken neck, which she waved in front of his face.
‘Whoa.’ Backed up against the cooker, with nowhere to go, Umar held his hands up in front of his face as Melissa jumped forward, broken glass crunching under her feet.
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Argh!’ He screamed as he felt the jagged glass slash across his left forearm. Instinctively, he threw a punch with his right, connecting with the side of the woman’s head and sending her sprawling across the kitchen floor. Not waiting for her to get back to her feet, he rushed from the kitchen and made good his escape.
‘How are you getting on with your sergeant at the moment?’
‘Umar?’ Polishing off his third glass of Jameson’s, Carlyle vowed not to have another. He had suddenly noticed how hot it was in the club and wanted both some fresh air and a return to ground level. Feeling woozy, he struggled to marshal his thoughts. ‘We’re getting on fine,’ he replied finally. ‘He’s become a father, so there are some inevitable issues at home but, on the whole, he’s doing okay.’
Wondering exactly why it was taking so long for the chicken salad she’d ordered to arrive, Simpson looked at him carefully. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. There was the case last month, the muggers on bikes who were targeting tourists around the area . . .’
‘I remember that, the papers were all over it.’
‘Well, they’re not any more. Umar, with some help from WPC Mason – she’s a solid officer, by the way – traced it back to a gang of teenagers on the local Peabody Estate, and sorted it out with a minimum of fuss. They closed more than a dozen, if I remember rightly.’
‘I hear he’s a bit of a serial shagger.’
‘He was a bit of a ladies’ man before he was married,’ Carlyle conceded, looking wistfully at his empty glass.
Simpson followed his gaze. ‘One for the road?’
‘No, I should get going.’ The inspector pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Umar’s a good colleague. Professional. I would genuinely be very disappointed if he came a cropper over this Safi business. Apart from anything else, I’ve struggled to keep a sergeant in recent years; it would be a shame to lose another one.’
‘Yes,’ Simpson murmured. ‘Ever since the unfortunate Joseph Szyszkowski – may he rest in peace – there has been a bit of a turnover, hasn’t there?’
Staring out of the window, Carlyle stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and took a deep breath. Gazing into the illuminated darkness, he thought back to the day when his long-term colleague was gunned down barely twenty minutes’ walk from where they were sitting.
‘Do you ever see the family?’ Simpson asked.
Not once. Anita never forgave me for what happened to her husband. And who can blame her? As for the kids . . . I probably wouldn’t recognize William and Sarah these days. ‘Not really.’
‘It must still be difficult.’
‘Yes.’
Simpson smiled at the waiter as he finally returned to place her salad on the table. ‘I’m going to have another glass of wine. Sure you don’t want another drink?’
Thinking of Joe, he was hit by a sudden desire to sit down with the bottle and get thoroughly hammered. Gritting his teeth, he waited for it to pass. ‘I’m good. Enjoy your dinner. Let me know how things develop with the IPCC.’
Taking a mouthful of rocket, Simpson dismissed him with a wave of her fork.
Conversation over, Carlyle headed for the lifts.
FIFTY-NINE
It was a cold, grey morning in Soho. The lounge lizards and the perverts were still tucked up in bed and, apart from the street cleaners and the traffic wardens, the inspector had the place to himself, which was just how he liked it. Sitting in Bar Italia, he lingered over breakfast, watching highlights of the previous night’s Juve-Milan game, reluctant to begin the working day.
‘Cazzo,’ complained the guy behind the counter as he watched Milan’s centre-forward put away the only goal of the game in slow motion. ‘That was never a penalty.’ He glared at Carlyle as if the shortcomings of the officials were the policeman’s fault. Slipping off his stool, the inspector took that as his cue to leave.
Making his way along Old Compton Street, he arrived at the Clivenden Club in a matter of minutes. Passing a couple of cleaners at the front door, he bounded up the stairs and presented himself to a sleepy-looking receptionist on the first floor.
‘I’m here to see Angus.’ The statement seemed to cause the girl some confusion. Carlyle, however, was happy enough taking a moment to admire the framed Emmanuelle movie poster on the wall behind the desk while waiting for a response.
‘He’s not here,’ she said finally.
‘When will he be in?’ Carlyle asked, keeping his gaze on the poster.
‘I don’t know,’ came the flat reply.
Carlyle began to feel the good humour engendered by daydreaming about Sylvia Kristel starting to fray around the edges. ‘I need to speak to him.’ He reached into his pocket for some ID then changed his mind. Better not to make too much of his police credentials when he was essentially freelancing; engaged on a mission from Ken Ashton.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but Mr Muirhead may not be back.’
So much for staying undercover. Carlyle didn’t remember seeing this particular girl before, but she obviously knew who he was. ‘He may not be back today?’ he huffed. ‘Or for the rest of recorded time?’
‘The latter,’ the girl said promptly, taking a sip from the bottle of Evian that stood on her desk, next to an unopened box of Angus’s Macanudo cigars.
‘Huh?’
‘He had a stroke.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘That’s serious.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, perking up considerably at the thought of her boss’s travails. ‘But you’ve gotta face facts. Angus had been living on borrowed time for a while.’