London Calling - James Craig [20]
The PCSO grunted and pulled on the latex gloves. He didn’t even acknowledge Carlyle as he moved gingerly towards the snoring wino. Carlyle mentally wished him luck and headed in the opposite direction.
Prentice eyed him quizzically as he approached the front desk. ‘Back already, John?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Forgot my bloody keys.’
For a man who could really not care less, Prentice did a good job of managing a small grimace of sympathy. ‘Unlucky.’
‘Yeah, I know. I got almost all the way home before I realised,’ Carlyle replied, sounding suitably sorry for himself. ‘If I buzzed the front door, Helen would go bananas,’ he added, ‘even if I didn’t wake Alice up, too, what with her having school in the morning.’
Prentice nodded sympathetically. He had three kids himself, two girls and a boy, and knew all about the ups and downs of family life. At the same time, he lived near Theydon Bois, a village on the north-east periphery of London, near Epping Forest, which was famous for not possessing any street lights. Fifteen miles from Charing Cross, it took the best part of an hour on the Central Line for Dave to get home, so he would have had no qualms about waking the kids and getting his missus out of bed if he found himself stuck on the doorstep in deepest, darkest Essex.
Conscious of someone behind him, Carlyle turned to see a skinny, blond-haired, twenty-something man approaching the desk. He wore a pained expression – all cheekbones and attitude – and was fashionably dressed in an expensive-looking, two-button, single-breasted black suit and a crisp white shirt. As he reached the desk, Carlyle could read the legend The Garden in tiny grey script on his breast pocket. The Garden was an upmarket ‘boutique’ hotel only two minutes’ walk away, on St Martin’s Lane, just up the road from Trafalgar Square. It was a haunt of minor celebrities and gossip columnists, always full of self-important people doing self-important things.
The young man ignored Carlyle. Without saying a word, he handed Prentice a white envelope and turned to leave.
‘Hold on, there.’ Carlyle placed a gentle hand on the visitor’s shoulder. ‘What is this?’
The man stopped, turned and gave him a neutral look. ‘I guess it’s a letter.’
‘I can see that, sir,’ Carlyle said, with considerable effort, not least because ‘sir’ was not a word he felt comfortable in using. He took the envelope from Prentice and looked at the address in black capitals on the front: BY HAND – FAO THE DUTY OFFICER, CHARING CROSS POLICE STATION. He glanced back at the young man. ‘Who gave you this?’
‘The chief concierge at the hotel.’ The man shrugged, like that should be obvious.
Carlyle felt his mood harden. He could be obtuse himself often enough, when he felt like it, but he didn’t like it in others. Not when he was on the receiving end. He glared at the man, who took a step backwards till he was leaning against the desk.
‘What’s your name?’ Carlyle growled.
‘Anders.’
‘Second name?’
‘Brolin. Anders Brolin. I am from Sweden.’
‘No shit,’ Carlyle looked at Prentice and grunted, ‘straight out of central casting.’ Prentice raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing.’ Carlyle looked the young man up and down. ‘Where in Sweden are you from?’
‘Skåne.’
That didn’t mean anything to Carlyle. ‘Where?’
‘It’s in the south of the country,’ the man said slowly, clearly, to accommodate both the geographical ignorance of the English and the fact that he was talking to a couple of policemen. ‘I am from a town called Ystad.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Brolin seemed to perk up a little at the thought of home. ‘It’s nice but very quiet. Nothing ever happens there.’ He almost smiled, then thought better of it. ‘It’s a good place to be a policeman.’
‘Not like London.’
‘Not like London, no. Here there are too many …’ Brolin paused.
Carlyle stepped in: ‘Too many wankers?’
‘Yes,’ Brolin gave a tired smile, ‘far too many.’
‘So,’ Carlyle waved the envelope gently in the air, ‘what about this?’
‘This is nothing to do with me,’ Brolin said, making an involuntary