London Calling - James Craig [32]
‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘Why else would I be here?’
‘Poor sod,’ said Helen, now totally alert. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll be an engaging case.’
‘Maybe.’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Engaging’ was not police language. He already knew where this conversation would be leading. His brain began to contract, and he felt the need to get off the phone.
‘At least it’s got to be better than the crap you’ve been dealing with lately.’
‘I’m sure that will make Mr Blake feel better.’
‘Who?’
‘The victim.’
For some reason, the word ‘victim’ made her stiffen. ‘It’s not your fault he’s dead.’
‘No, I know that,’ Carlyle said softly. He wanted to avoid irritating his wife. There would be plenty of time for that later and, for now, he didn’t want to have to deal with domestic tetchiness on top of everything else. ‘It’s just that my heightened job satisfaction is not going to provide much of a silver lining for him, is it?’
She thought about that for a second, letting the tension ebb from her voice. ‘He’s not likely to care much, one way or the other, but at least it should be interesting for you. Something a bit more high-profile?’
‘We’ll see.’ The conversation was a familiar one. It irritated him that she invariably demanded more from his job than he did.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said, with just a hint of crossness reappearing.
‘I do,’ he agreed quickly, ‘of course.’ And he did. A job is always just a job, whether you were a drug dealer or a postman, a fluffer or a priest. Being a policeman, the worse it got, the better it got.
Helen’s voice softened again. ‘Are you OK?’
He accepted the olive branch. ‘Sure, I’m fine.’
That was clearly as much time as Helen was prepared to spend in getting Carlyle into the right mood. ‘Anyway,’ she said, moving the conversation along, ‘what about this morning?’
This morning? Carlyle felt a slight wave of concern wash over him. What had he forgotten now? He tried to remain calm. ‘What about it?’
Helen paused. ‘Will you still be able to take Alice to the Barbican? You know I’ve got an important meeting at work this morning.’
Carlyle groaned, slumping back on to the bed as domestic life caught up with him. Today was supposed to be a day off. This morning he was supposed to be doing the school run. He had signed up to it several weeks ago. All the usual caveats had applied, but Helen always chose to ignore them. His Parent of the Week Award was in the post.
Helen herself normally took Alice to school before turning round and heading back across town to Paddington and the international medical charity, called Avalon, where she worked as a senior administrative manager. Carlyle knew that she spent between two and three hours a day shuffling backwards and forwards across town. It was a bugger, but that was the deal. He therefore had to do his bit.
This morning, Carlyle vaguely remembered, Helen had a very unpleasant disciplinary hearing to deal with: something involving a male doctor who, allegedly, had sexually abused a colleague. This type of problem was common in organisations like this. Apparently they attracted more than their fair share of people who hid under the cloak of liberal empathy to abuse either their co-workers or the locals, the very people they were supposed to be there to help. It had shocked Carlyle when his wife had first told him about it. On reflection, however, it made a lot of sense. Where else would you find a better balance of opportunity and risk?
How on earth you could hope to shed any light on what had or had not happened between two people halfway up a mountain in Afghanistan, much less do anything about it, was beyond him. It was hard enough trying to deal with such cases in London: the complaint rate was pitiful and the actual conviction rate was much, much worse. It was impossible, therefore, to see how his wife could ever hope to get to the bottom of this particular mini-drama. The whole thing seemed like an exercise in liberal masochism, but he knew well enough to keep thoughts like that to himself.