London Calling - James Craig [42]
Marcello dropped the coffee in front of him, along with a monster pastry, and then tactfully opened the windows at the front of the café in order to let the illegal smoke out. On his way back behind the counter, he swept up the almost empty cups sitting in front of the two businessmen, in a way that suggested it was time for them to leave, giving Carlyle a wink before he ducked into the microscopic kitchen at the rear.
Carlyle took a sip of his macchiato and contemplated the pastry. It was a thing of beauty, almost the size of an old seven-inch vinyl single, but half an inch deep and covered in icing. Marcello ordered half a dozen each day from the north London kosher bakers Grodzinski, primarily for the benefit of Carlyle, who had been known to nip in and have a second one, if the opportunity presented itself.
This was a ritual definitely not to be rushed. As was his habit, Carlyle carefully cut the pastry into quarters, and took a further second to decide the order in which he was going to eat them. This was definitely going to require another coffee, so he emptied his demitasse and called to Marcello for another double macchiato. Once that had arrived, Carlyle reached for the first quarter of his pastry. It was already in his mouth when the door opened.
‘How’s the gay slaying coming along?’
Carlyle chewed, swallowed and smiled. ‘Afternoon, Joe.’ He looked up to watch Sergeant Joseph Szyszkowski flopping into the booth, opposite him. Joe had an early edition of the evening paper wedged under his arm, and an excited look in his eye. Exercising more than a little self-control, the inspector resisted the urge to demand where the hell he’d been for the last fourteen hours or so. ‘Want something to drink?’
‘What can I get you?’ Marcello piped up from behind the counter.
‘I’ve had lunch, thanks, Marcello,’ said Joe, ‘but a latte would be nice.’
‘Coming right up.’
‘Oh, before I forget,’ Joe said to his colleague, ‘I got a call from Valcareggi.’
‘And what did Edmondo have to say for himself?’ Carlyle asked, hoping that he wasn’t now going to have to chase down any more Italian mobsters.
‘Apparently the guy we arrested later got knifed in some prison outside Rome.’ Joe paused for dramatic effect. ‘They killed him.’
‘Pozzo?’ Carlyle sniffed. ‘At least he won’t have to worry about his weight any more, will he?’
‘I suppose not,’ Joe agreed. Picking up a copy of Marcello’s menu, he studied it carefully.
Carlyle gave his sergeant the once-over as he listened to the coffee machine burst into action. Joe was five foot ten, about a stone overweight, with long dark hair and a perpetually amused expression like a slightly bigger version of the actor Jack Black. They had been working together for more than four years now. Carlyle was notoriously uninterested in the backgrounds of any of his colleagues, but he had nevertheless gleaned quite a bit about Joe in their time working together. Joseph Leon Gorka Szyszkowski was second-generation Polish, born and brought up in Portsmouth before coming to London to study geophysics at Imperial College. For reasons Carlyle didn’t understand, he decided to join the Met after graduating with a good 2.1 degree.
In the wider world of London, Poles were now well established. Many were heading home, as the recession began to bite, but they were still considered the benchmark of quality, reliability and value for money in the plumbing, building and other sectors of the economy. They also provided the odd footballer and many, many Catholic priests. For any ethnic minority, however, it was harder to break into the relatively