London Calling - James Craig [43]
There were about 21,700 sergeants employed in the UK police, and Carlyle knew the only one of them that could sing the English national anthem in both Polish and Hindi. Joe had an Indian wife, Anita, and together they had given their kids, William and Sarah, the most thoroughly English names that they could think of. Despite all this, there remained a strand of Joe’s DNA that was deeply and irredeemably Polish, i.e. dark, pessimistic and Catholic. This background contributed to a sense of detachment, irony and – perhaps just as important – fatalism, which Carlyle could relate to. The two got on well and trusted each other. Carlyle was happy about that.
‘What have they got?’ he asked, as he watched Joe theatrically unfold the newspaper and lay it out on the table in front of him.
‘What do you think they’ve got?’ Joe tossed his copy of the Evening Standard on to the surface.
‘Everything?’
Joe nodded. ‘Everything.’
He waited while Carlyle contemplated the 72-point headline on the front page which read: TOP HOTEL KNIFE HORROR.
‘They’ve got the knife, the time of death, the note,’ Joe continued, ‘and they’re also speculating about the sexual nature of the crime.’ He picked the newspaper off the table and turned it around to scan the article. ‘And I quote: “Sources suggest that the frenzied attack bears the hallmarks of drug-fuelled sexual experimentation gone badly wrong.”’ He rolled the paper up and waved it at Carlyle. ‘Drug-fuelled sexual experimentation?’ He sighed theatrically. ‘Those were the days …’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘This is top-notch journalism,’ Joe laughed. ‘You know, I reckon that this paper has got a lot better since that ex-KGB guy bought it.’
‘Better a propaganda vehicle for the Kremlin than one for our idiot mayor,’ Carlyle said sourly. ‘Who wrote that piece?’
Joe unrolled the paper and squinted at the byline. ‘Someone called Fiona Singer-Cavendish.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Me neither,’ Joe shrugged, ‘but she’s certainly on top of this one. I’m surprised that they don’t have a picture of you exploring the dead man’s orifice.’
‘Wait for the final edition,’ Carlyle joked. Bloody Alex Miles, he thought. The little bastard will have sold the lot just for a few hundred quid. He reflected a bit further. ‘Do they know about the note?’
‘They certainly know that there was a note,’ replied Joe. ‘They don’t seem to know that it was delivered to Charing Cross, thank God! They also don’t know – or aren’t disclosing – what it said.’
‘Do you really think there’s a gay angle to all this?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Maybe.’ Joe raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Why stick a kitchen knife up some poor bugger’s … no pun intended … behind if not to make a point of some crude sexual nature?’
Carlyle raised his eyebrows. ‘It could mean anything. Or nothing.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Joe scoffed. ‘Surely it’s saying: “I want to fuck you right up the arse” …’
‘Possibly.’ Carlyle went with the flow. With Joe in this kind of mood, that was always the best option. It was normally the only option.
‘… after you’re dead.’
‘It could make sense,’ Carlyle agreed, for want of anything else to say.
‘This,’ Joe smiled, ‘has gay hate crime written all over it.’
Marcello placed Joe’s latte on the table and retreated to a respectful distance. Carlyle thought about the story in the paper and suddenly felt his enthusiasm for the case desert him faster than an Old Compton Street hooker who’s been paid in advance. All he could see was the slog ahead of them. ‘Do