Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [102]
‘Fat chance,’ Carlyle muttered.
‘Where does that leave the investigation into Rosanna’s death?’ Helen asked.
‘Nowhere, as far as I know,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘They don’t have anything else. Lovell was their only suspect.’
‘So why did they pick on that poor guy?’
‘They didn’t pick on him,’ Carlyle said testily, for some reason feeling the need to play Devil’s Advocate. ‘He confessed. What else were they supposed to do?’
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘No idea.’
‘Will they find the killer?’
Carlyle finally found the strength to push himself off the sofa and head in the direction of his bed. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ he yawned.
‘That poor woman,’ Helen said. ‘She deserved better.’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘She did.’
THIRTY-TWO
‘Your dead friend is here.’
Carlyle had been lingering over lunch at Il Buffone when he took a call from Dave Prentice who had returned to his normal location behind the front desk at Charing Cross police station.
‘Don’t worry,’ Prentice laughed, ‘it looks like he’s settling in for a nice long rest. Assuming he doesn’t shit himself, I’ll leave him in peace.’
‘Thanks, Dave. I’ll be about ten minutes.’ The inspector returned to the story he had been reading from that morning’s paper, entitled sex swap police scandal. It was about public funding for the National Trans Police Association, which helped officers with ‘gender identity issues’. Carlyle had never heard of it. Some rent-a-quote MP, whom he had never heard of either, complained: ‘I don’t care if a police officer is gay, straight, trans-gender or whatever. I just want them to catch criminals.’ Good luck with that, Carlyle chuckled to himself as he handed the paper back to Marcello and paid for his lunch.
Outside, it was a beautiful afternoon and he took his time sauntering back to work. Approaching Jubilee Hall, he felt a stab of guilt; it had been almost a week since he’d visited the gym, which wasn’t good enough at his age. On Dennis Felix’s old pitch, he passed a busker playing a dire rendition of Abba’s ‘Fernando’, to a dozen or so bored-looking tourists. He wondered briefly what had happened to the poor sod and his anthrax-infested bongos. In the nearby snack van, a boy was handing over an ice cream to an expectant child. Of Kylie – the only person on the planet who had appeared upset at Dennis’s demise – there was no sign. It’s that kind of place, Carlyle thought. People come, people go.
When he got to the station, Walter Poonoosamy, aka ‘Dog’, was found in familiar pose, slumped in a corner of the waiting room, snoring loudly. Resplendent in a pair of tartan trousers and a newish-looking Prodigy T-shirt (the latter doubtless nicked from the local Oxfam shop on Drury Lane), he was cradling an almost empty vodka bottle in his arms, as if it was a baby. For once, he didn’t seem to smell too bad, although he was still some way short of fragrant. Keeping a reasonable distance, Carlyle prodded him awake. Slowly, Dog opened his eyes. Sitting up slightly, he stared at the inspector. A flicker of recognition crept across his face and then he closed his eyes again. The snoring resumed immediately, if anything, louder than it had been before.
This time, Carlyle gave him a quick punch on the shoulder.
‘Ouch!’ Dog immediately sat bolt upright, rubbing his arm. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘Wakey, wakey.’ Carlyle waved a hand in front of the drunk’s face, making sure he had his full attention. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
A kind of grin appeared on Dog’s face. ‘That would be nice.’
Squatting down, Carlyle fished a couple of pound coins out of his pocket and held them up for Dog to inspect. More than enough for a cup of tea. Even better, enough for a can of Special Brew from the newsagents round the corner – if the owner was up for a little haggling. ‘Take a look at something for me first, and then I’ll give you the cash.’
Dog gave a grunt of what Carlyle was happy to deem assent. The inspector quickly pulled a folded sheet of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. On it was printed