Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [4]
Helen now smiled her checkmate smile. ‘So you would? Or you did?’
So much for humour. Carlyle’s grin vanished, as his heart sank. ‘I need to piss,’ he said quietly.
FOUR
The inspector sat outside Il Buffone, enjoying the gentle morning sunshine. The tiny 1950s-style Italian café sat just across the road from his flat on Macklin Street, on the corner of Drury Lane in the north-east section of Covent Garden. Inside, there was just enough room for the counter and two tattered booths, each of which could seat four people, or six at a squeeze. It was a case of risk a random dining companion inside or take one of the small tables outside on the street, where you were more likely to be left alone. Besides, the exhaust fumes were free.
Although he didn’t appreciate any company at breakfast, Carlyle’s preference was to eat inside where he could sit under the poster of the 1984 Juventus scudetto-winning squad. The poster was torn and faded, curling at the edges and held together with Sellotape. Marcello had tried to replace it several times, most recently with the Italian World Cup-winning team of 2006. Always, however, the protests of Carlyle, and a few other regulars who knew their football, forced him to return the team of Trapattoni and Platini to their rightful place.
Today, however, Carlyle had hit the morning rush-hour and both inside booths were full. Sticking his head through the door, Carlyle didn’t spot anyone who seemed like they were about to leave. Hovering in the doorway, he looked pleadingly at Marcello, the owner, who just nodded and said: ‘I’ll bring it out.’
The inspector had barely sat down when Marcello appeared at his table, dropping a double macchiato in front of him, along with an extremely impressive-looking cherry Danish that positively begged to be eaten. Carlyle looked down at the pastry and felt the drool building up inside his cheeks. He then gave Marcello what he hoped was an expression of humble gratitude.
‘I thought you’d like that,’ Marcello grinned, already heading back inside. ‘See? It’s gonna be a great day.’
Carlyle took a sip of the macchiato, letting it scald his throat, finishing his coffee before taking a knife and carefully cutting the pastry into quarters. Picking up the largest piece, he closed his eyes and contemplated the imminent sugar rush.
‘Hey!’
The first slice of Danish was just about to reach his mouth when he heard the blast of a horn, followed by the screech of brakes. A woman started to scream. Looking up, he saw an old man in a cream raincoat on the ground in front of a white fruit-and-veg delivery van, by the zebra crossing in front of the Sun pub on Drury Lane, less than twenty yards away. Carlyle looked at the slice sadly and dropped it back on his plate. Ignoring the growling of his stomach, he got up from his table and strolled towards the scene of the accident while signalling to Marcello – who showed no interest at all in the mini-drama unfolding outside his door – that he would be needing another coffee.
Drury Lane was a relatively uncongested single-lane, one-way street, heading south to north. It could get you all the way from the Aldwych to High Holborn while avoiding the busier streets nearby. In order to get to the traffic lights at the north end that little bit quicker, drivers of all descriptions liked to put their foot to the floor and race up the thoroughfare as quickly as possible. The whole exercise was completely pointless since average traffic speeds in Central London remained a stately ten miles an hour, essentially the same as for the horse-drawn carriages more than a century earlier. Carlyle, who didn’t own a car, could never understand the common urge to hurtle 200 yards only to spend longer at the next stop. Maybe it was a genetic condition; more likely these drivers were just tossers. Either way, it was a miracle that there weren’t more accidents.
In this case, the front wheels of the van had