Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [42]
Cutler half-turned, but didn’t stop walking. ‘Yes?’
‘Carlyle.’
‘I know.’
Carlyle finally caught up with his man. Cutler pressed the lift button, saying nothing further.
‘It’s about Jake Hagger.’
‘What’s it to you, then?’ Cutler asked defensively, keeping his eyes on the lift doors.
Carlyle had never really given Cutler the once-over before. A small bloke, he looked tired and distracted: a man who in the short term was being kept from the pint of London Pride that was waiting for him on the bar round the corner in the Sherlock Holmes pub and in the long term was winding down towards the earliest possible retirement on the best possible pension. Not the kind of guy you’d want if you needed to get a result, Carlyle thought sourly.
Cutler pushed the button again, hoping that the lift would save him from this conversation.
‘I know the mother,’ Carlyle said.
A knowing look washed over Cutler’s face. ‘Giving her one, then?’
‘The father claimed he was going to sell the kid,’ Carlyle said evenly, ignoring the jibe.
Cutler shrugged. ‘Empty words.’
Carlyle took a position by the lift doors. ‘I don’t think so. Hagger wouldn’t have kept Jake for this long. He couldn’t look after a kid for ten minutes.’
‘Maybe they left the country.’
‘Neither of them had a passport.’
‘It can still be done.’
‘Hagger’s just a local scumbag, not an international jet-setting scumbag. Camden High Street is about as far as he usually travels.’
Cutler scratched his nose absent-mindedly. ‘Well, if he did sell him, then it’s game over. I doubt it though – I don’t suppose that he knows many couples who are desperate to adopt.’
‘No.’
‘Then some pervert will probably already have had their fun with the poor little bastard,’ Cutler said without any obvious feeling. ‘In that case, the most likely scenario is that the body’s lying at the bottom of the West Reservoir.’
Carlyle nodded. More than once over the years he had fished bits of victims out of the decommissioned reservoir. A couple of miles away, in Stoke Newington, the reservoir was now used as a water sports centre. Carlyle had never seen its attraction; apart from anything else, the ‘tranquil’ setting attracted criminals and weirdos of various persuasions. It was widely assumed that there would be plenty more bodies and body parts discovered if the place was ever drained.
‘There are so many of these cases,’ Cutler continued, ‘that people don’t care any more. And even if they did, the public – as you know only too well – is no fucking use whatsoever. No one ever pays any attention to what’s going on around them.’
‘So, case closed?’ Carlyle asked.
Cutler gazed at a spot beyond Carlyle’s left shoulder. ‘No, but it’s as good as – unless you have anything for me?’
‘No, but I told Sam Laidlaw that I’d ask around. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’
‘I knew it,’ Cutler smiled. Finally, the lift arrived and he stepped inside. ‘Give her one for me.’ Rocking back on his heels, the inspector waited for the doors to close. Then, letting out a deep breath, he headed for the stairs.
THIRTEEN
Handcuffed, but still wearing his own clothes, Henry Mills moved into the courtyard in the middle of Charing Cross police station, flanked by two security guards. Behind him came two other prisoners, a nineteen-year-old glue-sniffing mugger and a fifty-two-year-old petty thief. The trio were being transported across London to Wormwood Scrubs, the Victorian prison, where they would await their respective trials at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.
It was barely eight in the morning and a sharp chill lingered in the shade of the courtyard. Mills shivered, but breathed in deeply. It was the first time in almost two days that he’d enjoyed some fresh air, and he appreciated it. His night in the cells below his feet had been extremely unpleasant, the liberally applied disinfectant failing to cover the smell of innumerable bodily evacuations. He had spent the last twelve hours breathing through his mouth and failing to get