Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [5]
‘It’s a zebra crossing!’ the woman shouted, seemingly oblivious to Carlyle’s arrival.
‘The silly old fucker just walked straight out,’ the driver snarled, looking like he wanted to reach out of the window and grab her by the throat. He revved the engine, but couldn’t move with the man still sprawling out in front of him. A taxi now pulled up behind the van, the cabbie giving an extended blast on his horn, just in case anyone had missed the fact that he was there.
‘If you hadn’t been going so fast,’ the woman replied, ‘this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘Mind your own fucking business, you stupid bitch,’ the man shot back, his attention now focusing on Carlyle, who was writing down his registration number.
‘Oi! Fuckface!’ The driver stuck his head further out of the window of the van. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sweat was beading on his shaven head. He was wearing a replica of the new Spurs away strip for next season, a fetching mocha and brown number in a retro style. Carlyle thought about arresting him just for that. Instead, he showed the driver his ID and told him to switch off his engine. That prompted the taxi driver behind to let loose with another long blast on his horn. Carlyle ignored him. Already the traffic was backing up towards Great Queen Street and beyond, but that wasn’t his problem. They could wait. He turned back to the old man and helped him up.
‘Are you okay, Harry?’ Carlyle asked.
Harry Ripley dusted himself down and fiddled with a button on his coat. He smiled sadly, like a man who fully expected to find himself dumped in the middle of the road every now and again. ‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘Did he hit you?’
The old man gazed at the tarmac. ‘No. I’m all right.’
‘Was it his fault?’
‘I’d say fifty-fifty.’
Carlyle nodded back in the direction of the café. ‘I’m just having a coffee in Il Buffone, so why don’t you come and join me?’ The old man nodded and shuffled back on to the pavement, before heading slowly towards Carlyle’s table. The driver took this as his cue to restart his engine. Carlyle stepped back in front of the van, holding up his hand as if he was a traffic cop. ‘Not so fast, sunshine. Hold your horses.’
The queue of traffic was now well into double figures and the cacophony of complaints was growing. The woman who had remonstrated with the driver was hovering on the pavement outside the Sun, as if unsure whether to stay or go. Carlyle turned to her and smiled, which only seemed to make her more uncomfortable. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right now, I can sort this.’
‘Don’t you want a statement or something?’ the woman asked.
No, I bloody don’t, thought Carlyle. The paperwork would be the kiss of death; his day would be over before it had even started. How come members of the public only wanted to be helpful when it wasn’t necessary? ‘No, it’s fine.’ He tried to sound grateful. ‘I’ll be able to handle it. Thanks for stopping.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well . . .’ Carlyle looked down at his shoes, trying not to smile. Are you sure? How many times over the years had he been asked that question? He was a policeman. Of course he was sure. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, if you change your mind,’ the woman said, ‘I work at the launderette at the far end of Betterton Street.’ She gestured over her shoulder. ‘You can get me in there.’
‘I know it,’ Carlyle said, which was true. When the Carlyle family washing-machine had exploded earlier in the year, he had been a regular customer. ‘Thanks.’
Reluctantly, the woman turned and walked away, leaving Carlyle to return his attention to the van driver. He moved to the driver’s door. ‘Name?’
The man couldn’t have looked any more pained if someone was poised to stick a red-hot poker up his arse. ‘Smith.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
‘No, really,’ the man said, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, ‘it is Smith. Dennis Smith.’ He fished out his driver