Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [6]
Ignoring the card, Carlyle leaned towards the window. ‘Okay, Dennis, you seem to have violated various traffic laws here, as well as behaving in a way that could easily have led to a breach of the peace.’ Talking bollocks, of course, but getting his attention. ‘And that’s before we talk about any actual injury to the victim’s person. Or about you calling me “fuckface”.’
‘But,’ Smith complained, ‘you just sent him off to get a coffee. He’s not hurt at all. Anyway, it was his fault.’
Carlyle let his gaze wander round the inside of the van. ‘Are you up here often?’
Smith shifted in his seat. ‘A bit.’
‘Well, I’m round here all the time and I don’t want to see any more boy-racer shit from . . .’ he stood up to look at the name on the side of the van ‘. . . Fred’s Fabulous Fruit ’n’ Veg.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. If I see this van doing more than twenty miles an hour up Drury Lane, you’ll be nicked and I’ll make sure that your boss knows about it. Now fuck off and drive carefully. Try not to knock over any more pensioners today.’
Scowling and muttering under his breath, Smith rammed the van into first gear, revving the engine as he pulled away. Stepping back on to the pavement, Carlyle heard the jeers of the other drivers who had been caught up behind this spat. As he walked back towards the café, he caught a couple of basic hand gestures reflected in the window of the William Hill betting shop, but chose to ignore them. As he reached the table, Marcello appeared with Carlyle’s second macchiato and a mug of tea for Harry Ripley. Without saying a word, Carlyle sat down, drained the cup and methodically ate the quarter slices of his Danish, one after another.
Harry lived three floors below the Carlyles, in Winter Garden House. He had been a close friend of Carlyle’s late father-in-law for many years and had known Helen since she had been born. Now in his late seventies, Harry had served in Korea in 1952 as part of the City of London Regiment of the Royal Fusiliers, for which he had received both UK and UN Korea medals. Although he didn’t have a clue what Harry had been doing in Korea, Carlyle had admired both honours on several occasions. Harry had followed his twenty years in the military with another twenty as a postman, working out of the Mount Pleasant sorting office on Farringdon Road, near King’s Cross. He had been retired almost fifteen years now and a widower for more than a decade. He had no kids and, as far as Carlyle knew, no other family. Now all he wanted to do was die – ‘while I still have my health’ as he put it. His fantasy, articulated many times over a pint of Chiswick Bitter in the Sun, was to keel over while watching Arsenal win the Premier League, which was how he had come by the moniker ‘Heart Attack Harry’.
Carlyle fought a powerful urge to demolish another Danish. ‘What was that all about, Harry?’ he asked casually.
The old man slurped his tea and gazed into the middle distance. ‘The bloke should have stopped. He was going too fast.’
‘You should be grateful he wasn’t going any faster,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Anyway, that guy was a Spurs supporter. You should have known he was going to miss.’
Harry chuckled.
‘It’s not funny, mate. Have you ever tried anything like that before?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t do it again, or I’ll bloody kill you.’
Harry looked at him soulfully. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Bollocks, Harry, you did it on purpose. You gave that bloke a hell of a scare, even if he was a prize twat. You just can’t behave like that.’ He gazed up at the blue sky. It was already pushing 70 degrees; not London weather at all. Clearly, the day was going to be an absolute scorcher. ‘And what’s with the raincoat?’
Harry shrugged. ‘You never know when it might rain.’
Carlyle glanced at his watch. He really should be on his way to the station. ‘For fuck’s sake, it’s supposed to be more than eighty degrees today; the hottest day of the year. And knock it off with this morbid shit. There’s nothing wrong with you. I’ll probably kick the bucket before you do. In fact, I