Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [70]
Hagger put on an expression of mock hurt. ‘It’s a shame that a father isn’t allowed to have some quality time with his son these days.’
Carlyle bit his tongue.
‘It’s not like his mother – that useless bitch – is doing much of a job anyway.’
At least that’s something we can agree on, Carlyle reflected.
Hagger gave him a sly look. ‘I’m guessing that when you do get Jake back, Social Services will take over, anyway.’
When. Carlyle liked the sound of that. On the other hand, Hagger talked shit most of the time; gibberish the rest. ‘Where is he, Michael?’
Hagger raised a fist, but only for emphasis. ‘He’s safe. And he’s well. I only need him for a few more days, and then you’ll get him back. In the meantime, tell your people to back off.’
My people? Carlyle wondered what he meant. Maybe Inspector Cutler was outperforming any expectations. ‘Okay.’
‘If Jake gets hurt,’ Hagger continued, sounding more agitated, ‘it will be your fault.’
‘No one wants Jake to get hurt,’ Carlyle said, as soothingly as he could manage.
‘Well, tell your chum Silver to behave himself, then.’
Silver? Carlyle frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with all this?’
Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, Hagger turned on his heel and began walking briskly away. ‘Just bloody tell him,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Carlyle watched him go, while replaying in his head what had just been said. As Hagger disappeared round a corner, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his private and untraceable (he hoped) mobile, and called Dominic Silver’s number. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. Gripping the handset tighter in frustration, he spat out a message: Dominic, it’s me. Call me back asap. I am waiting for your call, so I will definitely pick up.
For a few moments, he stared at his phone, willing it to ring, while wondering whether he had time to pop up to Il Buffone for lunch. But the phone didn’t ring and he decided, regretfully, that he didn’t have time for a proper lunch. Plan B was a cheese sandwich and an orange juice, which he bought from a cheerful girl working in Kylie’s trailer to take back to the station.
Five minutes later, aware of the rumbling in his stomach, Carlyle stepped out of the lift and headed towards his desk. As he approached, he wasn’t best pleased to find someone sitting in his chair.
‘John Carlyle?’
‘Yes.’
The tall Asian-looking bloke lifted his spotless Nike trainers off Carlyle’s desk and planted them on the floor. ‘I’m Inspector Nick Chan.’ He nodded at another man hovering nearby. ‘That is Sergeant Greg Brown.’
Both men wore a smug look that said We know something you don’t.
Chan and Brown? After a few seconds’ thought, Carlyle came to the conclusion that he didn’t know anything about this duo. That made it doubly certain that now was a good time for caution.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ Carlyle asked. He couldn’t wait any longer for some food, so he flopped into a nearby chair and began unwrapping his sandwich.
Chan took that as his cue to stand up. ‘Let’s go into one of the conference rooms.’
‘Fine.’ Carlyle took a large bite out of his sandwich and chewed it vigorously, getting back to his feet and following his two colleagues towards the row of empty rooms situated at the rear of that floor.
Conference room number seven was filled by a long rectangular table, surrounded by a dozen chairs. Carlyle quickly took a seat at the far end of the table, by the window. Someone had left a copy of the Mirror on the table. The newspaper was folded in half and Carlyle could only see part of the front-page headline: television presenter. . . Resisting the temptation to open it out, he polished off the last of his sandwich and took a long swig of juice.
Behind him, Brown entered the room, followed by Chan, who closed the door and then removed his jacket, dropping it over the back of a chair. Both policemen remained standing. ‘Do you know Sandra Groves?’ Chan asked.
Carlyle downed the last of the juice and screwed the cap back on the empty bottle. ‘Yes.’
‘She claims you assaulted