Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [8]
‘You didn’t know him, did you?’
‘No, funnily enough, he’s one of the one hundred and forty thousand police officers in this country that I don’t know personally.’ As if by magic, Marcello appeared to clear away their cups. Carlyle handed him a tenner, signalled that he didn’t need any change, and stood up.
‘According to the papers, he had serious women trouble.’ Harry struggled out of his chair.
‘Don’t we all?’ Carlyle grinned, delighted to have finally got the conversation on to something other than death.
‘Nah,’ Harry said absent-mindedly. ‘He wasn’t henpecked like you. His problem was that he was shagging too many of them – way too many of them. Couldn’t keep it in his trousers.’
Carlyle looked at the cheeky old codger. Henpecked? He thought about saying something, but let it go. Waving goodbye to Marcello, he stepped into the road. ‘I’ll see you soon. Pop in on Helen and Alice – they’d love to see you. In the meantime, don’t cause any more trouble. That’s an order.’
‘Or I could get arrested?’
‘Yeah.’
The old man’s face lit up. ‘I could die in custody. Fall down some stairs.’
Carlyle laughed as he started down the road. ‘You never know, Harry. You never know.’
FIVE
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
Leaning back in his chair, Carlyle looked blankly at his sergeant.
‘I called you on the mobile,’ Joe complained, the exasperation clear in his voice.
Carlyle fished his phone out of the breast-pocket of his jacket. The screen said he had missed four calls. Four bloody calls. That was about par for the course with Carlyle and his mobile phones. He looked up and tried to appear apologetic. ‘Sorry.’
Having just returned from a week’s holiday in Portugal, Sergeant Joseph Szyszkowski was tanned and, despite his current irritation with his boss, extremely relaxed. He looks like he’s lost a bit of weight, Carlyle thought idly. And caught up on his sleep.
Lucky bugger.
Carlyle was glad to have his sergeant back. Joe was not your average copper. He was second-generation Polish and somewhat unworldly. But they had been working together for more than five years, and he was one of the few people – the very few – on the Force with whom Carlyle enjoyed working and, more importantly, trusted.
‘Well, now that you’re here, we have to go.’ Joe casually dropped a piece of paper on Carlyle’s desk.
Carlyle picked up the sheet of paper but he didn’t read it, and didn’t move from his seat. ‘What’s this?’
‘Agatha Mills.’
‘Who’s she then?’
‘She,’ Joe grinned, ‘is the little old lady who was brained last night in her flat up by the British Museum.’
‘Nice place to live,’ Carlyle sniffed.
‘Not for her. Not any more. The husband called it in earlier.’
Carlyle glanced at the sheet of A4. ‘Serious?’
‘Dead.’
Carlyle felt a wave of indifference sweep over him. He held the paper up to the light, as if he was checking a twenty-pound note for its watermark. ‘And it’s come to us? Shouldn’t it be for one of the geniuses at the Holborn station? They’re closer to the British Museum than we are.’
‘Well, it’s come to us.’ Joe was used to Carlyle’s initial lack of interest. His boss often took his time to get warmed up and become involved in a case. By the time he did, the matter was often either solved or the inspector was off on a mission, with his sergeant in tow. Either way, Joe knew that he would buck up eventually.
Carlyle exhaled dramatically. ‘Okay then,’ he said, bouncing out of his chair with mock enthusiasm. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’
Coming out of the police station, Carlyle sidestepped a couple of winos sitting on the pavement and took a left turn, heading north. After cutting down Henrietta Street, he led Joe at a brisk pace through Covent Garden piazza and up Endell Street in the direction of Bloomsbury. A little more than five minutes later, they arrived at Ridgemount Mansions, a solid, six-storey apartment block facing the British Museum on Great Russell Street.
Agatha Mills had lived – and died – in flat number 8, on the first floor. After being buzzed into the building, Carlyle