Dying Days

Book 13: Inspector Carlyle

by James Craig

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Dying well is an art . . . the rest is just murder Inspector John Carlyle is waiting for his father to die of a terminal illness. Meanwhile, others are dropping like flies. An elderly professor is found dead in his Bloomsbury flat. The verdict is that of heart attack. But who then stuffed the deceased academic in a closet? And who emptied the man's bank account? Across town, Sergeant Alison Roche is back from maternity leave. Struggling to juggle The Job and a new baby, she needs Carlyle's help after a controversial financier is controversially murdered at a charity dinner. Similarities with a previous, unsolved killing, which left a black mark against Carlyle's record, only raise the stakes higher. With problems at work and problems at home, Carlyle just wants to keep his head down but there's little chance of that. Can he do his job, nail a couple of murder cases - and be there for his father at the end?

Release date: February 7, 2019

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 292

Sample

The world invariably seemed a happier place when things slipped out of focus. With his glasses perched precariously on top of his head, John Carlyle watched the blurry figures hustling up and down Shaftesbury Avenue until interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. This would be, the inspector guessed, a long-overdue call from his boss.

‘Where have you been?’ he enquired cheerily. ‘On holiday? Or another of those expensive management training courses?’

‘Mr Carlyle?’ The irritated male voice at the other end of the line most definitely didn’t belong to Commander Carole Simpson.

‘Sorry, yes.’ Carlyle placed his specs on his nose with his free hand, just in time to see a spotty teenage girl walk past the café window. She was wearing a ripped T-shirt bearing the legend The Damned and sported a large nose-ring. An electric-blue Mohican that must have required a whole pot of gel to keep it in place completed the look.

You’re forty-plus years too late, love, Carlyle mused.

‘This is Dr Scott.’

‘Yes?’ The name didn’t ring any bells.

‘From your father’s medical centre on Dawes Road.’

‘Of course.’ Carlyle coughed.

‘I’m the duty officer who’s been in to visit Alexander at home this week.’ The GP sounded annoyed that his valuable time was being wasted on an old man at the edge of death. Where Carlyle’s mother’s exit had been sudden, as ruthlessly efficient as the woman herself, his father was taking his own sweet time about moving on from this life.

Is this it? Carlyle wondered. Game over?

‘He’s still hanging in there.’

‘Yes.’ Carlyle kept his gaze firmly on the outside world; he wanted to focus on life, rather than the alternative.

‘I was quite surprised not to see you there.’ The doctor’s tone reminded Carlyle of Miss Teverson, back in the third year of St Horace’s Primary School, when he was misbehaving and she was having a bad day. ‘You know there’s not much time left.’

Everyone had been saying that for quite a while. ‘I get down when I can,’ said Carlyle, defensively. ‘Work is keeping me very busy.’

A dismissive I’ve heard it all before grunt rolled down the line.

‘I’m a police officer. We’ve got a couple of big cases pending.’ His statement was less than half true, at best. Things at Charing Cross were unusually quiet. The inspector had taken to praying for a nice complicated murder – or some other outbreak of serious criminality – in the Central London area to relieve his boredom and also save him from having to go down to Fulham to watch his father dying in slow motion.

‘Well, from what I can see, Alexander’s care is adequate,’ Dr Scott continued.

Adequate was probably the best you could hope for from the NHS. ‘Thank you.’ Carlyle wondered what the good doctor made of Stine Hassing. Alexander’s ‘death doula’ had appeared on the scene several months ago. At first, he had been deeply sceptical of what he considered to be the Danish woman’s New Age flakery. However, Stine’s commitment to helping Alexander Carlyle through his last days had grown to the point that she had taken up residence in his father’s flat as the endgame approached. Right now, the doula was the only thing standing between the old man and a last few tragic days in Fulham Park Trust Hospital. For the inspector, the useless, helpless, hopeless son, the mixture of gratitude and relief was almost as powerful as one of his father’s morphine drips.

‘And we’ve made sure that he has plenty of pain relief.’

About bloody time. ‘Good.’ The NHS had finally come through with a decent supply of drugs to ensure that the old man could go out high as a kite. For more than nine months previously, the inspector had been supplying his father with a selection of immensely effective but totally illegal opiates, sourced via his good friend and contact, a former drug-dealer by the name of Dominic Silver. But Dom’s own suppliers had proved erratic. There had been no black-market pills available for more than a month. As a policeman, Carlyle was pleased that his illegal drug-dealing activity had been curtailed; as a concerned son, less so.

‘When did you last visit your father?’ The question was abrupt, almost accusatory.

‘Probably a couple of days ago,’ Carlyle lied. The truth was closer to a fortnight. ‘Like I said, the thing is—’

Not interested in his excuses, Dr Scott cut him off: ‘Alexander’s done very well to last this long,’ he said flatly. ‘He’s a very strong man. If it wasn’t for the cancer, he would have many years in front of him.’

That’s good to know, Carlyle thought sourly. I’m sure that makes the poor old bugger feel much better about things.

‘But now your father’s definitely reaching the end. I would strongly advise you to go and see him in the next day or two. You need to spend some time with him soon, or it may be too late.’

On Shaftesbury Avenue, a taxi pulled up to the kerb, in front of the window. The inspector watched an elegant woman in an expensive-looking trouser suit get out of the back. Wearing a pair of outsized sunglasses, she glanced in Carlyle’s direction before easing the taxi door closed.

Fuck death.

Choose life.

‘Mr Carlyle?’

‘Yes,’ he said hastily. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Doctor. It was very kind of you. I appreciate the heads-up.’

‘One of my colleagues from the medical centre will be round to see Alexander tomorrow, but it really is close now.’

‘I understand.’

The woman paid her cab fare and headed down the street. Watching her go, Carlyle contemplated the prospect of finally becoming an orphan in his sixth decade on the planet.

Sitting at the back of the café, Karen Jansen watched the crumpled middle-aged man gawping at the girls passing on the street as he mumbled into his mobile. That’s a punter right there, she thought, definitely a punter. Not that it was the most stunning insight she had ever had. When it came down to it, all men were either punters or potential punters.

Finishing his call, the man stared out of the window for a short while before slipping off his stool and heading onto the street. Bored, she tuned in to the telephone conversation of the girl opposite her. Melody Rainbow (amazingly, it was her real name) was one of Jansen’s most troublesome employees. A second-year student at the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies, Melody was studying for a BA in Tibetan and social anthropology. Six months ago, to help fund a year studying at Lhasa University, the girl had signed on at the Nelly Ternan Escort Agency. However, getting Melody to take any jobs was a struggle: there was always an unfinished essay or a suspicious boyfriend getting in the way of her earning some money. Jansen had long since marked Melody down as a waste of time. Unfortunately, the agency’s owner, an old-school gangster by the name of Vernon Holder, had taken a shine to the girl. Moreover, the agency was suffering a severe shortage of talent. Brexit, it seemed, was putting everybody off coming to London, even the hookers.

This set of circumstances meant that Melody Rainbow was basically unsackable, at least until a decent set of new arrivals appeared on the scene.

‘Stop it.’ Melody played with a strand of her bubblegum pink hair while shouting into her iPhone. ‘I told you, I have to work tonight.’

Jansen signalled it was time to wind up the call, but the girl ignored her.

‘Why would I lie to you? I’m sitting in a café right now – that’s what the noise is. When I finish my panini, I need to go to the library and finish off my essay on the Yarlung Dynasty … No, no, Yarlung.’

Jansen pulled a pair of reading glasses from her bag, along with her phone. Slipping on the specs, she googled ‘Yarlung Empire’. Clicking on the third of more than a million results, she read a potted history: Yarlung was home to the first king of Tibet … The Yarlung Dynasty reached its peak during the military successes of the seventh and eighth centuries and came to an end after the assassination of the last king of the Tibetan empire, Langdarma …

I probably know more about it now than you do, Jansen thought sadly. Knowledge isn’t what it was. Chuckling to herself, she took another sip of her tea. Melody was a pretty girl but if she stopped hiding behind the persona of a naughty schoolgirl and just grew up a little she’d be truly beautiful.

‘I told you …’ Cradling the phone between shoulder and ear, Melody turned her attention to toying with the remains of her food. ‘You never believe me. Tomorrow? … Maybe. Let’s see. Look, I’ve got to go now … Yeah, sure.’ Ending the call, she dropped the handset onto the table and let out a world-weary sigh.

‘Which one was that?’ Jansen asked, more than a little irritated that she had to pay more attention to Melody’s boyfriends than her own.

‘Chris.’

Jansen racked her brain but couldn’t come up with a Chris from the constantly swelling ranks of the Melody Rainbow Appreciation Society.

Looking up from her plate, Melody recognised the confusion on Jansen’s face. ‘He’s new. Well, newish. I met him at the Constantinople Ballroom a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jansen had never heard of the Constantinople but she didn’t bother to ask. The girl collected boyfriends like other people collected loyalty-card stamps, although there was no doubt that the latter offered considerably better value for money.

‘He’s becoming quite possessive.’

‘Already?’

‘He says I’m his dream woman.’ The look on Melody’s face suggested she considered that a perfectly reasonable assertion.

‘Maybe you should ditch him.’ In Jansen’s experience, the average bloke had a shelf life of about a month, max – less if they started going all gooey on you.

‘But he’s got a Maserati. And he took me to Malvaceae the other night.’

‘What’s that? A new club?’

‘It’s a restaurant,’ Melody explained. ‘It’s got two Michelin stars.’

‘Hm. I’ve always wondered, what is a Michelin star, anyway?’

‘It means it’s good,’ Melody said airily.

‘It means it’s expensive,’ Jansen translated. ‘Anyway, about tonight.’

‘You heard me on the phone,’ Melody squealed. ‘I’ve got to do my essay. I need to write a minimum of three and a half thousand words, or I could flunk this part of my course.’

‘They’re not going to flunk you.’ Jansen parroted the Americanism in an attempt at empathy. ‘They want the fees.’

‘But if I have to go back and do it again, that’s more fees.’

Jansen gritted her teeth. She hated it when the girl surprised her by saying something that made some sort of sense.

‘Three thousand five hundred words.’ Melody seemed mesmerised by the number. ‘That’s a lot.’

‘Quite a lot.’

‘It’s a hell of a lot when you’re sitting there staring at a blank page.’

‘Can’t you just buy an essay online?’

Melody looked offended. ‘But that’s cheating.’

‘I thought everybody did it these days,’ Jansen quipped. ‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’

‘It’s expensive.’

‘So, you’ve done it before?’

‘Once or twice,’ Melody admitted, ‘like, you know, when I was under a bit of deadline pressure.’

‘Like now.’

‘I suppose so. This is a big essay, though, and they normally charge by the word. It’ll probably end up costing a grand or more.’

‘That’s less than you’ll make tonight,’ Jansen pointed out. ‘You’ll still come out ahead.’

‘I suppose so,’ Melody repeated. She could see the logic.

‘I wish they’d had something like that in my day.’ Jansen – an MBA from La Trobe in Melbourne – recalled the thirty-thousand-word dissertation she’d had to write as part of her final exams: The role of censor strategies to prevent a clash of cultures through advertising: applications and implications. Very bloody useful that had proved to be. She was surprised she could even remember the title.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing.’

Jansen occasionally wondered if Melody Rainbow was a complete fantasist. Maybe the girl was just making it all up about her degree. She’d once quizzed Melody on why she had chosen such an ‘esoteric’ (read: ‘useless’) subject to study. The girl had responded by reciting the marketing brochure: ‘Graduates leave SOAS not only with linguistic and cultural expertise, but also with a portfolio of widely transferable skills, which employers seek in many professional and management careers.’

‘What transferable skills?’

‘Written and oral communication skills, language skills, attention to detail, analytical and problem-solving skills, and the ability to research, amass and order information from a variety of sources.’

Sounds perfect preparation for being an escort, Jansen had reflected. ‘What do you want to do when you gr–’ She was about to say ‘grow up’ but skilfully managed instead to turn it into ‘– graduate?’

Running out of marketing babble, Melody blew her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Dunno. Depends what comes along. Maybe management consultancy or merchant banking.’ She thought about it some more. ‘Private equity, maybe.’

Jansen stifled a chortle. ‘Why not?’

‘If one of those doesn’t work out, there’s always PR as a last resort.’

Truly, Jansen had thought, we’re all prostitutes. ‘Making use of your excellent communication skills.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, at least you seem to have given it some thought.’

‘You have to plan ahead,’ Melody opined. ‘The world is so competitive – you can’t just make it up as you go along, like you did in your day.’

‘I suppose not.’ Jansen was only twelve years older than Melody but it seemed like they belonged to different centuries, different worlds. They probably did.

Now Jansen put her glasses away. ‘We need to get moving.’

‘I’ve got to do my essay.’

‘Mel—’

‘I’m not lying to you,’ Melody squawked, a bit too loudly. At the next table, a couple of middle-aged women, fresh from a matinee performance of a nearby musical, gave them irritated stares from behind their souvenir programmes.

Maybe they don’t like the pink hair, Jansen thought. I bet it’ll go down a storm in Lhasa, though. Despite everything, she had a bit of a soft spot for Melody. At least the girl was trying to do something unusual. ‘You can do it in the morning.’ Squinting, she began flicking through the dozens of messages stored on her phone. Conscious of the nosy women at the next table, she lowered her voice: ‘The client’s flat is only five minutes up the road. You can go straight to the library afterwards.’

‘I’ll be too tired.’

‘Not at all,’ Jansen persisted. The girl was sorely trying her patience but the client – Martin Grom – had, on the recommendation of Vernon Holder, asked specifically for Melody. Jansen had long wondered about the connection between the two men. A professor specialising in development studies and an East End gangster were not the most obvious bedfellows. But Holder had never been forthcoming on the matter and Jansen knew better than to ask too many questions. ‘It won’t take too long. Martin’s an older gentleman, a long-time client of Mr Holder’s.’

‘Urgh.’ Melody’s face screwed up in disgust. ‘I hate the older guys. Disgusting bodies. Shrivelled cocks. They make me gag.’

One of the nearby women embarked on a violent coughing fit.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Jansen hissed. ‘He’s a nice guy, very … polite.’

A wearily sceptical look crossed Melody’s face, ageing her about twenty years in less than a second. ‘How old?’

Seventy-three. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Over sixty?’

Even Jansen couldn’t lie that far. ‘I would assume so,’ she said blandly. ‘He’s retired. But he was an academic, so you never know.’

‘An academic?’

‘A professor. He used to teach at the university. You know what it’s like with those people – they work ten hours a week, take six months’ holiday a year and retire on some ridiculous pension when they’re forty-five.’

That sounded like an ideal career plan for a girl with a BA in Tibetan and social anthropology. ‘He’s got to be older than that, though, right?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ve decided,’ Melody stated solemnly. ‘No more men over forty-five. I was thinking about making it forty, but forty-five seems more realistic.’

Yeah, right.

‘It’s a new rule. My psychologist says I need to start making more rules.’

Psychologist? Jansen knew better than to go there.

‘I’ve got to set myself boundaries, if I’m going to organise my life properly and achieve my goals.’

‘And this is your first, erm, goal?’

‘Not the first,’ Melody said brightly. ‘I’d already decided to stop drinking alcohol – and also no more cheese.’

‘Cheese?’ What is this? A philosophy for life or a diet programme?

Melody shook her head sadly. ‘It doesn’t agree with me. Unsettles my stomach. Plus, it’s just all fat, basically.’

We’re getting off the point, Jansen admonished herself. ‘So, the no-over-forty rule—’

‘No over-forty-fives. I made it after you sent me to see that IT guy last week.’

Jansen searched through her mental checklist of past appointments. ‘The guy in the Docklands?’

‘Nah. The Docklands guy was a banker. He was okay, a bit shy. Not very experienced, I don’t think. Gave me a nice tip, though. The IT guy was the American who had the penthouse suite at the Landmark.’

‘I remember,’ said Jansen. ‘But he wasn’t that old. Only thirty, something like that. I read a profile of him on ft.com. He collects lizards.’

‘Snakes,’ Melody corrected her.

‘Yuck.’

‘Anyway, when I got there it turned out he was a twenty-eight-year-old virgin who didn’t have a clue. He spent more time trying to film me on his mobile phone than doing the deed.’ Melody raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I really hate that. No videos – that’s another rule.’

Jansen, who had seen enough of herself on the internet to last a lifetime, gave a sympathetic cluck.

‘But his father must have been something like eighty.’

‘His father?’ Jansen belatedly recalled that the booking had been one of Victor’s BOGOF specials for first-time clients. Buy One, Get One Free.

‘Yeah.’ Melody gave her a crooked smile. ‘You forgot to mention him, didn’t you?’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘It was horrible, like fucking a corpse. A corpse with a very dirty mind. And incredible stamina for a man of his age. All in all, not a happy combination.’

The women at the next table looked like their eyes were about to pop out of their heads. Having given up on any pretence of holding their own conversation, they were hanging on the pinkhaired freak’s every word. One of the women had her mouth open so far that her tongue was almost on the table. The other clasped a mobile phone to her ample bosom, as if she was recording the whole conversation for posterity.

Which, of course, she might well be doing. That would be something to tell the folks back home: ‘Well, we went to see a show but, then, the people who live in that place … a complete den of iniquity …’

‘Melody, for Christ’s sake keep it down.’ I sound like the girl’s mother, Jansen thought. Irritated beyond belief, she glared at the two women as hard as she could, before returning her attention to her truculent employee.

‘You just don’t vet these people properly,’ the girl scowled, ‘do you?’

‘There will be no surprises with the professor, I can promise you.’

‘Send one of the other girls.’

‘I would if I could.’

‘I made my mind up,’ Melody said. ‘The rule is the rule. Non-negotiable.’

‘You don’t – we don’t get to make the rules,’ Jansen reminded her. ‘Vernon would have a total fit if he could hear this conversation.’

‘Vernon can do one,’ Melody suggested. Cue more coughing from the next table. The gawkers really were getting their money’s worth – this had to be a million times more entertaining than the revival of some eighties musical. ‘He can just sod off.’

This was not an unreasonable point of view, Jansen had to admit, but not one that helped pay the bills. A sudden wave of self-pity washed over her. Middle-management was such hard work: everything was a protracted negotiation. These days, no one would ever just do what they were damn well told. She racked her brain, trying to come up with another argument that would encourage the girl to do her bidding. ‘What about that Irish guy?’ she asked finally. ‘You like him.’

‘Mr Durkan?’ Melody’s face brightened up. ‘He’s a sweetie. He only takes about ten minutes. He can be a bit rough sometimes, when he gets carried away, but he always gives me a massive tip.’

‘He’s ancient, though, much older than forty-five.’

Melody couldn’t deny that basic truth. ‘I think that Gerry can be the exception that proves the rule.’

‘Compared to Gerry Durkan,’ Jansen pointed out, ‘Martin Grom is a real gentleman.’

‘That’s what you think.’

‘Trust me.’ It was a feeble plea, an admission of defeat.

‘Gerry says you shouldn’t trust anyone.’

Especially not Durkan. Jansen changed tack: ‘This job’s been booked in for a week. It’s a bit late to be having this kind of conversation. The client’s expecting you.’

‘Do you know him?’ Melody asked. What she meant was: has he fucked you?

Jansen ignored the question. ‘He has a thing for undergraduates.’

‘Dirty old man.’

‘He’s interested in your studies.’

Melody idly scratched her left breast through the silk of her shirt. ‘Yeah, right.’

‘He is. He wants to discuss them with you over dinner.’

‘Dinner?’

‘He’s preparing dinner at his flat. Apparently, he’s a great cook.’

Melody looked vaguely interested but decidedly less than convinced. ‘Where did he teach? At SOAS?’

‘I think so. He might be able to help you with your essay.’

‘I’ve got to get it done,’ Melody repeated. ‘It’s already almost a week late. Three thousand five hundred words. That’s a lot.’

‘Well,’ Jansen suggested, ‘another day isn’t going to make too much difference, is it?’

The Maserati or the Porsche? It shouldn’t have been such a difficult decision. Balthazar Quant had set his heart on the Maserati. Unfortunately, his long-held fantasy of walking into the Maserati showroom, handing over a briefcase containing seventy grand in crisp fifty-pound notes and driving out in the blood-red Ghibli S that he had twice taken for a test drive round Canary Wharf, was now in tatters. When that total bastard of a boss, Gerry Durkan, had handed over his bonus, Balthazar had been genuinely shocked and totally horrified to discover a number that was so far below his expectations that it would barely cover a deposit on a Macan from the Porsche dealer down the road at the India Docks.

Of course, leasing the Maserati was still an option. However, he had told the salesman of his intention to buy, and to backtrack now would be profoundly embarrassing. A sense of deep frustration burned inside Balthazar’s guts. An MBA from the Technical University at Padua, followed by fourteen years working . . .