Nobody's Hero

Book 9: Inspector Carlyle

by James Craig

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

In and out of prison for over 40 years, Seymour Eriksson is officially `London?s most unsuccessful criminal.? So why can?t Carlyle keep him off the streets for more than five minutes ? and how can he stop hack Bernie Gilmore naming and shaming him in his tabloid rag? Worried about his own personal profile, Carlyle is slow to notice several alarming cases involving missing schoolgirls. So can he get his act together and start solving crimes before Bernie brands him publicly as `London?s most unsuccessful cop?? Praise for James Craig: `A cracking read? BBC Radio 4 `Fast paced and very easy to get quickly lost in? Lovereading.com

Release date: August 6, 2015

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 336

Sample

Struggling to shift away from the damp patch sticking to the small of her back, Sandra Middlemass wrinkled her nose. With the benefit of hindsight, opening the window would have been a good idea. Even the waves of pollution rising up from the thousands of vehicles making their way along the road outside would have been an improvement on the fetid atmosphere inside the room.

From the other side of the thin glass, the relentless hum of early evening traffic rumbling past at six miles an hour was suddenly interrupted by a series of screaming police sirens trying to force their way through the capital’s near-gridlock.

‘Ugh.’ With his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, the fat man half-pushed himself up as he gave a nervous glance towards the window.

The idiot thinks they’re coming for him, Sandra thought, feeling him beginning to soften inside her. As if. Scratching her nose, she watched the guy struggle to put his tongue back in his mouth. Who was he? She tried to remember the name. Steve something or other.

Whatever. He was one of Aqib’s white mates. Not the kind of bloke to waste any money on deodorant. And not very good when it came to putting on a condom.

Had she screwed him before? Sandra had no idea.

‘Fucking coppers,’ the guy grunted, still looking through the window at the milky sky.

Don’t you worry, Sandra thought wearily, it’s not like they’re coming to save me. They never come for me.

As if on cue, the sirens immediately reached a crescendo and began dying away.

See?

Sandra had learned over the last six months that there was no danger of any of her abusers being caught in the act. Once, she’d even been to the police station to beg for help; ended up sitting in an airless waiting room for four hours without even an offer of something to drink.

No one came then, either. In the end, she just walked out. An hour or so later, she had been back on the job.

Most likely, the coppers dutifully rushing across West London tonight were responding to reports of another gang of shoplifters targeting the nearby shopping centre. It was a routine occurrence – one that always got a prompt response from the boys in blue at the nearby police station. That was the thing about the police in this city – they only dealt with the right sort of crime. Protecting iPhones and Rolexes was one thing. People, on the other hand, were nowhere near as important. Leave them to their own devices and they would eventually go away. Crumble to dust. Disappear.

If that was the name of the game, well fine. She would play the game. She would disappear. Problem solved.

Mumbling to himself, Steve – if that was his name – rubbed at the tattoo on his left forearm. It was a crude drawing of some bloke’s face. The bloke had spiky hair and shifty eyes. Underneath the face, in small letters, was tattooed Captain, Leader, Legend.

Legend? Bell-end, more like, Sandra thought, stifling a giggle. Inside her, Steve was continuing to wilt. She hoped that the Durex would stay on. Even more, she hoped that he managed to restore his erection. Otherwise, there would doubtless be a beating in it for her.

As the sirens faded further into the distance, she felt the guy’s attention finally return to her naked body. After toying with Sandra’s left nipple for a couple of seconds, he flopped down on top of her and began grinding away. The weight on her chest was crushing and she could barely breathe as he picked up speed.

Get on with it, you stupid bastard.

Looking past the punter’s left shoulder, Sandra noticed that there was a large cobweb in the far corner of the room, near to where the ceiling met the wall. Next to it was a massive spider. It looked like the spider was watching them. For some reason, the idea struck her as amusing. This time she allowed herself a laugh.

‘What’s so funny, huh?’ The fat man pushed himself off her chest, balling his right hand into a fist as he did so.

He just can’t manage it. Taking a deep breath, the girl braced herself for the inevitable blow. When it came, his wedding ring split her lip. Sandra hadn’t noticed the ring before. What kind of idiot would marry a loser like this?

Running her tongue across her gums, she tasted the salty blood. ‘Is it still in?’ she grinned, sticking out her chin, defying him to hit her again.

‘You little bitch,’ the man hissed, sliding off her. Standing by the bed, he tore off the empty condom and tossed it on to the floor.

Wiping the sweat from her left breast, a sense of giddiness enveloped her. Sandra finally realized that she knew how this should end. What was it called? Short-term pain for long-term gain. A few more minutes and it would be all over. She could say goodbye to all the fat men and their tattoos, forever.

It was time to disappear.

‘I’m sorry,’ she propped herself up on her elbows, ‘it’s just that for such a big man, you have such a small cock. Tiny, in fact.’

The guy stepped forward and Sandra was sure that she could see his dick shrink even further, getting smaller and smaller until it had almost disappeared into an unkempt nest of black pubes. Her grin grew wider as the second blow rammed her nose back into her face. Her head bounced back onto the pillow but immediately she lifted herself up again, inviting more punishment.

‘I’ve never had anyone who couldn’t get it up before,’ she managed to say. ‘But I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe you’re gay?’

The look on the guy’s face as he reached for her throat was a mixture of confusion, hatred and pure rage.

Got you. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ she smiled sweetly as his hands tightened around her windpipe. Then gurgled: ‘Nothing at all.’

Overwhelmed by a sense of ennui, Joseph Belsky pushed his chair back from his desk, stretched out his arms and yawned theatrically. Closing his mouth, he looked past his reflection, gazing out of the window at the orange glow of the lurid metropolitan sky. From somewhere in the heavens came the whining of jet engines as an aircraft made its descent towards Heathrow. Were the flights becoming more frequent, or was it just his imagination? One day, Belsky thought unhappily, one of the planes would inevitably fall from the sky, for some reason or another. Still staring blankly at the rain, his thoughts turned to long-gone skyscrapers far away as he listened to the aircraft’s Rolls-Royce engines slip off into the distance.

The city below lay silent and uncomplaining. Not for the first time, Belsky wondered just how he had managed to end up living so far from the ground. Never having a head for heights, he had been the most reluctant buyer of a seventeen-hundred square foot, three-bedroom home on the twenty-second floor of the Whitehouse Apartment building on the South Bank. It was his late wife, Winnifred, who had chosen it. At the time, Belsky had been too meek to resist; after Winnifred keeled over – felled by a fatal heart attack during a visit to a garden centre in Elephant and Castle – he simply didn’t have the energy to pack up and move on.

From the moment she first walked into the place, Winnifred had been hooked on the views that the flat offered across the historic centre of the city. When he had tried to complain that the price was way beyond their budget, the look on her face had sent him scurrying back to the bank to beg for a massively increased loan, underpinned by a ludicrously optimistic assessment of his future income. When the teenage mortgage adviser had signed it off with barely a second glance, Belsky knew he was sunk. Those were the days before the credit crunch, the sub-prime crisis, the banking crisis and the seemingly endless recession that had seen home loans for ordinary people dry up. Thank God London property prices hadn’t crashed too, otherwise he would have been taking his monster debt with him to the grave.

Following Winnifred’s funeral, her ashes – those that Belsky hadn’t tried to smoke, à la Keith Richards – had been kept in a small Chinese lacquer box on the windowsill. He had been keen that – even in death – she should still be able to enjoy the vista. Tonight, however, there wasn’t much to see; the weather had closed in, cutting visibility to a minimum. Two hundred and fifty feet below him, even the mighty River Thames was barely visible. Jeez, Belsky thought, it’s almost June but it feels like November. More than forty years had passed since he’d left the sunny optimism of California and headed to Europe, finally settling down and making his home in London. It was a decision that he rarely regretted but sometimes, boy, this city could be hard to love. Maybe he would bring his summer holidays forward this year and head for the South of France, or maybe Barcelona – anywhere with some light and some warmth.

Scratching his two-day-old stubble, Belsky glanced over at the iMac sitting in the corner of the room. Maybe he should nip online and book something for next week. ‘No, no,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘back to work.’ Before he could properly rouse himself, however, the strains of the theme tune from the Mickey Mouse Club began percolating through from the living room. Good old Mickey; a constant in an ever-changing, endlessly disappointing world.

Resisting the urge to sing along, he felt the merest ripple of guilt. Belsky had faithfully promised Stephanie, his daughter, that he would not use the TV as a babysitter for Joanne this evening. Then again, he was on a deadline. And floundering, at that – a not so uncommon occurrence these days.

Anyway, his daughter had gone out dancing and left Grandpa in charge. Joanne, nine, seemed more than happy with a can of Coke and a cartoon – just as her mother had been, thirty years before. Hopefully, his granddaughter wouldn’t shop him in the morning, but even if she did, what would Stephanie be able to do about it?

After carefully refilling his glass from the bottle of Bordeaux perched next to Winnifred on the windowsill, Belsky took a mouthful of wine and considered the rough sketch taped to his drawing board. The drawing – of a jolly fat woman dressed as a circus performer being fired out of a cannon – was shit, but it was too late in the day to rip it up and start again. Lifting the glass back to his lips, Belsky sighed. How much longer could he keep churning this stuff out? His editor had wanted him to poke fun at the latest politician caught fiddling their expenses – some junior minister Belsky had never even heard of. ‘The problem is,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘it’s just not very funny, is it?’ More to the point, after a long succession of such scandals, it was hardly news any more. A sense of despair washed over him. Maybe it was time to start thinking about retirement.

Belsky’s stomach growled; the wine was giving him the munchies. His thoughts were turning to pepperoni pizza when he became aware of a loud banging noise.

‘Grandpa,’ Joanne shouted over the sound of Donald Duck’s sniggering, ‘someone’s at the door.’

Putting down his wine glass, Belsky forced himself out of his chair and shuffled into the living room.

‘Someone’s at the door,’ Joanne repeated, giggling as Goofy fell over Donald’s outstretched leg and webbed foot.

‘Why don’t they ring the goddamn doorbell then?’ Belsky grumbled as he headed for the hallway. ‘That’s what it’s there for.’

Sucking down some Coke, his granddaughter did not lift her gaze from the TV. ‘It’s probably Mum.’

Belsky grunted, knowing full well that the child was most probably correct. The likelihood was that Stephanie would have had another row with her boyfriend and the dancing would be off. They were a disastrous couple, it seemed to him; unable to do anything without arguing about it, loudly and at length. Why Stephanie hadn’t stayed with Joanne’s father . . . well, Belsky didn’t want to go there.

As he switched on the hall light, there was a crash, as if someone was trying to kick the door down. Belsky shook his head; it looked like Stephanie had forgotten her key again, as well.

‘Hold on. I’m coming. What’s the hurry?’ Just as he was about to reach for the lock, there was the sound of splintering wood and the door burst open. ‘What the . . .’ The cartoonist jumped backwards as a young man appeared on the threshold. About Belsky’s height, the man was wearing a pair of dirty jeans and a heavy parka zipped up to his chin; the invader was sweating from the exertion of breaking down the door. As Belsky caught sight of the axe in the man’s hand, his mouth fell open in disbelief. Belatedly, he realized that this was the moment he had been waiting for. For a split second, he felt paralysed. Then, as the adrenaline kicked in, he turned on his heels and fled back through the flat.

A steady stream of tourists passed aimlessly through the lobby of the King’s Cross Novotel. Almost all of them stopped to admire the banner, thirty feet wide and ten feet tall, covering the wall next to Reception. Quite a few pointed. Some laughed. On the banner was an image of a spaceship travelling serenely through the cosmos, heading towards a bright shining sun in the far distance, above the rather cryptic message: A fantastic journey.

Standing in the middle of the lobby, Elma Reyes sucked her teeth in annoyance as she watched a couple of Dutch tourists in replica Arsenal shirts pose in front of it, giving the thumbs-up, while a third took a photo. As the person who would ultimately have to pay for the banner, Elma was not happy.

She was not happy at all.

The damn thing had cost more than six hundred pounds and the end result was something that looked like an advert for a Sci-Fi conference. Space – the final frontier, and all that nonsense.

The photographer turned to her, holding the camera in his outstretched hand. Unlike his mates, he was wearing the shirt of a team that she did not recognize. She was fairly sure that it wasn’t a London team, at any rate. ‘Will you shoot the three of us?’ he asked, switching on a friendly smile.

Gladly, Elma thought, and marched away. Taking the brusque rejection in his stride, the Dutchman went off in search of someone who might be more accommodating of his modest request.

A spaceship? ‘God, give us grace,’ Elma mumbled, ‘to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed.’ Not that she had much option; it was far too late to do anything about it now.

Beneath the banner was a board bearing the greeting which was the only real clue as to the event’s true purpose: The Christian Salvation Centre™ welcomes you to the First Annual Miracle & Healing Conference™ (Motto: ‘Believe and it will happen.’ ™).

I should’ve just told them to put my picture up there, the CSC’s CEO and Life President thought sourly. If you don’t keep it simple, these boys are simply guaranteed to get it wrong.

A diffident-looking young man allowed himself to be intercepted by the photographer and set about taking a series of pictures of the Dutch trio. After handing back the camera, he walked over to Elma.

‘Which spaceship is that?’ she scowled, pointing at the wall.

Melville Farasin, Elma’s special assistant, was caught taking his iPhone from the pocket of his trousers. ‘Huh?’

‘The banner,’ Elma said irritably, ‘the spaceship on the banner. Where did you get it from?’

Melville reluctantly returned the phone to his pocket. ‘No idea.’

‘What do you mean, you’ve no idea?’ The woman felt her hackles rising. ‘If you’ve no idea, why did you let them put it on there?’ The boy had always tried her patience and, if anything, the problem was getting worse. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the son of her best friend, Wendy, there was no doubt that young Melville would have been sacked long ago. As it was, keeping him in gainful employ was stretching her definition of Christian patience to breaking point. Wendy had never confessed the identity of the boy’s father – Elma was sure that was because the man in question must have been an out-and-out imbecile.

Melville took a deep breath. His boss was a small woman with a big mean streak; how she had been chosen to spread the word of God was something of a mystery to him. If it wasn’t for fear of upsetting his mum, Melville would have packed this job in long ago. Burger King would have provided more spirituality, not to mention money. ‘You told me to get something that indicated a long journey,’ he reminded her, trying to keep any kind of whining tone from his voice. ‘Terence will have sourced it from the internet or something.’

Grimacing, Elma picked a piece of lint from her designer kaftan. Terence McGuiver was another troublesome youth, steadfastly refusing to allow Jesus into his heart. But he was cheap and somehow managed to keep the Salvation Centre’s digital operations on the road, so he would probably last longer than Melville. ‘This is the Church of God,’ she said wearily, ‘not Star Trek. Probably a breach of copyright too.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Melville replied, ‘it’s not the Starship Enterprise.’ He pointed at the poster. ‘The USS Enterprise – the ship from Star Trek – has kind of wings at the back.’

‘Whatever.’ Elma waved away his explanation with an angry hand. ‘Star Trek, Star Wars . . .’

‘Star Wars? That’s not really Terry’s kind of thing either. It’s more likely from Prometheus, somethin’ like that.’

Pushing back her shoulders, Elma tried to give the boy a hard stare. Even in her heels, however, she barely came up to his chin. ‘Regardless of its name,’ she hissed, ‘it has got ab-so-lute-ly nothing to do with the sweet Lord Jesus, has it?’

‘Well,’ Melville stroked his chin in mock contemplation, ‘I think I read somewhere that there are those who think that Jesus was some kind of spaceman.’

Resisting the temptation to give the boy a sharp clip round the ear, Elma moved on. ‘How many have we got?’ she asked, looking around the largely empty foyer.

Melville tapped a couple of keys on his phone and gazed enquiringly at the screen. ‘One hundred and twenty-six, so far.’

‘Is that all?’ Elma shook her head in disbelief. If she didn’t get at least double that into the Novotel’s theatre and conference centre, the CSC would struggle to cover its costs. Miracle & Healing™ was supposed to be a flagship event. Elma had shipped speakers over from India and the United States; if the conference was a flop, her chances of breaking out of the London market and going international would take a serious hit. ‘Don’t people in this God-forsaken city want to be healed?’

‘We have three hundred registered attendees,’ the boy said quickly, ‘and after leafleting the local neighbourhood last night, we are anticipating walk-in of up to a hundred.’

‘Let’s hope they bring their credit cards,’ Elma snapped, ‘and are ready to spend big.’ Checking her Rolex Oyster Perpetual – a gift from a grateful member of her flock – she felt exhausted, completely devoid of the energy she would need for her sermon, which was due to start in less than two hours’ time. Closing her eyes, Elma pushed her mantra to the front of her brain:

God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that He didn’t trust me so much.

God will not give me anything I can’t handle.

With a sigh, she pointed towards the Business Centre, past the reception desk towards the back of the hotel. ‘Go and check that my speech is ready. We’ll do a final rehearsal later.’

‘Hm.’

‘We will,’ Elma insisted. ‘Right now, I need to go and get some rest. If I’m not at my best, you know I won’t be able to perform.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You know so, boy.’ She brusquely waved him away. ‘Now go and get busy.’

Melville looked at her blankly. ‘Doing what?’

‘Whatever it is you do,’ Elma said tiredly. ‘Whatever it is you do.’

‘You’re already in the paper.’ Inspector John Carlyle casually tossed his copy of the Evening Standard across the desk before pulling up a chair and plonking himself down.

Putting down his mug of tea, Seymour Erikssen picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and brought it up till it was about three inches from his nose. Squinting at his photograph, he smiled. ‘That’s from quite a few years ago now,’ he mused. ‘I was looking good back then. Had more hair, for a start. Not so many lines around the eyes.’

‘We’re all getting older.’ The inspector took a bulging file of notes from under his arm and placed them carefully in front of him.

‘Yes, we are.’ Seymour dropped the paper back on the desk. ‘I remember you when you first arrived here at Charing Cross nick. That must have been about . . . what, fifteen, sixteen years ago?’

‘Something like that.’ The old guy was a few years out but the inspector wasn’t minded to correct him.

Seymour looked him up and down. ‘You’ve put on a bit of weight since then. Lost some hair yourself.’ He gave a sympathetic cluck. ‘And when did you start wearing specs?’

‘A while ago now.’ Carlyle reflexively touched his Lindberg frames. He was long due another eye-test, but with glasses at £450 a pair it could wait.

Seymour patted his jacket pocket. ‘I’m not sure where I put mine. I think I might have lost them earlier this evening.’

‘When you were running down Monmouth Street with three iPads under your arm, trying to evade WPC Mason?’

‘Could be,’ Seymour acknowledged breezily. ‘She’s quite nippy, that girl.’

‘They all are,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘once you get to your age.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Seymour replied wistfully, ‘But back in the day . . .’

‘Back in the day,’ Carlyle reminded him gently, ‘you were still getting caught.’

‘Hmm. I must have been one of your first arrests when you got here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Remind me, where did you come from?’

‘Bethnal Green.’

‘Bethnal Green, that’s right. A bit grim out there.’

‘Quite.’

‘Poor pickings compared to the West End.’

‘Doesn’t make any odds, does it, if you keep on getting caught?’

Seymour gave him an amused look that made the inspector wonder just how often the old burglar hadn’t been caught, and asked, ‘How many times is it now?’

‘That I’ve nicked you?’ Carlyle looked heavenward. ‘I dunno, seven maybe? Eight? Too bloody many, anyway.’

‘Come on, Inspector,’ Seymour chuckled, ‘lighten up, it’s just a game.’

‘A game you keep losing.’

‘It’s not the winning, as my old ma used to say, it’s the taking part.’

‘Seymour . . .’

Lifting the newspaper from the desk, Erikssen scanned the story of his latest arrest for a second time. ‘Still, at least I made page four.’

‘It’s nothing to be proud about.’ Leaning across the table, the inspector tapped the headline under Seymour’s nose: BACK BEHIND BARS: LONDON’S MOST HOPELESS CRIMINAL.

Seymour finished reading the article and noted, ‘The press got on to it quick.’

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Who’s the journalist?’

‘No idea.’ The inspector didn’t need to check the byline. Bernard Gilmore was one of Carlyle’s long-term journalist contacts. The fact that he had tipped Bernie off the night before was not something he was going to share with Seymour. ‘Anyway, it’s not exactly something to tell the grandkids about.’

‘They know already.’

God give me strength, Carlyle thought.

Taking a sip of his tea, the burglar sniggered. ‘At least I’m famous.’

Under the hard strip-lighting of the interview room, Carlyle noticed that Erikssen’s hands were shaking quite badly. His silver hair was thin on top, almost to the point of extinction, and his cheeks were hollow. Not exactly a great advert for a career in breaking and entering. The guy must be pushing seventy by now, he thought. Maybe he’s ill. ‘Are you okay?’

All he got in reply was a non-committal grunt.

Opening the file, Carlyle looked down at his papers. Seymour’s criminal record ran to twelve pages of A4.

Seymour pointed at the file. ‘I would have thought you’d have all that on computer by now.’

The inspector flicked through the pages. ‘Not when your first conviction is from Dorking Juvenile Court in 1957.’

‘Convicted of larceny.’ Seymour smiled at the memory. ‘A year’s probation and ten shillings in costs.’

Carlyle looked up from the papers. ‘Nothing wrong with your memory, then.’

‘Not at all.’ Seymour tapped his temple with an index finger. ‘Sharp as a tack.’

‘Still, I don’t think that two hundred and fifty-two convictions over a period of fifty-three years is the kind of claim to fame that most people would want.’

‘It’s a living.’

‘Seymour, you are the worst bloody burglar I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s time to retire.’

‘What would I do?’

‘I dunno.’ Feeling quite old himself, Carlyle made a face. ‘Something.’

‘Inspector?’

Swivelling in his chair, Carlyle turned to see the aforementioned WPC Mason with her head stuck round the interview-room door and a serious look on her face. She glanced at Erikssen before telling her superior officer: ‘We’ve got a situation.’

The corridor was so full of people he could hardly get through. Nodding at the uniform stationed at the front door of the flat, the inspector brushed past a couple of forensics guys and headed inside. In the living room, he clocked the girl watching cartoons on the sofa, studiously ignoring all the excitement going on around her, and headed towards the grinding sound of metal on metal coming from further back inside.

Stepping into what looked like a study, he nodded a greeting at Umar Sligo. Hands on hips, the sergeant was watching a man on his knees, trying to drill a hole in a door in the far corner of the room. Carlyle shot Umar an enquiring look. All he got back was a weary shrug.

The workman was clearly getting nowhere. Waiting for him to stop, the inspector looked around the room. On the far wall was a large framed poster from the recent Art as Life Bauhaus exhibition at the Barbican. Carlyle recalled his wife dragging him along to it a few months earlier. It had been vaguely interesting but tiring; for some reason, museums always seemed to exhaust him, almost from the moment he walked through their. . .