gagging for a drink.
In the face of the thirsty jobsworth, Callender conceded gracefully. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to cause you grief, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jeffreys shot Carlyle a look and pointed towards the station entrance with his biro. ‘There’s a car waiting downstairs. Just make sure you get in and out without any mishaps. And watch out for the dog shit.’
Ha, bloody, ha.
Carlyle involuntarily lifted a hand to his face. The bruises had faded but the mental scars remained.
‘Dog shit?’ Callender enquired.
‘The silly sod went arse over tit while chasing a suspect,’ the sergeant explained gleefully.
‘We caught the bugger, though, didn’t we?’ Carlyle felt compelled to pipe up in his own defence. Roger and Gareth Lovelock had been picked up in a New Cross drinking den the previous night. Their mother was still in hospital; it had been confirmed that she would never walk again.
‘Yes,’ Jeffreys reflected, ‘we did. And after you let him slip through your grasp, it only took us an extra thirty officers and another seven grand of overtime.’
‘Shit happens,’ Carlyle mumbled.
Tiring of the banter, Callender picked up his bag and gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we get going?’
The traffic was so bad that it made the Elephant and Castle seem like rush hour in Lagos. Sitting in the front of the police Escort, Carlyle lifted his gaze from the registration plate of the lorry in front and eyed the inspector in the rear-view mirror. ‘What are we doing in the Castle, then?’
‘We’re going to see a woman called Claire Marshall,’ Callender said evenly, not making eye contact. ‘Whitelaw Walkway, number 47b. Do you know it?’
‘We’ll find it. Why do you want to talk to her?’
‘Her parents have been murdered.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Carlyle went back to staring out of the window while Callender gave him a quick overview of what had happened. A middle-aged woman pushing a shopping trolley made an ambitious attempt to use a zebra crossing and almost lost her groceries as a taxi lurched across her path. The woman jumped back on to the pavement, cursing the driver, who studiously ignored her as his cab came to a complete standstill, half on the crossing.
The traffic just keeps getting worse and worse
, reflected Carlyle.
One day the whole place is going to seize up altogether.
He tuned back in to what the man behind him was saying. ‘I don’t remember reading about that in the papers.’
‘You didn’t,’ Callender harrumphed. ‘They slapped a D-notice on it.’
Carlyle frowned. A D-notice was a government ‘request’ to news editors not to report a story for reasons of national security. ‘Why?’
‘That,’ Callender smiled, ‘is a very good question.’
By the time they reached their destination, the residents of the Castle were only just beginning to stir, and they made their way to Whitelaw Walkway, deep in the heart of the estate, without incident. Claire Marshall was a tall blonde of indeterminate age, who looked like she was still trying to perfect the appearance of a surly teenager. With a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip, she ushered them into the flat without comment. At first glance, the only thing of note in the living room was the half-empty bottle of Cossack vodka sitting on the coffee table, next to a pair of empty glasses. Marshall indicated for them to take a seat on the faux leather and grabbed the bottle, unscrewing the cap with a smooth, practised movement and dumping a large measure of the spirit into one of the glasses.
Not so much a triple measure, Carlyle thought, impressed and horrified in equal measure. More like a quadruple.
Taking a slug of her drink, Marshall stepped over to the fireplace, which was empty apart from a small three-bar electric fire, and leant against the mantelpiece. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve coming here,’ she hissed.
‘You’re the daughter of Hugh Scanlon?’ Callender enquired,
In the face of the thirsty jobsworth, Callender conceded gracefully. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to cause you grief, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jeffreys shot Carlyle a look and pointed towards the station entrance with his biro. ‘There’s a car waiting downstairs. Just make sure you get in and out without any mishaps. And watch out for the dog shit.’
Ha, bloody, ha.
Carlyle involuntarily lifted a hand to his face. The bruises had faded but the mental scars remained.
‘Dog shit?’ Callender enquired.
‘The silly sod went arse over tit while chasing a suspect,’ the sergeant explained gleefully.
‘We caught the bugger, though, didn’t we?’ Carlyle felt compelled to pipe up in his own defence. Roger and Gareth Lovelock had been picked up in a New Cross drinking den the previous night. Their mother was still in hospital; it had been confirmed that she would never walk again.
‘Yes,’ Jeffreys reflected, ‘we did. And after you let him slip through your grasp, it only took us an extra thirty officers and another seven grand of overtime.’
‘Shit happens,’ Carlyle mumbled.
Tiring of the banter, Callender picked up his bag and gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we get going?’
The traffic was so bad that it made the Elephant and Castle seem like rush hour in Lagos. Sitting in the front of the police Escort, Carlyle lifted his gaze from the registration plate of the lorry in front and eyed the inspector in the rear-view mirror. ‘What are we doing in the Castle, then?’
‘We’re going to see a woman called Claire Marshall,’ Callender said evenly, not making eye contact. ‘Whitelaw Walkway, number 47b. Do you know it?’
‘We’ll find it. Why do you want to talk to her?’
‘Her parents have been murdered.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Carlyle went back to staring out of the window while Callender gave him a quick overview of what had happened. A middle-aged woman pushing a shopping trolley made an ambitious attempt to use a zebra crossing and almost lost her groceries as a taxi lurched across her path. The woman jumped back on to the pavement, cursing the driver, who studiously ignored her as his cab came to a complete standstill, half on the crossing.
The traffic just keeps getting worse and worse
, reflected Carlyle.
One day the whole place is going to seize up altogether.
He tuned back in to what the man behind him was saying. ‘I don’t remember reading about that in the papers.’
‘You didn’t,’ Callender harrumphed. ‘They slapped a D-notice on it.’
Carlyle frowned. A D-notice was a government ‘request’ to news editors not to report a story for reasons of national security. ‘Why?’
‘That,’ Callender smiled, ‘is a very good question.’
By the time they reached their destination, the residents of the Castle were only just beginning to stir, and they made their way to Whitelaw Walkway, deep in the heart of the estate, without incident. Claire Marshall was a tall blonde of indeterminate age, who looked like she was still trying to perfect the appearance of a surly teenager. With a cigarette hanging from her bottom lip, she ushered them into the flat without comment. At first glance, the only thing of note in the living room was the half-empty bottle of Cossack vodka sitting on the coffee table, next to a pair of empty glasses. Marshall indicated for them to take a seat on the faux leather and grabbed the bottle, unscrewing the cap with a smooth, practised movement and dumping a large measure of the spirit into one of the glasses.
Not so much a triple measure, Carlyle thought, impressed and horrified in equal measure. More like a quadruple.
Taking a slug of her drink, Marshall stepped over to the fireplace, which was empty apart from a small three-bar electric fire, and leant against the mantelpiece. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve coming here,’ she hissed.
‘You’re the daughter of Hugh Scanlon?’ Callender enquired,
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