A Man of Sorrows Page 13

  Donovan had an overseas number with a 213 dialling code which he vaguely thought must be somewhere in America. It took what seemed like an eternity to get a connection but once the phone started ringing, someone picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Donovan residence,’ said a sleepy-sounding Hispanic voice. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Carlyle in his most official manner. ‘Could I speak to Ms Donovan, please?’

  There was an extended pause. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the voice said finally. ‘Could you repeat that, please?’

  ‘I am calling from London,’ Carlyle said slowly, trying not to shout. ‘I would like to speak to Ms Christine Donovan.’

  ‘Hold the line, please.’

  After what seemed like an eternity, Carlyle was about to hang up when there was some rustling on the end of the line and someone picked up. ‘Hi!’ said a chirpy teenage voice. ‘This is Christie.’

  Confused, Carlyle was momentarily struck dumb. He looked at his notes: Christine Donovan and Roger Leyne were married almost twenty-five years ago, divorced after barely ten months, before this kid could even have been born.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quickly, ‘my name is Inspector John Carlyle from the Metropolitan Police in London. I am looking to speak to Christine Donovan.’

  ‘Cool!’ the girl squealed. ‘Has Mom done something bad?’

  ‘No, no,’ he stammered, as the conversation spiralled out of control. With her usual immaculate timing, Helen wandered into the living room. With a big grin on her face, she pulled open her bathrobe and flashed him. Aroused and confused, he felt his brain melt.

  He was saved by the American teenager more than five thousand miles away. ‘Do you want to speak to her?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, watching Helen cover herself up. ‘Yes please, if she’s around.’

  ‘Is it about her ex-husband?’

  Fuck me, Carlyle despaired, does everybody have to know everything about my business? ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘it is. Is she available?’

  He listened to the phone being put down again and a voice in the background shout: ‘Mom! It’s for you. It’s the London po-lice. They want to talk to you about that guy’s murder.’

  After a few moments, a rather haughty voice came on the line. ‘This is Christine Donovan.’

  ‘My name is—’

  ‘My daughter explained who you are,’ Donovan said sharply. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was wondering – when was the last time you saw your ex-husband?’

  Her laughter cut through the time delay on the line. ‘You’re kidding, right? I mean, I’m in LA, for Christ sakes. How could I have killed the bum?’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  Donovan sighed. ‘Twenty years ago, I would have happily killed Roger. Hell, even ten years ago I might have happily nailed his smug limey ass.’

  Limey? ‘How did you two meet?’ he asked.

  ‘I went to study in London in the eighties and Roger, quite literally, charmed the pants off me. Goodness, I was a right idiot. That phony took me to the cleaners. My dad went crazy because I refused to have a pre-nup agreement. In the end, that marriage cost me about five million dollars. But I got over it.’

  Jeez, Carlyle thought, why couldn’t you have bumped into me back then? ‘Who do you think might er . . . want to kill Professor Leyne now?’

  ‘Inspector,’ she said firmly, ‘I haven’t seen Roger for more than twenty years. I haven’t been to England for more than ten. How the hell would I know who wanted to kill him?’

  ‘Fair point,’ Carlyle admitted, ‘but I have to ask.’

  ‘Sure, sure. I found out soon enough that Roger was good at annoying people. No doubt if you dig around, you’ll manage to find plenty of suspects.’

  ‘That’s extremely helpful,’ Carlyle said sarcastically.

  ‘He’s been married twice since me,’ Donovan said, apparently oblivious to his tone. ‘I’m sure that would be a good place to start.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, crossing her name off the list. ‘Thank you for your time.’ He waited for her to say ‘have a nice day’, or something similar, but after a moment, he realized that she had simply hung up. Tossing the mobile on to the sofa, he let out a massive yawn. It was time to call it a day.

  Perched on the edge of a desk, Roche took a long, hard drag from her bottle of Budweiser as she watched the party mood around her grow. The raid had been a spectacular success, with Colin Dyer’s partner, Damien Samuels, taken into custody, along with a quantity of jewellery and a Smith & Wesson Model 909. Tests on the automatic pistol wouldn’t take place until the morning, but she was sure it would turn out to be the gun that killed Paula Coulter. Samuels was toast. It was a major fucking result.

  Finishing the beer, Roche placed the bottle down on the desk beside her. The adrenaline rush from the raid was wearing off and she ached with tiredness. One of the grinning uniforms walked past, gave her a high five and handed her another beer. Roche nodded her thanks and took a swig from the new bottle. Getting a healthy beer buzz now, she knew she was going to get blasted. Her mobile buzzed angrily in the back pocket of her jeans. Assuming that it was Carlyle, she pulled it out and opened the message. However, it was only her boyfriend. Gone to bed, don’t wake me up when (if?) you get in. Roche sighed. Martin’s moaning was beginning to get on her nerves. More to the point, she wondered, where the hell was the inspector?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dugdale in his uniform – did he ever wear anything else? – appear on the floor. She was surprised to see that he still had the PR woman – what was her name? Judith something – still in tow. Why would she still be following him around at this time of night? The idle thought that he might be fucking her drifted through Roche’s brain as she finished the beer.

  The Commander helped himself to a couple of beers and headed towards her. As he approached, she saw him sway alarmingly, his face flushed. You’re well ahead of me, she thought, giving him a tired smile.

  Dugdale handed her a fresh beer. ‘Well done.’ He tried to smile, but it was more like a leer. ‘That was excellent work this evening.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She placed the beer on the table next to the empties. Seeing Dugdale had rather tempered her desire to get hammered. ‘It’s nice when things work out.’

  Dugdale lifted the bottle to his lips. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job on this one, Alison.’

  Watching him empty half the bottle, Roche played with her mobile. ‘I should give Inspector Carlyle a call.’

  ‘Why?’ Dugdale tried to stifle a belch. ‘So he can run round and steal your glory?’

  That’s not his style, Roche thought, shoving the mobile back into her pocket.

  Dugdale finished his beer and signalled to Judith Mahon, the PR woman, hovering on the other side of the room, to bring him another. ‘Where is Carlyle anyway?’

  ‘He’s working on the Leyne case,’ the sergeant said swiftly.

  ‘That was a bloody result too!’ Dugdale exulted.

  ‘Presumably,’ said Roche, trying to affect some insouciance, ‘that means that the Church will now withdraw its complaint?’

  Dudgale’s brow furrowed. ‘I wouldn’t assume that,’ he said quietly, glancing round the room to check that no one was overhearing their conversation. When Mahon appeared with his beer, the Commander grabbed it from her with a grunt of acknowledgement and took a healthy swig.

  ‘But I thought that was the deal,’ Roche said evenly.

  ‘Deal?’ Dugdale repeated. ‘There is no “deal”. Leyne and the Church’s complaint are completely separate. I don’t know what the inspector told you, but it is essential that we act – and are seen to act – properly and professionally in all matters. The investigation into the complaint against the inspector must be thorough.’

  Roche felt a flash of annoyance at the fact that she had been omitted from the list of accused. ‘You wouldn’t be hanging him out to dry, sir, would you?
’

  ‘No, I would not.’ Dugdale waved his bottle angrily in front of her face. ‘If he hasn’t done anything wrong, then he has nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I made my statement,’ Roche said firmly. ‘The inspector acted entirely properly . . . and so have I.’

  A sly grin crossed Dugdale’s lips. ‘In that case, like I said, he has nothing to worry about. And neither, for that matter, do you.’

  Don’t rise to the bait, Roche told herself. Dugdale put a paw on Mahon’s shoulder. The PR smiled nervously. He took a sneaky peek down her blouse and the leer returned. He’s definitely screwing her, Roche thought, the dirty old bugger.

  ‘Judith is organizing a press conference for tomorrow morning at Paddington Green,’ Dugdale continued, ‘so I want you to let her have the key details.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And I want you to be there with me.’

  Roche’s heart sank. That was the last thing she needed. ‘I’ve still got a lot to do on this—’

  ‘Now is no time to be shy,’ Dugdale trumpeted. ‘I want you to get the recognition you deserve. This could be an important steppingstone for your career. After closing such an important case, you could look to move on. Who knows? Maybe I could even help get you a move to SO15.’

  Gazing at the floor, Roche shuddered as she thought about the price Dugdale might want for his help. On the other hand, SO15 was a very attractive proposition. Her murdered boyfriend, Detective Inspector David Ronan, had been with the Counter Terrorism Command Unit, and Roche had often wondered whether, one day, she might step into his shoes.

  Forcing herself to make eye-contact with Dugdale, she somehow managed a smile. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I will see you in the morning.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Three men carried the coffin as it emerged from the parlour of A. France & Son into the pale late-morning sunlight. Two older guys took one side while a much younger man, a big bloke with a crew cut that highlighted his receding hairline, took the other. All were dressed immaculately in black suits, white shirts and black ties. Even from the other side of the road, Carlyle could see that their shoes were polished to a high shine. Taking a sip of his Brazilian Berries smoothie, the inspector watched as they slipped the coffin into the rear of the hearse with practised ease. After carefully closing the back door of the vehicle, the younger guy jumped into the driver’s seat and started up the engine. Slowly, the black Mercedes moved off, heading north up Lambs Conduit Street.

  Carlyle watched the two older guys go back inside and casually turned his attention to the two Goodfellas’ regulars sitting nearby, discussing last night’s football, struggling to complete their roll-ups while their cappuccinos went cold. Sitting beside him, Helen was fiddling with her mobile. He ran a finger gently up and down her upper arm. ‘How are you feeling?’

  She didn’t look up from her phone. ‘Stop asking me how I’m feeling!’ Tossing the phone onto the table, she took a sip of her latte and scowled. ‘This is cold, I’m going to ask them to heat it up.’ Getting to her feet, she went back inside the café.

  Watching a boy sail past on a bike, Carlyle finished his juice. Normally, sitting outside the Goodfellas café, idly watching the world go by, was one of life’s little pleasures. This morning, however, the inspector was very much on edge. Their visit to Great Ormond Street Hospital had been quick and perfunctory – they had been in and out in barely half an hour – but it had forced him to face Helen’s situation in a way that he had been happy to ignore for the past few days. The consultant, an amiable, featureless guy straight out of Central Casting, had talked to them briefly about the BRCA2 gene and his research project. Carlyle had nodded politely and even smiled in places, all the while knowing that the information was simply not entering his brain, which was screaming to him to get out of there. Helen had given a blood sample and they had made an appointment in two weeks’ time to come back for the results. Then he had led her firmly by the arm, heading swiftly for the exit, avoiding eye-contact with the weary-looking kids and their parents hovering in reception, who were busy having to deal with crises of their own.

  Helen reappeared with steam rising from her latte. Following behind her, the waitress placed a double macchiato and a large raisin Danish on the table.

  ‘I thought you could do with some comfort food,’ Helen smiled. Reaching over she gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He took her hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I wasn’t going to let you do it on your own.’

  ‘I know. Thanks.’

  Dropping her hand, he took a sip of his coffee and eyed the Danish hungrily. ‘I suppose all we can do now is wait.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she shrugged. ‘We’ll know in a couple of weeks. There’s no point in worrying about it until then.’

  ‘No.’ Taking a bite from his pastry, he chewed it mechanically.

  Helen took a sip of her latte. ‘Alice knows.’

  Carlyle frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘She must have seen the letter, I suppose. She asked me if I was going to die.’

  ‘Jesus! When was this?’

  ‘The other day.’

  ‘Fuck. She didn’t talk to me about it.’

  ‘You’ve been really busy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose I have.’

  Taking the Danish from him, she took a small nibble. ‘It’s not that bad. She’s a sensible kid. We talked it through. She understands we have to wait for the results, and I explained that even if I do have it, there are things we can do.’

  ‘Mm.’ Carlyle didn’t want to think about that.

  ‘She was very grown up about it.’

  ‘She’s still a kid.’

  Helen grinned. ‘You were at the school. You see how quickly they grow up.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Did she ask about herself?’

  Helen’s face darkened. ‘About whether she might have it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I explained that if I had it, she would need to consider getting tested when she was older.’

  Carlyle finished his macchiato. ‘If it comes to it, she should definitely get tested.’

  Helen gave him a weary look. ‘That will be a matter for her. Anyway, I don’t think the Health Service would do it until she is eighteen.’

  Carlyle gazed down the street. Next to the undertaker’s was a flower shop. He watched as one of the assistants placed buckets of bright red and yellow roses on the pavement, under the front window. The caffeine in his system made him feel wired but he had a deep reluctance to move.

  After a while, Helen got to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘it’s time to get back to work.’

  Katya Morrison took a sip of her tea and smiled at the priest. ‘Well, Your, er, Holiness, how was the pilgrimage to Lourdes?’

  The Archbishop of Westminster, Brian Crossley, eyed the young woman and smiled back.

  Christian Holyrod cringed. His Special Adviser really would have to go. At least, this time, dressed demurely with a navy sweater over a white blouse, she didn’t have her tits hanging out. But the girl’s chronic inability to play the part of a grown-up really was beginning to try his patience.

  The alpha female, on the other hand, looked quite a piece of work. Across the table, Abigail Slater sat demurely between the Archbishop and Monsignor Joseph Wagner, Papal Visit Co-ordinator. Even so, the look on her face suggested that she could eat him for breakfast, something which Holyrod found a by no means unappealing prospect.

  Crossley glanced at the Mayor, who almost managed to tear his own gaze from the lawyer. ‘One of the things that I saw in Lourdes is the great value of tapping into people’s goodwill. If we can generate in our society that sense of fulfilment which comes from volunteering, then we would be much the better for it. It is important for society to not fall into the trap of thinking that everything is to be provided and that it is always somebody else’s responsibility.’

  ‘Oh,’ Katya gu
shed, ‘absolutely.’

  Spare me, thought Holyrod.

  Crossley looked patronizingly at the young aide. ‘It is great that your boss respects the integrity of what faith-groups want to do, and respects our language and beliefs.’

  God, how these people loved to talk! Holyrod allowed himself the smallest of smiles in Slater’s direction. The amused look on her face suggested she was thinking something similar.

  Tapping a pen on the table, Monsignor Joseph Wagner tried to get the meeting back on track. ‘This visit is an opportunity to move away from seeing faith as a problem and seeing it as a resource to be discovered afresh. It will be a symbolic embrace by the leader of the Catholic Church, an embrace of Britain as it is today: multi-faith, multicultural, facing inner difficulties, but with great human resources which are strengthened by faith in God.’

  ‘I think that we’re all agreed on that,’ said Slater somewhat brusquely.

  ‘Will the Pope be meeting any child-abuse victims?’ Morrison asked brightly.

  The question caused Holyrod to momentarily choke on his coffee, to Slater’s obvious amusement.

  ‘In private,’ Morrison added, when he’d finished coughing, ‘of course.’

  The smile on the Archbishop’s face wavered only slightly. ‘Child abuse is a dreadful scandal which is to be condemned, and it’s something for which every Catholic feels ashamed and sorrowful. I think there are difficult issues in certain countries, but I don’t get any sense of it here. If the Pope were to meet with victims of clerical sexual abuse,’ he glanced at Wagner, who shook his head, ‘and I am not aware of any plans for such a meeting at present, it would have to be done for the right reasons, not simply to satisfy a public agenda or curiosity.’

  Those seem like pretty good reasons to me, thought Holyrod. ‘It is a sidebar issue,’ he said, however. ‘Let us move on.’

  ‘More than three hundred years after English priests were martyred by the anti-Catholic government of Elizabeth I,’ Wagner said mechanically, as if reciting by rote, ‘the Holy Father is to meet Elizabeth II as part of the first ever state visit by a Pope to Britain. That is what we need to focus on now.’