Free A Man of Sorrows by James Craig

from her.
    Why not the Prime Minister and the Queen as well? Carlyle thought sarcastically, but he managed not to say anything.
    ‘I would start making plans for your post-police career if I were you.’ Slater grinned maliciously as she began to pick her way down the steps.
    On the pavement, Carlyle watched her pause, waiting to see if he had a reply. But he wasn’t going to give her the pleasure. Instead, he stuffed the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans and walked slowly back inside.
    From behind the counter, Myron Sabo nodded to Alison Roche as she walked into the Box café and headed for the table by the window.
    ‘The desk told me I’d find you here,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
    Looking up, Carlyle grunted. He signalled to Myron that he’d like another green tea, while Roche ordered an orange juice.
    Picking up the sheet of paper on the table, she turned it round so that she could read it. ‘What’s this?’
    Carlyle sat back in his chair and yawned. It wasn’t yet 9 a.m. but he already felt exhausted. ‘It’s a letter from McGowan’s lawyer to Dugdale saying that they’re suing the Met and they want my head on a plate. The bitch hand-delivered me a copy at the station this morning. She knew exactly who I was, as well.’
    ‘It’s not that difficult,’ Roche grinned. ‘After all, how many dashing young inspectors are there in Charing Cross?’
    Not in the mood to have his leg pulled, Carlyle shot her a dirty look. Roche sighed. ‘She probably Googled you.’
    ‘But I’m not on fucking Google.’
    ‘Everyone’s on the internet, these days. All you can hope for is that you’ve got some of your clothes on.’ Roche scanned the letter then read it again carefully from the top. ‘So much for keeping me out of it.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Anyway,’ she continued, dropping the letter back on the table, ‘I spoke to Dr Weber last night. His report will be pure vanilla – it puts us in the clear.’
    Carlyle smiled, appreciating her use of the word ‘us’. Roche hadn’t walked away from his stupidity and he would remember that. Myron appeared with the drinks. Carlyle nodded his thanks and took a sip of his tea; not as good as Helen’s, but not bad. He gestured at the letter with his mug. ‘Slater’s got her own doctor to take a look at McGowan and he, of course, will take a different view.’
    Roche shrugged. ‘So, she pays some guy to say what she wants him to say, big deal. Let her go to the IPCC, let her sue, there’s nothing there that you haven’t dealt with before. The Met will handle it.’
    ‘We’ll see.’ Carlyle drank some more of his tea. Roche was probably right, but he couldn’t be sure. Certainly the Independent Police Complaints Commission was nothing to worry about. Still, he would be happier when Simpson was back from Canada and Dugdale was out of the picture. That meant dragging the process out for a couple of months, and the best way to do that would be to track down Simon Murphy. ‘We need to find the kid.’
    Roche knew as well as he did that they had no leads and no time to dig any up. ‘Let’s see if we can get this jewellery business sorted and then maybe we can try and find him,’ she suggested.
    ‘Okay,’ Carlyle said, unconvinced. ‘What have you got?’
    Roche reached into her bag and took out a small notebook. Flicking through the pages, she found her notes and started reading: ‘St James’s Diamonds was started in 1805 and was first invited to supply jewellery to the Royal Family during Queen Victoria’s reign. It was in the same family for four generations, before being bought by an American private equity firm in 2005.’
    ‘That must be who Katrin Lagerbäck works for,’ Carlyle mused, outlining his meeting with Lagerbäck, as well as Trevor Cole’s list of stolen items. ‘There’s a suggestion that some of the missing items were not taken by the robbers. They might have been nicked at the scene in the aftermath of