surely would be depressing enough to dampen anyone’s lust. He was nursing a dangerous-looking mug of coffee with a slick of what looked like washing-up liquid glistening on the top. Sam Laidlaw sat in a chair opposite him, staring at the floor like the naughty schoolgirl that she basically was. She was twenty-two or twenty-three going on fifteen. Her platinum-blond hair matched her sickly skin. It had grown out at the roots and badly needed redoing. In a grubby white T-shirt, grey jogging pants and no make-up, she looked a total mess. It would be like fucking a corpse, Carlyle thought. On the other hand, trying to be generous, it was relatively early. For her, the working week had yet to start.
Amelia explained the situation to Carlyle. The problem was a familiar one. His name was Michael Hagger, a local mini-gangster-turned-entrepreneur, occasional pimp and father to Sam Laidlaw’s four-year-old son, Jake. Hagger, according to Jacobs, was threatening to take the boy away from his mother as part of a long-running dispute about money.
‘Where is the boy now?’ Carlyle asked, suddenly worried in case he had ignored this situation for too long.
‘He’s on a play date,’ Amelia replied. ‘And he’s in nursery now too. We got him into Coram’s Fields after Easter. Three days a week.’
‘That’s good,’ Carlyle said limply. At least the boy was being looked after properly some of the time. The Coram’s Fields Play Centre was fifteen minutes up the road, on the way to King’s Cross. It was run by Camden Council, and the staff there did a fantastic job with a broad range of kids from different backgrounds. His daughter Alice had gone there for a couple of years before starting school, and her mother still visited now and again to drop off spare books for the library. He would mention Jake to Helen and see if she could make some discreet enquiries.
Laidlaw remained mute. She had lifted her gaze far enough off the floor to stare intently at a blank 32-inch television screen in the corner. Carlyle followed her gaze and checked out the pile of DVDs on the floor by the TV. Postman Pat and Duck Dodgers cartoons peeked out from underneath a pile of generic porno titles. Carlyle had to resist the urge to gag. Apart from anything else, he was a big fan of Duck Dodgers, Daffy Duck’s Space Protectoret hero, having watched many episodes alongside Alice when she was younger. Now he wanted to scream. Calming himself down, he knew that he really would have to call Children’s Social Services.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Talk to Hagger,’ Amelia replied. ‘Let him know that you’ve got your eye on him.’
As if that would make any difference.
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Where will I find him?’
Again the girl said nothing.
‘The usual places,’ Amelia said.
That narrowed it down, thought Carlyle. ‘I’ll start at the Intrepid Fox,’ he said, to no one in particular, mentioning a pub two minutes down the road in Soho where Hagger was known to hang out.
The doorbell rang. Without saying a word, the girl got up and slouched out of the room.
‘That’ll be the twelve-thirty.’ Amelia signalled for him to get up. She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s early. The randy little sod obviously thinks he gets extra time that way.’
‘When you’re in the mood,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘you’re in the mood.’
‘I suppose so,’ Amelia said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. She ushered him towards the door. ‘Thanks, Mr Carlyle.’
‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ he replied, happily handing her back the untouched mug of coffee.
‘Thanks.’
‘But I’ll need to speak to Social Services about Jake.’
She started to complain, but thought better of it.
He softened the blow. ‘Just so that there’s someone else keeping an eye out for him too.’
A pained expression crossed Amelia’s face. ‘Jake is loved, Inspector.’
‘Maybe he is,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘But that’s not
Amelia explained the situation to Carlyle. The problem was a familiar one. His name was Michael Hagger, a local mini-gangster-turned-entrepreneur, occasional pimp and father to Sam Laidlaw’s four-year-old son, Jake. Hagger, according to Jacobs, was threatening to take the boy away from his mother as part of a long-running dispute about money.
‘Where is the boy now?’ Carlyle asked, suddenly worried in case he had ignored this situation for too long.
‘He’s on a play date,’ Amelia replied. ‘And he’s in nursery now too. We got him into Coram’s Fields after Easter. Three days a week.’
‘That’s good,’ Carlyle said limply. At least the boy was being looked after properly some of the time. The Coram’s Fields Play Centre was fifteen minutes up the road, on the way to King’s Cross. It was run by Camden Council, and the staff there did a fantastic job with a broad range of kids from different backgrounds. His daughter Alice had gone there for a couple of years before starting school, and her mother still visited now and again to drop off spare books for the library. He would mention Jake to Helen and see if she could make some discreet enquiries.
Laidlaw remained mute. She had lifted her gaze far enough off the floor to stare intently at a blank 32-inch television screen in the corner. Carlyle followed her gaze and checked out the pile of DVDs on the floor by the TV. Postman Pat and Duck Dodgers cartoons peeked out from underneath a pile of generic porno titles. Carlyle had to resist the urge to gag. Apart from anything else, he was a big fan of Duck Dodgers, Daffy Duck’s Space Protectoret hero, having watched many episodes alongside Alice when she was younger. Now he wanted to scream. Calming himself down, he knew that he really would have to call Children’s Social Services.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Talk to Hagger,’ Amelia replied. ‘Let him know that you’ve got your eye on him.’
As if that would make any difference.
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Where will I find him?’
Again the girl said nothing.
‘The usual places,’ Amelia said.
That narrowed it down, thought Carlyle. ‘I’ll start at the Intrepid Fox,’ he said, to no one in particular, mentioning a pub two minutes down the road in Soho where Hagger was known to hang out.
The doorbell rang. Without saying a word, the girl got up and slouched out of the room.
‘That’ll be the twelve-thirty.’ Amelia signalled for him to get up. She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s early. The randy little sod obviously thinks he gets extra time that way.’
‘When you’re in the mood,’ Carlyle grinned, ‘you’re in the mood.’
‘I suppose so,’ Amelia said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. She ushered him towards the door. ‘Thanks, Mr Carlyle.’
‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ he replied, happily handing her back the untouched mug of coffee.
‘Thanks.’
‘But I’ll need to speak to Social Services about Jake.’
She started to complain, but thought better of it.
He softened the blow. ‘Just so that there’s someone else keeping an eye out for him too.’
A pained expression crossed Amelia’s face. ‘Jake is loved, Inspector.’
‘Maybe he is,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘But that’s not
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