remember. Over the years, Marcello had tried to replace Juve on several occasions, most recently with the Italian World Cup winning team of 2006. Always, however, the protests of Carlyle and of a few other regulars who knew their football forced him to return the team of Trapattoni and Platini to their rightful place. A few moments spent contemplating their achievements were, to Carlyle’s way of thinking, always time well spent. Apart from anything else, that team would have beaten Marcello Lippi’s Azzurri hands down.
‘I threw it out.’ Marcello appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a tea towel. ‘It finally disintegrated.’
‘Jesus!’ Carlyle felt a stab of genuine upset. ‘Everything’s fucking collapsing about my ears,’ he grumbled to himself. Taking a large bite out of his raisin Danish – his second of the morning, so far – he waited for the sugar rush to mingle with the double espresso already spreading through his bloodstream. When it had done so, his sense of well-being improved enough for him to ask: ‘What are you going to replace it with?’
Marcello studied the empty space on the wall for a moment, then said, ‘Dunno. I’m open to suggestions.’ A thought crossed his mind and his face broke into a broad grin. ‘Not Fulham, though.’
Suitably unfashionable, Fulham had always been Carlyle’s team. The thing he liked about them most as he got older was that they never got you too excited. ‘No, of course not.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘Got to be Italian.’
‘
Sí, italiano – certo!
’ Marcello cranked the Gaggia into action and before long dropped a fresh demitasse in front of his appreciative customer. ‘Inter are the team at the moment,’ he suggested doubtfully.
Carlyle held up his hands in mock horror. ‘Noooo . . .’
Stifling a yawn, Alison Roche looked up from her mug of tea. ‘Milan’s 94 Champions League winning team,’ she said quietly. ‘Albertini, Donadoni, Maldini, Desailly . . .’
Marcello nodded enthusiastically. ‘Good choice! Fabio Capello’s team. Beat Barcelona four-nil to win the European Cup!’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle assented. ‘I think we have a winner.’
‘I’ll find you a poster, Marcello,’ Roche promised.
‘Thank you. That would be perfect.’ Marcello gave Carlyle a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You’re a very lucky man, Inspector. The signora, she is pretty, she’s smart
and
she knows her football.’
‘Just don’t tell the wife, Marcello,’ Carlyle mumbled, before taking another massive bite out of his pastry.
‘So, Sergeant Roche, what’s your story?’ Marcello had retreated into his store room to check on the stock. Carlyle drained the last of his coffee from the cup and made a show of giving the sergeant a careful once-over. He didn’t know how long she was going to be around, but he might as well exhibit a degree of interest.
Roche considered her answer carefully. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve been at Leyton for two years, and been a sergeant for almost five now . . .’ She came to a halt.
Surprised at how quickly she had run out of steam, Carlyle bowled her another one. ‘Did you always want to be a copper?’
‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘I kind of drifted into it, I suppose.’
God Almighty
, Carlyle thought,
you
’
re not giving much away
,
are you?
On the other hand, however, he could empathize with people who kept their cards close to their chest. In his experience, there were far too few of them around.
‘I almost packed it in before I became a sergeant,’ Roche continued suddenly, sensing his dissatisfaction at her monochrome answers, so finally offering up a bit of colour.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ she said and laughed. ‘When I was a WPC, I did a stint as a dog-handler. I was paired with a German Shepherd called Robbie. Bloody psycho, that dog! We were chasing this armed robber one day, but instead of jumping on the robber, Robbie bit me on the arm as the bloke ran
‘I threw it out.’ Marcello appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a tea towel. ‘It finally disintegrated.’
‘Jesus!’ Carlyle felt a stab of genuine upset. ‘Everything’s fucking collapsing about my ears,’ he grumbled to himself. Taking a large bite out of his raisin Danish – his second of the morning, so far – he waited for the sugar rush to mingle with the double espresso already spreading through his bloodstream. When it had done so, his sense of well-being improved enough for him to ask: ‘What are you going to replace it with?’
Marcello studied the empty space on the wall for a moment, then said, ‘Dunno. I’m open to suggestions.’ A thought crossed his mind and his face broke into a broad grin. ‘Not Fulham, though.’
Suitably unfashionable, Fulham had always been Carlyle’s team. The thing he liked about them most as he got older was that they never got you too excited. ‘No, of course not.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘Got to be Italian.’
‘
Sí, italiano – certo!
’ Marcello cranked the Gaggia into action and before long dropped a fresh demitasse in front of his appreciative customer. ‘Inter are the team at the moment,’ he suggested doubtfully.
Carlyle held up his hands in mock horror. ‘Noooo . . .’
Stifling a yawn, Alison Roche looked up from her mug of tea. ‘Milan’s 94 Champions League winning team,’ she said quietly. ‘Albertini, Donadoni, Maldini, Desailly . . .’
Marcello nodded enthusiastically. ‘Good choice! Fabio Capello’s team. Beat Barcelona four-nil to win the European Cup!’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle assented. ‘I think we have a winner.’
‘I’ll find you a poster, Marcello,’ Roche promised.
‘Thank you. That would be perfect.’ Marcello gave Carlyle a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You’re a very lucky man, Inspector. The signora, she is pretty, she’s smart
and
she knows her football.’
‘Just don’t tell the wife, Marcello,’ Carlyle mumbled, before taking another massive bite out of his pastry.
‘So, Sergeant Roche, what’s your story?’ Marcello had retreated into his store room to check on the stock. Carlyle drained the last of his coffee from the cup and made a show of giving the sergeant a careful once-over. He didn’t know how long she was going to be around, but he might as well exhibit a degree of interest.
Roche considered her answer carefully. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I’ve been at Leyton for two years, and been a sergeant for almost five now . . .’ She came to a halt.
Surprised at how quickly she had run out of steam, Carlyle bowled her another one. ‘Did you always want to be a copper?’
‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘I kind of drifted into it, I suppose.’
God Almighty
, Carlyle thought,
you
’
re not giving much away
,
are you?
On the other hand, however, he could empathize with people who kept their cards close to their chest. In his experience, there were far too few of them around.
‘I almost packed it in before I became a sergeant,’ Roche continued suddenly, sensing his dissatisfaction at her monochrome answers, so finally offering up a bit of colour.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes,’ she said and laughed. ‘When I was a WPC, I did a stint as a dog-handler. I was paired with a German Shepherd called Robbie. Bloody psycho, that dog! We were chasing this armed robber one day, but instead of jumping on the robber, Robbie bit me on the arm as the bloke ran
Similar Books
