in return. But Wallace, it seemed, felt obliged to provide the odd piece of information that came his way.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle extended a hand and they shook.
Wallace took a slug from his bottle of Peroni. ‘My parents had no idea about the name and I’ve never watched that Mel Gibson film.’
‘Neither have I.’ As a second-generation Scot, Carlyle was conscious of, if not particularly interested in, his roots. There was a lingering anti-Englishness that came with the territory, but first, last and always, he was a Londoner. London was where his parents had escaped to when there were no opportunities for personal development in post-war Glasgow. London was where he had been born; it was where he had lived all his life. It had given him everything and he was suitably grateful. ‘You know that he was killed near here?’
Wallace frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Your namesake. The Scottish terrorist. When the English caught him he was brought down to London, tried—’
‘Found guilty.’
‘Of course. This is 1305 we’re talking about, after all. Wallace was stripped naked and dragged through the city at the heels of a horse to Smithfield. He was strangled by hanging but released while he was still alive. Then he was eviscerated, and his bowels were burned in front of his face. Then he was beheaded, castrated, and cut into quarters.’
Wallace finished his beer and shivered. ‘Nice.’
‘His head was placed on a pike on London Bridge. Then they took the body parts on tour. His limbs were out on show in Stirling, Berwick, Newcastle and Aberdeen.’ Carlyle finished his drink and signalled that he was going back to the bar for another round. On his return, he handed Wallace his Peroni and took another mouthful of whiskey, vowing that this one would be the last. He took a relaxed view of drinking on duty but he never overdid it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘thanks for the call. What did you want to talk about?’
Wallace took a sip of beer. ‘It’s about that guy.’
Carlyle emptied his glass. He had a nice buzz going and felt the pleasing warmth of the Jameson’s on the back of his throat. ‘What guy?’
‘The guy who escaped from St Pancras, after the shoot-out.’
Carlyle sat up and leaned across the table. ‘The French guy?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Yeah – him. I know where he is.’
‘What am I going to do about my boy?’ Playing with his wine glass, Tuco kept his gaze on the table.
Not my problem
. ‘Where is he now?’ Silver asked.
‘He’s staying at a safe house in London.’ Tuco looked up. ‘I want you to get him back to Paris.’
‘That,’ Dominic sighed, ‘is not going to be easy. After what happened at the Eurostar terminal . . .’
Tuco held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. It was not handled well.’
‘That’s some understatement,’ Dom said bluntly. ‘People have died. The police in London will not just let that go.’
‘He should have been more careful.’
‘Yes,’ Dom agreed, ‘he should.’ Idiots like Alain Costello really pissed him off. On the other hand, it was the very fact that they were idiots that gave him a considerable competitive advantage. There was no way he was going to put himself at risk by getting involved. The boy would have to fend for himself. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Thank you,’ Tuco said, reaching across the table and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I knew that I could depend on you. This will cement our working relationship.’
Or kill it before it has begun
, Dom mused.
THIRTEEN
‘How reliable is the information?’
‘It’s reliable enough. It’s a very good source. And he has actually seen the guy. The location is the home of a known drug dealer.’
There was a pause. ‘Why are you telling me?’ Alison Roche asked finally.
You know why
. ‘I thought that you’d want to know.’
Another pause. ‘I’ll get SO15 on it.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted.’
‘Will do.’
Now it was Carlyle’s turn to pause. He
‘Okay.’ Carlyle extended a hand and they shook.
Wallace took a slug from his bottle of Peroni. ‘My parents had no idea about the name and I’ve never watched that Mel Gibson film.’
‘Neither have I.’ As a second-generation Scot, Carlyle was conscious of, if not particularly interested in, his roots. There was a lingering anti-Englishness that came with the territory, but first, last and always, he was a Londoner. London was where his parents had escaped to when there were no opportunities for personal development in post-war Glasgow. London was where he had been born; it was where he had lived all his life. It had given him everything and he was suitably grateful. ‘You know that he was killed near here?’
Wallace frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Your namesake. The Scottish terrorist. When the English caught him he was brought down to London, tried—’
‘Found guilty.’
‘Of course. This is 1305 we’re talking about, after all. Wallace was stripped naked and dragged through the city at the heels of a horse to Smithfield. He was strangled by hanging but released while he was still alive. Then he was eviscerated, and his bowels were burned in front of his face. Then he was beheaded, castrated, and cut into quarters.’
Wallace finished his beer and shivered. ‘Nice.’
‘His head was placed on a pike on London Bridge. Then they took the body parts on tour. His limbs were out on show in Stirling, Berwick, Newcastle and Aberdeen.’ Carlyle finished his drink and signalled that he was going back to the bar for another round. On his return, he handed Wallace his Peroni and took another mouthful of whiskey, vowing that this one would be the last. He took a relaxed view of drinking on duty but he never overdid it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘thanks for the call. What did you want to talk about?’
Wallace took a sip of beer. ‘It’s about that guy.’
Carlyle emptied his glass. He had a nice buzz going and felt the pleasing warmth of the Jameson’s on the back of his throat. ‘What guy?’
‘The guy who escaped from St Pancras, after the shoot-out.’
Carlyle sat up and leaned across the table. ‘The French guy?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Yeah – him. I know where he is.’
‘What am I going to do about my boy?’ Playing with his wine glass, Tuco kept his gaze on the table.
Not my problem
. ‘Where is he now?’ Silver asked.
‘He’s staying at a safe house in London.’ Tuco looked up. ‘I want you to get him back to Paris.’
‘That,’ Dominic sighed, ‘is not going to be easy. After what happened at the Eurostar terminal . . .’
Tuco held up a hand. ‘I know, I know. It was not handled well.’
‘That’s some understatement,’ Dom said bluntly. ‘People have died. The police in London will not just let that go.’
‘He should have been more careful.’
‘Yes,’ Dom agreed, ‘he should.’ Idiots like Alain Costello really pissed him off. On the other hand, it was the very fact that they were idiots that gave him a considerable competitive advantage. There was no way he was going to put himself at risk by getting involved. The boy would have to fend for himself. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Thank you,’ Tuco said, reaching across the table and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘I knew that I could depend on you. This will cement our working relationship.’
Or kill it before it has begun
, Dom mused.
THIRTEEN
‘How reliable is the information?’
‘It’s reliable enough. It’s a very good source. And he has actually seen the guy. The location is the home of a known drug dealer.’
There was a pause. ‘Why are you telling me?’ Alison Roche asked finally.
You know why
. ‘I thought that you’d want to know.’
Another pause. ‘I’ll get SO15 on it.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted.’
‘Will do.’
Now it was Carlyle’s turn to pause. He
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