London Calling (29 page)

Carlyle took another bite of his wrap, saw that there was not much of it left, so stuck it all in his mouth.

‘Not going to win a Pulitzer Prize, this piece, is it?’

Joe ignored his boss’s sarcasm. ‘The police investigation was literally open and shut. The coroner’s verdict was “killed himself whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed”.’

‘That’s the standard verdict,’ Carlyle remarked. ‘What’s his connection to the Merrion Club?’

‘We don’t know,’ Joe replied. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been a member, but Paul Hawley said that that they sometimes co-opted lesser mortals.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Hawley, you mean? He wasn’t much use really: a bit of a moaner always straying off the point. He did put me on to the university newspaper, though.’

Carlyle thought about it all a bit more. ‘A suicidal would-be lawyer doesn’t seem much like proper Merrion material.’

‘No, not really,’ Joe agreed, ‘Of course, the whole thing could be a false trail.’

‘False or not, it’s the only one we’ve got. Is there anything else of interest about this guy Ashton that might be relevant?’

Joe shook his head. ‘There was nothing else I could find out today.’

‘Do we know if he had any previous problems?’

‘I don’t think so. He’d had no run-ins with the local police, at least.’

‘What about his academic record?’

‘Haven’t been able to check that out yet,’ said Joe. ‘But, if that article is anything to go by, it should have been fine.’

Carlyle finished his orange juice, and took the empty glass and plate back to the counter. He was still hungry, so he ordered a double espresso and a slice of fruit cake, before heading back to their table.

‘He was an only child,’ Joe continued. ‘Seems that his parents never got over it.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’

‘The mother had a stroke a year later and the father spent years fighting colon cancer. He died in 1997.’

‘The poor bastard,’ said Carlyle, as he eyed a very attractive redhead, cheeks flushed from her workout, sauntering towards the exit. ‘The poor fucking bastard.’

‘Which one?’

‘The father.’ Carlyle paused to acknowledge the arrival of his coffee and cake. He took a mouthful of the latter, and continued: ‘Imagine losing your kid and your wife like that, so close together, and then getting fucking cancer.’

‘Maybe the stress brought it on.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Carlyle mused. He nibbled at the cake approvingly. It was dark, moist and heavy, just the way it should be. He dropped the rest of it back on the plate, just to stop himself scoffing the lot in one go. ‘What else did you find out in Cambridge?’

‘That’s about it.’ Watching Carlyle stuff his face was making Joe hungry, too. His wife had sent him a text earlier to say that she had made them a curry. He hoped that the kids had left him some, and wanted to get home to find out. ‘Everyone’s buggered off for the summer holidays. The “Come back in two months” signs are out.’

‘Well, hopefully, we’ve got what we need from up there already,’ said Carlyle, draining his coffee. ‘Well done, Joe. Not a bad day’s work.’ He stood up and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, searching for his wallet. ‘Now we think we know
who
this is about, maybe tomorrow we’ll find out
why
.’

‘Maybe the killer will send us a note explaining it all,’ Joe smiled.

‘His continued help would be very nice,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘After all, it’s just about the only way we’ve been able to make any progress in this fucking case, so far.’

Carlyle was brushing his teeth when he heard an electronic yelp from the bedroom. Still brushing, he wandered out of the bathroom and picked up the mobile from the small table on his side of the bed. Without checking who it was, he hit the receive button.

‘Yes?’

‘John? It’s Carole Simpson. Apologies for not returning your call earlier. I was caught up in a budget meeting that went on for more than six hours.’

‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, as he headed back into the bathroom and dropped the toothbrush in the handbasin.

‘So where are we now on the investigation?’ Simpson asked.

Carlyle spent the next couple of minutes filling her in on recent developments.

After he was done, she said: ‘Progress at last. Well done. It sounds like Joe Szyszkowski has done a good job here.’

Szyszkowski?
Carlyle thought.
That pseudo-Polish bastard?
What about me?
But he restricted himself to a clipped, ‘Thank you.’

‘And where do we go from here?’

Carlyle perched himself on the side of the bath. ‘As you can imagine, I really need to speak to the two Carltons and Christian Holyrod, now more than ever. I saw Edgar Carlton very briefly yesterday, but I still haven’t had a time arranged for a proper meeting. One of his advisers, a guy called Murray, is supposed to be getting back to me.’

‘I know William Murray,’ Simpson said, ‘or, rather, I’ve met him a couple of times. My husband says he’s one to watch – a potential rising star.’

‘Someone ready to cover up his boss’s dirty work?’ Carlyle suggested.

‘Someone who is very bright and has worked incredibly hard to get to the position where he is now,’ Simpson replied sharply. ‘Apparently he went to school at some troubled inner London comprehensive, but still got a first in Political History from Cambridge. He’s seen as a poster boy for the non-privileged wing of the party.’

‘Good for him,’ Carlyle sneered.

‘I will speak to Murray or someone in Edgar’s office, and get this moving,’ she said firmly, choosing to ignore the inspector’s petulance. ‘This has taken too long. I want to get it resolved as quickly as possible.’

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle was surprised by the note of determination in her voice. Maybe she was feeling some pressure as well.

‘In the meantime,’ she added, ‘we have to keep an open mind. The Merrion Club may end up having nothing at all to do with this case. Once you’ve spoken to them, let me know how it went.’

‘Of course.’

Carlyle ended the call and went back to brushing his teeth. He had barely finished that when his mobile went again.

‘Inspector Carlyle?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is William Murray.’

Jesus, that was quick,
Carlyle thought. He assumed his most official tone. ‘Yes, Mr Murray, what can I do for you?’

‘Would eleven a.m. be possible for your meeting with Edgar Carlton?’

‘Eleven tomorrow, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘That would be fine.’
Only two days before the election
, Carlyle reflected.
That is a turn-up
.

‘Good,’ Murray purred. ‘The meeting will take place at the offices of Badajoz Consulting, 132 Half Moon Street, just off Piccadilly.’

‘Who are Badajoz Consulting?’

‘They are … advisers to the Carltons.’

Carlyle snorted. ‘I thought that was
your
job.’

There was a pause, then, ‘Inspector, if you are preparing to run the country, you really do need the broadest range of top advisers.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘132 Half Moon Street.’

‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle went back into the bedroom, found a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Half …’

‘… Moon Street.’

‘Got it.’ He jotted the address down above a half-finished Sudoku puzzle that Helen had left beside the bed. ‘I’ll see you there.’

‘It will be our pleasure, Inspector.’

Sitting up in bed, a little later, Carlyle told his wife about his upcoming meeting with Edgar Carlton.

‘It will be interesting to see what you make of him,’ Helen said, peering over her glasses at the newspaper, seemingly more interested in her puzzle than in his work.

‘I think we know that already.’

‘I know,’ she said, jotting down some numbers before immediately scrubbing them out. ‘But how often do you get to see people like that close up in the flesh? Maybe you’ll see him in a different light, afterwards.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to keep an open mind?’ she sniffed, not lifting her eyes from the page in front of her. ‘Isn’t it your job not to prejudge things?’

‘We’ll see,’ he said, non-committally.

‘Oh, by the way …’ Helen finally gave up on the Sudoku, letting the newspaper drop to the duvet and removing her spectacles. ‘… I forgot to mention it earlier but I spoke to Eva yesterday.’

Eva as in Eva Hollander, otherwise Mrs Dominic Silver.

‘Yes?’

‘She suggested that we get our kids together during the school holidays. I think Alice will love it.’

‘I agree,’ said Carlyle. He knew how much Helen worried about her daughter having playmates during the holidays, being an only child.

‘Eva said that you’d already spoken to Dom about it,’ Helen added.

‘Not really,’ said Carlyle, rather defensively. ‘I saw him in Soho for a quick chat the other day … mainly about business.’

‘What would
he
know about Carlton?’ Helen asked.

‘It’s what he can find out that I’m more interested in.’

‘Well, maybe he has found something out.’ Helen reached over to switch off her bedside lamp. ‘Eva says he’s been trying to get hold of you. You need to give him a call.’

‘I will.’

She quickly dived under the duvet.

Switching off his own light, Carlyle sat for a while in the darkness, reflecting.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Badajoz Consulting identified itself by a shiny brass nameplate alongside the nondescript door of 132 Half Moon Street, a thoroughfare which was home to a mix of offices housing companies that you had never heard of and stores housing luxury goods brands that you had. Offering ‘bespoke management solutions’, the firm occupied the upper three floors. On the very top floor, Edgar and Xavier Carlton and Christian Holyrod had been closeted in the company’s boardroom for over an hour. They eventually talked themselves to a standstill. Strewn across the Italian-designed, dark-oak boardroom table were used coffee cups, glasses and half-empty bottles of carbonated and still Highland Spring water. The shades had been partially drawn, while the air-conditioning kept the temperature at a steady sixty-five degrees.

The trio had been reviewing the ‘overall situation’, and the mood was now tetchy. With just two days to go, the election campaign had still failed to catch fire, and the polls were continuing to narrow. As far as anyone could tell, the voters were not particularly minded to support anyone. For the first time, one or two newspaper articles had begun speculating that the Carltons could actually snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Meanwhile, the ongoing police investigation showed no signs of reaching a conclusion. The possibility loomed large of the whole thing exploding in their faces just before polling day.

At one end of the room, Christian Holyrod paced about in front of a monster, sixty-inch television screen, set up for video conferencing but currently blank. Feeling pale and bloated after a couple of years out of the army, the mayor was uncomfortable in his £3,000 suit and £750 Italian loafers. He was also distinctly uncomfortable at being here in the Badajoz boardroom. Above all, he was annoyed at himself for getting dragged into this sorry mess. As far as he could see, the whole thing was nothing to do with him. It wasn’t his problem and he wasn’t going to take any flak for Edgar’s wretched brother.

As far as Christian was concerned, Xavier had meant trouble ever since he’d known him. If he were to finally get his come-uppance, that would be no bad thing. Christian smiled to himself. He was a politician now. A
professional
politician, just as he had been a professional soldier, someone who could see the big picture. Holyrod was well aware that this situation could work out very nicely for him in the longer term. For anything that damaged Xavier could see Holyrod emerge as Edgar’s natural successor. Potentially, in less than a decade, he could be the country’s first soldier turned prime minister since Churchill. Winston bloody Churchill! There was a thought to put fire in the belly and stir the blood!

Christian glanced around at his brothers in arms. ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he said, gesturing towards the door. ‘We can’t leave them out there forever.’

‘Yes,’ Xavier agreed, ‘let’s do it. I have a lunch appointment in an hour’ – he rolled his eyes to the ceiling – ‘with the bloody Women’s Institute!’

‘Fine.’ Edgar gestured to William Murray, hovering nervously in the shadows. ‘Bring them in.’ As the special assistant headed out of the room, Edgar turned to the other two. ‘Leave this to me. I’ll do all the talking.’

Two minutes later, Carlyle and Joe Szyszkowski were ushered into the room and offered the chairs closest to the door. Immediately to their left, Edgar took his seat at the head of the table. Murray slipped round to sit on Edgar’s right, pen and paper in front of him, ready to take notes. Xavier and Holyrod sat down a couple of places down, directly facing the two policemen.

‘Our apologies for keeping you waiting, Inspector,’ said Edgar as he poured himself a fresh glass of sparkling water. ‘I think that you will know everyone round the table, by reputation at least.’

Carlyle nodded.

‘Good,’ Edgar smiled. ‘I also thought it would be useful to have our head of security present, too.’ He nodded at Murray, who again skipped out of the room, returning almost immediately with another man.

Entering the room from directly behind Carlyle, the new arrival offered nothing by word of greeting, merely moved around the table and dropped heavily into the seat next to Edgar Carlton, depriving Miller of his place. For several seconds, time stood still. The new arrival eyed the two policemen, silently, only the slightest of smiles playing across his lips. It took Carlyle a moment to accept the reality of the situation. He hadn’t seen the man facing him for more than twenty-five years – and he wished he was not looking at him now.

Carlyle bit down firmly on the inside of his cheek and took a deep breath.

‘Hello, Trevor.’

Time had not been kind to his old adversary. His face looked worn, greyer; the hair was largely gone and he had gained a lot of weight. He could easily pass for a man ten or even fifteen years older. But, beneath the additional layers of fat, Carlyle could still make out the same petulant child. More than anything, it was the eyes. They were the same: dead, and sullen and dangerous.