Sins of the Fathers (19 page)

‘I don’t see how that helps,’ Slater snapped.

‘Maybe he annoyed someone at his work,’ Belekhsan suggested airily.

Now it was Carlyle’s turn to pretend to think things through. Umar had visited Schaeffer’s workplace – it had basically been a desk in a serviced office – and as far as they could tell he had worked alone. ‘But I thought he was a one-man band?’

Belekhsan looked nonplussed. ‘Sorry?’

‘He worked on his own,’ Carlyle explained. ‘Who could he have annoyed?’

The not-so grieving widow looked at him as if he was a naughty ten year old who was refusing to brush his teeth properly. ‘His clients, of course.’

The inspector waited. When she didn’t offer any more information, he prompted further. ‘What exactly did he do?’

Iris Belekhsan idly scratched her left breast. Carlyle tried not to stare. ‘He advised high-net-worth individuals on their investments, that sort of thing.’

‘From what we have seen so far,’ Carlyle reflected, ‘his records do not seem to be anywhere near complete.’

Belekhsan made a face. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

At the far end of the table, Kieron Sterling gestured at his watch.

Slater gave her associate a nod. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, turning to Carlyle, ‘we are rather pushed for time this morning, Inspector. I think we are going to have to call it a day.’

‘One final question,’ Carlyle said evenly, refusing to let the lawyer end the meeting so quickly.

‘Go on.’

‘Did Mr Schaeffer have a will?’

Having the answer to hand, Slater smiled indulgently. ‘Everything goes to the child. Once the estate has been dealt with, all the monies will be put in a trust that will provide for Rebecca’s education. It will be turned fully over to her when she is twenty-one.’

Carlyle looked at Belekhsan. ‘And are you happy about that?’

Belekhsan shrugged as if it was of no import. ‘My will is exactly the same.’

‘Fine.’ Carlyle got to his feet. ‘I will need to speak to you again in due course. I will also need to speak to Rebecca again.’ Victim Support and Social Services had both spoken to the kid, to no effect whatsoever. Carlyle didn’t think he could do any better but he knew that he would have to give it a go.

Slater gave him a look that suggested he should crawl back under the nearest rock, while Belekhsan’s eyes twinkled with something that under different circumstances might have been described as mischief.

‘Am I a suspect?’

It was a question that the inspector had been asked a thousand times before. The stock answer tripped from his tongue before his brain had time to engage. ‘The investigation is ongoing.’ He saw no reason to put her at ease.

Belekhsan glanced at Slater. ‘If you need anything further, I am sure that Abigail will be able to help you,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ Slater nodded. ‘The inspector knows that I am always here to help.’

It sounded like a cue for laughter but he controlled his mirth. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Jumping from his chair, Sterling reached for the door but Carlyle shook his head. He could see himself out.

Taking a large bite out of a shiny green apple, Umar watched the inspector approach his desk. After several chews, he swallowed.

‘How did it go?’

Sliding past, Carlyle settled into the chair at his own desk. ‘Pretty much as expected.’

‘Mm.’

‘No one’s saying anything, basically.’

‘Do you think she did it?’ Umar nibbled the apple.

Reaching forward, Carlyle switched on his computer. ‘Well, she didn’t pull the trigger, obviously, given that she was in Cyprus with her new boyfriend at the time. Whether she was behind the killing is another matter.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Look at the stats. When the husband is done in, you always have to look at the wife.’ Carlyle grinned. ‘By the way, how
is
Christina?’

‘Urgh.’ Umar took one last bite from his apple and tossed the core towards a small cardboard box that had been placed on the floor as an improvised bin. To his disgust, he missed by a ridiculous amount, at least six inches.

‘Good shot,’ Carlyle sniggered.

With some considerable reluctance, the young sergeant got to his feet, picked up the core by the stalk and dropped it among the collection of paper cups, crisp packets and sandwich wrappers already in the box. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep,’ he complained. ‘And the bloody kid hasn’t even arrived yet.’

Carlyle tried not to smirk. The boy did look completely knackered, which only added to the strange sense of wellbeing he himself had been enjoying all day.

‘Easy for you to look smug,’ Umar griped. ‘Those days are long behind you now.’

True
, thought Carlyle happily, saying, ‘Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.’

Umar looked around to check that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation before wheeling his chair towards Carlyle and lowering his voice. ‘She’s so bloody big. And tossing and turning the whole time. Moaning about how it’s all my fault.’

‘Well, it is, I presume?’

‘I would kill for a full night’s sleep right now,’ Umar whispered. ‘And one of the women at the ante-natal class started hitting on me.’

Carlyle raised his eyebrows.

‘Right in my face she was, too.’

The inspector felt a familiar mix of jealousy and prurient interest. He’d never been hit on by a woman in his life, unless you counted Miki Kasaba, and he was beginning to think he must have dreamed that.

‘Maybe I’ll take her up on it, just to see if I can get a decent night’s kip.’

‘But isn’t she up the duff as well?’

‘Yeah,’ Umar grinned. ‘But quite foxy.’ He left out the bisexual bit in case it all got a bit too much for the inspector’s limited imagination.

Carlyle waved an admonishing finger at his sergeant. ‘You need to get a grip.’

Umar gave him a sly look. ‘You’re just jealous of my pulling power.’

‘Hardly,’ Carlyle lied. ‘Anyway, remember that Porsche licence-plate I got you to check out?’

Umar nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well . . .’ Carlyle began explaining the story of Ayumi Ninomiya, backwards, starting from Daniel Hutton’s motor.

Umar laughed out loud when he got to the bit about Miki and her big bed. ‘She’s obviously got a thing for older men.’

Carlyle realized that he should have kept his stupid fat mouth shut.

‘Maybe you should sign up to the website,’ Umar grinned.

‘Sod off.’

‘Seriously,’ the sergeant continued. ‘You could go undercover to flush out the killer.’

‘For a start, we don’t know that the missing girl, Ayumi Ninomiya, is dead. Also, the point of signing up is to meet young girls, not other sugar daddies.’

Umar stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Sounds good to me.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘That would go down well at home. Anyway, I don’t think tired, broke, middle-aged coppers are quite what the young ladies in question are looking for.’

Umar looked his boss up and down. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I suppose not.’

‘Any more good ideas?’ Carlyle asked, irritated now.

Reversing his chair, back towards his desk, Umar asked: ‘What’s the dating website called?’

‘
Leafhopper.com
.’

Umar typed the name into his search engine. ‘That’s a tech company.’

‘Eh?’

‘Hold on, hold on.’ Umar clicked on his mouse. ‘Here we go. It’s
Leafhopper.org
, actually.’

‘Whatever.’ The inspector felt rather uneasy that he hadn’t done this simple check rather earlier in the proceedings.

Umar read from the screen. ‘Discerning – elite – global.’

‘Sounds like your kind of thing.’ Getting up from his chair, Carlyle stepped behind his sergeant and scanned the site’s home page. A blurb read:
The top location for sugar daddy dating – bringing together successful sugar daddies and beautiful sugar babies.
However, the page itself was bland and functional, with the subscription options prominently displayed and a link for existing members to log in. Only a picture of a happy-looking blonde babe in an under-sized bikini hinted at the delights inside.

Carlyle sighed heavily. ‘How did we get through life without the internet?’

Umar grunted. ‘The guy with the Porsche, what was his name?’

‘Hutton. Daniel Hutton.’

Umar scanned the page. ‘Can’t see any kind of search function. I guess you don’t get anything until you’ve paid. Maybe we should just ask the site’s owners to show us what they’ve got.’

‘There’s no way they’d play ball without a court order and we’re never going to get one of those without something stronger than we’ve got at the moment.’

‘Maybe I’ll just sign up and see what I can find out.’

Carlyle pointed to the small print, which required a £275 signing-on fee on top of the £30 monthly subscription. ‘Good luck getting that through expenses.’

‘Maybe there’s a free trial option,’ said Umar optimistically as he bashed a few more keys.

‘Forget it,’ Carlyle said. ‘We’re wasting our time. Anyway, you’re too young to be anyone’s sugar daddy.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Besides, we’ve got more than enough on our plate.’

Umar flicked on to the BBC News website. The lead story was about yet another super injunction. ‘So you’re going to park this one?’

‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘When I get time, I’ll go and see Hutton and take it from there.’

‘Okay.’

Carlyle stepped back to his desk. ‘By the way, what’s a slut walk?’

Umar sat back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. It was a good pose with which to share a few pearls of wisdom with the tired old fogey who pretended to be his boss. ‘It’s a kind of post-feminist thing.’

Uh oh
, thought Carlyle.

‘To do with the right of women to wear what they want.’

‘And can’t they?’ Carlyle gestured airily towards the outside world. ‘It’s not exactly Tehran out there.’

‘No, no, no.’ Umar clarified: ‘This is about the right to wear
anything
you want. If you want to dress like a Soho streetwalker you should be able to do so without some pig of a man hitting on you because you’re giving him the come-on.’

‘But why would you want to dress like a hooker if—’

Umar held up his hand. ‘Surely you know better than to even get involved in discussion about it?’

‘Yeah, good point.’ The inspector had learned the hard way over the years that anything to do with so-called ‘gender equality’ was best left alone. You just couldn’t win.

‘They go on demonstrations in their underwear,’ Umar explained. ‘It started in America, I think.’

‘Figures,’ Carlyle grumbled. ‘I wonder what Germaine Greer would make of it all.’

Umar gave him a blank look. ‘Who?’

Jesus.

‘Christina’s a feminist,’ Umar mused, ‘and she didn’t bother with any underwear. Or outerwear for that matter.’

An image of the naked stripper smacking one of his PCs over the head with an outsized vibrator popped into his mind and Carlyle laughed out loud.

‘Why did you ask, anyway?’ Umar enquired, yawning.

‘Hutton’s daughter,’ Carlyle told him. ‘Apparently she’s one of the leaders of the SlutWalk movement in London.’

‘I see.’ Umar thought about that for a moment. ‘Shall I go and interview her?’

‘Better leave her to me.’

Umar looked disappointed, but only for a second. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘have you spoken to Helen yet?’

Carlyle looked at him blankly.

‘About the wedding.’

Ah. He had completely forgotten about his sergeant’s upcoming nuptials.

‘Er, not yet.’ This time, Umar looked genuinely disappointed. Maybe even a little hurt. He made to say something but Carlyle quickly held up a hand. ‘I have an excuse,’ he stammered, ‘a very good excuse.’

Having explained about his mother, Carlyle launched into an extended monologue about his father and the hookers in the Garden Hotel by way of a little light relief. As he was reaching the conclusion, he saw that Umar had become distracted by something on the far side of the room. Looking round, he saw a furious-looking Simpson steaming towards them, with a sheepish-looking Savage in tow.

Oh great
, the inspector thought.
What now?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Simpson’s opening gambit was short and to the point. ‘Collingwood’s escaped.’

Carlyle had never seen his boss so angry. At least, he had never seen her so angry at someone other than him. He looked at Savage. The sergeant gazed steadfastly at the floor. ‘What happened?’

‘He went to the bathroom and slipped out of an open window.’

‘And no one went with him?’ Umar said, and grinned at the inspector.

Don’t make me laugh, you bastard
, Carlyle thought. Getting angrier by the second, the Commander looked like she wanted to smack someone in the mouth.

‘He was having a dump,’ Savage explained, his voice so low that they could hardly hear it. ‘The security guards waited outside the stall.’

‘It might have helped,’ Simpson said grimly, ‘if you hadn’t been so busy trying to chat up that reporter from BBC News.’

Savage’s head dropped even lower. Poor old ‘Robbie’. This time Carlyle couldn’t help but smile. He loved it when Simpson lost her rag. Further infuriated, the Commander jabbed an angry finger towards him.

‘I’m glad you find it amusing, John. What are you going to bloody do about it?’

Pushing himself out of his chair, Carlyle allowed himself a stretch. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to keep the amusement from his voice, ‘I suppose we’d better go and find him then.’

The Collingwood family home was a solid terrace house in Highbury, not far from the former Arsenal football ground. Sitting in the gloom of the living room, Carlyle sipped from a cup of green tea and eyed Alison Collingwood carefully. An attractive blonde woman in – he guessed – her late thirties. Sitting on the sofa, her hands clamped tightly together, it appeared as if she hadn’t slept a wink in the last few days.

‘
Mrs Collingwood!
’

‘
Can you come out, love?
’