Sins of the Fathers (27 page)

‘No reason,’ Gilzean replied casually. ‘Just wondering if it was straight sex or gay sex we were watching today.’

Ivor felt the contents of his stomach threatening to come back up and swallowed hard. ‘Do you think it’s real?’

‘Nah.’ Sitting back in his chair, Joe stuck his hands on his head. Suddenly conscious of the nasty odour emanating from Joe’s armpits, Ivor took a step backwards. ‘I’m sure that the CIA or whoever faked it up. Good fun, though.’

‘Okay.’ The smell was getting worse. Breathing through his mouth, Ivor began beating a hasty retreat. On the screen the terrorist/freedom fighter/whatever was still giving it his best shot, so to speak.

‘It looks real to me,’ Gilzean mused. ‘Anyway, if they were going to fake it, wouldn’t they have the donkey fucking the guy, rather than the other way round?’

‘Assuming it’s a male donkey.’

‘Of course.’

‘Enough,’ Ivor squawked. He was getting really worried about the burrito now. ‘Just don’t send it to the clients by mistake.’

Joe laughed. ‘The dirty bastards would probably like it.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Sam pointed at the glass wall which gave them a view of the lifts and the reception area.

Ivor looked up. ‘Oh, great.’ A short, crumpled middle-aged bloke was standing by the unmanned reception desk. Without doubt an unhappy punter. He could spot them a mile off. The kind of loser who couldn’t score in a brothel. Only the real losers turned up at the office. Most months you would get one or two. The kind of guys with the self awareness of an amoeba, who could demand a blow job from a Cheryl Cole lookalike
and
their money back with a straight face. He really should have stuck that
NO REFUNDS
sign up on the wall.

The donkey video disappeared from the screen as Joe began typing furiously.

Ivor tried to look ingratiating. ‘Sam.’

‘No way.’ Patting Joe on the back, Gilzean beat a hasty retreat. ‘I’m busy. Anyway, you’re the boss. He’s your problem.’

‘Bollocks.’ Ivor plastered something approximating to a smile on his face and put his best foot forward.

The man eyed him suspiciously. ‘Mr Jenkinson?’

Ivor nodded and automatically extended a hand. ‘That’s right.’

The man thrust a card into Ivor’s hand. ‘We need to have a word . . . in private.’

Glancing at the card, Jenkinson grimaced. ‘I see. Come this way.’ Turning, he set off down a long corridor, leaving Carlyle to follow.

At the end of the corridor, Jenkinson opened the door to an office that had been fitted out to a much higher standard than the rest of the building. Framed posters for video games
L.A. Noire
and
Halo
hung on the wall behind a cherry veneer desk, and sliding glass doors opened out on to a small terrace. Dropping the inspector’s card onto the desk, the man sank into an oversized black leather chair.

‘Please.’ He gestured for his visitor to take the other chair. On the desk stood what looked like a model toy soldier. Picking it up, Jenkinson weighed it in his hand.

Peering at the figure, Carlyle tried to work out what precisely it was.

‘It’s a 1/6th scale
Berserker Predator
collectible.’ Jenkinson waved it around aimlessly. ‘You know, from the movies.’

What kind of bloke collects toys?
‘Very nice,’ Carlyle said politely.

‘It’s quite rare.’ Jenkinson carefully placed the Predator back on the desk. ‘So, what can I do for you,’ he glanced back down at the card, ‘er . . .’

‘Inspector,’ Carlyle said patiently.

‘What can I do for you,
Inspector
?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Are you here in a professional or a
personal
capacity?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you a Leafhopper client?’ Jenkinson asked hopefully.

‘Oh,’ Carlyle responded, catching his drift. ‘No, no.’

‘Okay, so what are you after?’

‘I am here about a woman called Ayumi Ninomiya.’

Jenkinson looked at the Predator for enlightenment. When none was forthcoming, he listened to the inspector explain about the missing girl.

‘What I need,’ Carlyle concluded, ‘is a list of men that Ms Ninomiya hooked up with through the site.’

Having seen this request coming a mile off, Jenkinson plastered a contrite look on his face. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I would like to be able to help you on this. However, all of our records are confidential.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Data protection and all that.’

‘I can appreciate that,’ Carlyle smiled back, ‘but under the circumstances, I was hoping . . .’

There was a knock and a young woman stuck her head round the door. Jenkinson impatiently waved her away. He turned back to the inspector. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me, I’m afraid. It’s in the contract.’

Wondering just how far he would be able to ram the Predator up Ivor’s arse, Carlyle gritted his teeth. ‘You want me to get a warrant?’

Ivor scratched his left earlobe. ‘You can try.’ Pushing himself up from the chair, he picked up the figure and signalled towards the door with it.

Carlyle gestured for him to sit back down. ‘Alternatively, I could go and have a word with Harriet Botto.’

Ivor Jenkinson placed the Predator carefully back on the table for a second time.

‘I checked her out.’ Putting a nasty smile on his face, Carlyle turned the knife. ‘She still lives in St John’s Wood.’

Jenkinson ran the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Ivor, come on. There’s no statute of limitations on
rape
.’ Pleased with himself, Carlyle sat back in his chair. He’d done some homework, for once, and it looked like it had paid off. Seven years ago, Ivor Jenkinson had had a fling with Botto, a married co-worker at his previous business. Botto’s husband accused Jenkinson of rape. When the police were not able to persuade arriet to give evidence, her husband divorced her. Jenkinson had then gone off and married someone else.

At the mention of the r-word, Jenkinson jumped slightly in his chair, as if he’d been given a mild electric shock. ‘I didn’t—’

‘That would be a matter for a jury to decide,’ Carlyle said solemnly. ‘The Met is currently reviewing all outstanding serious sexual assault and rape cases. As far as we are concerned, so-called “guilt” or “innocence” don’t come into it.’ Jenkinson’s bottom lip began to tremble; suddenly he looked like he was about eight years old. ‘The key issue is the likelihood of a conviction. Can we get a result? And your case is in the green pile.’ Carlyle paused. He was making this bollocks up as he went along and didn’t want to get too carried away.

Jenkinson belatedly realized that he was supposed to ask a question. ‘What’s the green pile?’

‘Good to go.’

A strangled groan slipped from Jenkinson’s throat as his eyes lost their focus.
Stay with me
, Carlyle thought, somewhat disconcerted that his little spiel was having quite such an effect. He pulled his chair up to the desk and leaned forward. ‘My colleagues in charge of the case reviews have identified Ms Botto as a priority case for interview. That means that they intend to re-interview her and ask her to finally make a formal complaint.’

Tears welled up in the other man’s eyes. ‘Can they do that?’

Carlyle made a face. ‘I think they’re looking to speak to her next week.’

‘Oh God.’

‘The green cases are chosen very carefully. They only go for the ones they really like the look of. There’s something like a ninety-five per cent success rate in getting them to court.’

Jenkinson’s head slumped on his chest. ‘And then?’

‘To be honest?’ Carlyle tried not to grin. ‘Having gone carefully through the file, I’d say there’s a good chance you’d end up with four to six years.’

Another electric shock. He looked up. ‘In prison?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Carlyle paused again. ‘It’s pretty tough for rapists.’

Jenkinson started to sob. ‘But I’m not . . .’

‘And once you get out, you’ll have to remain on the Sex Offenders Register. Or, alternatively, I can make this go away.’

Jenkinson looked at him doubtfully.

‘Inspector Kelvin Smith is in charge of this case,’ Carlyle burbled. ‘Kelv is a good mate of mine. He owes me a few favours, too. I can easily get him to flip you into the red pile.’

Reclaiming his Predator, Jenkinson clutched it to his breast as if it would protect him from the evil forces of the state.

‘So what do I have to do?’

‘All I need,’ said the inspector, reasonableness personified, ‘are a few names and phone numbers.’

Ten minutes later, he had a sheet of A4 paper containing four names and addresses, along with emails and contact details. Ivor Jenkinson had recovered some of the colour in his cheeks. The Predator remained inscrutable. The inspector glanced down the list. ‘Are these all of the people Ayumi Ninomiya met up with from the site?’

‘Well,’ Jenkinson began, ‘we can never give a one hundred per cent guarantee, of course, but Leafhopper has this special security feature for the benefit of its female members. You can chat online with potential sugar daddies, but if you agree to meet up with anyone in person, we ask you to use our unique “hooking up” feature which allows you to log where and when the date is taking place, so that there is a record if,’ realizing that he was digging himself into a hole, he coughed, ‘er, something goes wrong.’

Carlyle arched an eyebrow. ‘And do things go wrong?’

The worried look returned to Jenkinson’s face. ‘It is like anything else in life . . .’

I’ve yanked the guy’s chain enough
, Carlyle thought. ‘Okay, okay.’ He held up a hand. ‘Are these the only guys, as far as you know, who Ayumi hooked up with through the site?’

Jenkinson nodded. ‘Yes, with the caveat that she might have met others and just not recorded it.’

‘I understand. At least this is a start.’ Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘How many people did she hook up with online without going on to meet them?’

‘Something like a hundred and seventy, give or take.’

‘Jesus. That’s a lot of flirting.’

‘We have almost three thousand five hundred blue chip sugar daddies signed up,’ Jenkinson said proudly.

A cyber meat market. Carlyle shook his head.

‘It’s not just about sex,’ said Jenkinson defensively. ‘We’ve had one wedding already.’

Carlyle raised an eyebrow.

‘Unfortunately, it only lasted three months. But still.’

Good God. Maybe he
should
talk to Harriett Botto; a few years in jail might do this odious little prick some good. At the very least, the inspector was tempted to grab the Predator and beat Jenkinson around the head with it. He glanced again at the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘What’s this at the bottom?’

‘That’s your login and password,’ Jenkinson said slyly. ‘I thought you might want to give the service a go.’

Carlyle shot him a look.

‘Free, of course.’

‘Hm.’ If Helen somehow got to hear of this, she would have a fit.

The Predator looked like he was going to kill himself laughing.

The inspector got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your co-operation.’

‘Speak.’

‘Gideon? It’s John Carlyle. I’m looking for Dominic.’

As far as the inspector knew, he was the only person who called him Dominic. To everyone else, including his long-term sidekick and fixer, Gideon Spanner, he was just ‘Dom’.

There was a grunt on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of footsteps and some voices in the background. Finally, Dominic Silver himself came on the line.

‘Inspector,’ he said warmly. ‘Good to know you are still alive.’

‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said ruefully.

‘How long’s it been?’

‘Since our little trip?’ Carlyle tensed up. ‘Six months, give or take?’

The ‘little trip’ had seen Carlyle and Silver, along with Gideon, cross the Channel to kill a French gangster called Tuco Martinez. On that journey, the inspector had crossed a very clear line, something he hoped he’d never to have to do again. Returning to his ‘normal’ life, he had kept his distance from Dom.

‘It was six months yesterday.’

‘Yeah?’ Carlyle wished it was much longer. ‘Look, first things first.’ He recited his new pay-as-you-go number, waiting patiently while Dom scribbled it down.

‘We should get together,’ his old friend said.

‘Good idea.’ Carlyle tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. The business with Martinez had taken him outside of the law, much further outside of it than he had ever thought he would go. That in itself wasn’t Dom’s fault but it was the kind of risk that you took when you had a mate who was a drug dealer. ‘But things are really busy right now.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Dom laughed. ‘I’ve retired and things are still frantic.’

‘You what?’

‘I’ve retired – well, more or less.’

Better late than never
, Carlyle thought to himself. ‘Good.’

‘You were right. I shouldn’t have tried to get back into the drugs business. Trying to work with our French friend was a big mistake. So, basically, I’ve cut everything back now. It’s just Gideon and me and we provide a very occasional
family and friends
type of service. Most of the rest of the business has been parcelled out to other operators.’ He mentioned a few names that Carlyle had never heard of.

‘Ah well, you know what you’re doing.’

‘Always, Johnny boy,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Always. My new sideline is art.’

Carlyle took a couple of seconds to process this piece of information. ‘Art?’

‘It’s just another selling gig,’ said Dom cheerfully. ‘I’ve got some great up and coming artists on my books – Abbruzzi, Bezmiller, XTX, Cecil “Pop” Ivy – and a great showroom on Cork Street. You should come and have a look.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle belatedly remembered the reason he had called in the first place. ‘Look, I wondered if you could help me.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m trying to track down George McQuarrie.’

‘Bloody hell. He’s a right thug. Make sure you take some back-up.’

‘I have to find him first. Any idea where he knocks about these days?’

‘Sure. I see him round and about quite often. He likes to go to a place called the Signal Bar on Duke Street in St James’s. His dad still has some offices round the corner.’