The Circus (22 page)

‘Where are we on the other stuff?’ Sir Chester asked, realising that this boy was not about to deliver anything useful or insightful on the phone-hacking front.

‘Other stuff?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Sir Chester racked his brain, trying to remember what concerns had been current before he had gone under the surgeon’s knife. That had been less than forty-eight hours ago but it felt like weeks, if not months. ‘The teenager who was blown up?’

‘Horatio Mosman,’ Shelbourne reminded him. ‘I haven’t had any update. Do you want me to ring Commander Simpson?’

‘We need news,’ the Commissioner mumbled, ignoring the question. ‘Good news. Something to show that we are moving things forward.’ He eyed the other man hopefully but even his spin doctor, who could always be relied upon for a vacuous phrase or a meaningless soundbite, seemed lost for words.

Salvation came in the form of a knock at the door. Before either of them had time to respond, it opened and a pretty blonde girl appeared in the room.

‘Sir Chester?’

The Commissioner suddenly felt his spirits rise.

‘I’m Sally,’ the girl said cheerily. ‘It’s time for your kriotherapy.’

Having let the polite ripple of applause die away, Carole Simpson stepped quickly off the stage in the gymnasium of the Bernard Rhodes South Camden Secondary School. There was a time when the Commander would have given awards ceremonies like this the widest of berths, but nowadays she was more relaxed about such events. All she had to do was hand out a few prizes, then have a quick cup of tea with the headmistress in the staffroom; undemanding if somewhat boring, it was the Met’s idea of winning hearts and minds.

‘Boss.’ Carlyle emerged from behind a curtain just as she reached the bottom step.

Simpson took a half-step backwards, almost falling over. ‘Jesus! Why do you have to creep up on people like that?’

‘Sorry.’ The inspector glared at a timid-looking woman in a cheap business suit hovering a few yards away. ‘We won’t be a moment,’ he told her. The headmistress gave a nod and retreated to a respectful distance. The kids had already fled, along with the rest of the teachers, leaving the cavernous hall empty apart from the three of them.

‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle feebly.

‘What do you want?’ If the Commander noticed the bruises on his face, she chose not to comment on them. Instead, she glanced theatrically at her watch. ‘I need to get going.’

‘Your office said I would find you here. I need to update you on various things.’

‘Okay.’ Simpson shot the headmistress a look that was more of annoyance than apology. ‘Make it quick.’

Carlyle quickly took her through the highlights, careful to focus mainly on the Mosman case.

‘So,’ she said, cutting him off before he had finished, ‘when are you going to bring the mother in?’

It was the obvious question. At the very least, Zoe Mosman had some explaining to do. ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ he said.

Simpson tugged at a button on her uniform. ‘You might not be but the bloody Commissioner is.’

‘How’s his back, by the way?’

‘He’s recuperating.’

‘At Laanti’s, I hear.’

Simpson looked off into the middle distance, signalling that she didn’t want to discuss the matter.

‘Mrs Mosman,’ said Carlyle, returning to the matter in hand, ‘is already lawyered up. Plus, I suppose, she thinks she can bluff us about the missing picture.’

Simpson gave him a blank look.

‘Joseph van Aken’s
View of Covent Garden
.’ Carlyle went on to explain the significance of the painting to his investigation. ‘First, I want to see what more we can find out from Harris Highman’s GAC audit before jumping in and trying to force a confession from her.’

‘A confession to what?’

‘Exactly.’ Carlyle smiled, as if she had just made his argument for him. ‘I dunno yet.’

He thought he heard Simpson mumble something that sounded like ‘smug bastard’ under her breath but he let it slide.

‘Okay,’ she said finally, ‘do it your way. But don’t leave it too long. Sir Chester is still enjoying his spa treatments, but it won’t be long before he’s back at his desk in New Scotland Yard and wanting to see some progress.’

‘Understood,’ Carlyle said. The headmistress reappeared in the corner of his vision and hovered. ‘Just a couple of other things,’ he said quickly, as the Commander turned towards her.

‘Yes?’ Simpson did not seem at all happy at the prospect of extending their conversation.

‘It won’t take long at all,’ said the inspector emolliently. Guiding his boss by the elbow, he moved them away from their host, saying, ‘Excuse us just one moment longer.’

The woman struggled to come up with a smile. This was her school and she wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

‘Quickly,’ Simpson hissed.

‘Right.’ Lowering his voice, Carlyle skipped through his conversation with Gilmore about Trevor Miller and Wickford Associates.

Folding her arms, Simpson assumed what Carlyle felt was a rather schoolmistressish air of her own. ‘All this is in the public domain,’ she said dismissively. ‘It has been known about for a long time. As far as I know, Mr Miller gave up the day-to-day running of his business when he first went to work for Edgar Carlton.’

‘But he still owns it.’

‘He may still be a shareholder,’ Simpson conceded. ‘So what?’

‘But there’s a clear conflict of interest.’

Frustrated by her underling’s enduring blockheadedness, Simpson pawed the ground impatiently with her left foot. ‘That is a very elastic term, as you well know, John. One man’s conflict of interest is simply another man’s synergy.’

For a moment he thought that she sounded like the old Carole Simpson: the over-ambitious officer still trying to climb the greasy pole and to cosy up to politicians; becoming a fellow-traveller on the Edgar Carlton bandwagon.

The old Carole Simpson that he had known and hated.

The same one that he thought had evaporated when her career had crashed and burned at the hands of her husband. He looked at her carefully. ‘That’s a very relaxed point of view.’

Simpson simply shrugged.

‘Bernie Gilmour reckons . . .’

Simpson raised an eyebrow.

‘According to his sources,’ Carlyle continued, ‘Wickford Associates does work for both the Zenger Corporation and the Metropolitan Police Service. They worked closely with Duncan Brown on the
Sunday Witness;
and Brown’s stories are being investigated by the phone-hacking inquiry.’

‘Hand it over to Operation Redhead, then.’

Carlyle made a face. ‘It’s a murder inquiry.’

Simpson lifted her gaze to the heavens and closed her eyes, thinking things through. ‘It’s a can of worms,’ she decided finally.

‘Aren’t they all?’ Carlyle laughed emptily.

‘Not like this one, John.’ Simpson opened her eyes and stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and compassion. ‘Not like this one.’

‘So?’

‘So – do what you have to do. Keep digging away like the grubby little dung beetle that you are, but don’t forget that your priority remains the Mosman case.’

Grubby little dung beetle?
Was she trying to insult him? If so, it was water off a duck’s back to Carlyle; over the years he’d been called a lot worse. ‘For sure.’

‘You need to have another conversation with Mrs Mosman, and sooner rather than later.’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Now, about Hannah Gillespie.’

Simpson stared at him blankly.

‘The missing schoolgirl with the dodgy boyfriend.’

But the Commander was already walking away. ‘John,’ she said firmly, ‘I don’t have time for any more right now. Use your discretion. Let’s talk again later.’

Fine by me, Carlyle thought. He watched her apologize to the headmistress before they wandered off in search of the refuge of the staffroom and a cup of tea.

Francis Clegg tossed the empty Coke can towards the bin in the corner of the room, missing by a considerable distance, and began fiddling with his ponytail. After a few moments, he abandoned that activity and began picking his nose.

On the other side of the glass viewing window, Joe Szyszkowski made a sound of disgust. ‘Nice.’

WPC Maude Hall watched as Clegg wiped a large bogey on
his red T-shirt, which had
narcissist
printed on it backwards in white letters. ‘At least we found him.’

‘Yeah.’ Joe turned to the stocky man standing between them. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘It’s our pleasure.’ Sergeant Declan Formby of the Aviation Unit gestured towards the glass. ‘He was getting on to a flight to Ibiza but we managed to stop him at the gate.’

‘Nice one,’ Joe smiled. It was a lucky break. Hundreds of thousands of people passed through Heathrow Airport every day. If it hadn’t been for an exceptionally alert security officer, Mr Clegg would have been enjoying his first bottle of San Miguel in the sunshine by now.

‘Sorry about the room,’ said Formby, ‘but all the cells are full. A bunch of boozed-up chavs started a riot on a flight from Barcelona.’

‘Ah, the joys of modern travel,’ said Joe. ‘That’s why we stay at home for the holidays. Go to Devon.’

‘Wise man,’ Formby nodded. ‘What do you want him for, anyway?’

‘We’re looking for his girlfriend,’ Hall explained.

Formby looked puzzled. ‘Who would go out with a muppet like that?’

‘She’s fourteen,’ said Hall grimly.

‘Ah.’ The colour leached from Formby’s face as he thought about his own daughters of a similar age. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he mumbled, as he headed for the door.

‘Can I have another Coke?’ Squinting under the strip lighting, Clegg looked up as they entered the room. His right index finger was still firmly ensconced in his right nostril, and he continued rooting around robustly while the officers each took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

‘For God’s sake!’ Joe gestured towards the finger. With some reluctance, Clegg removed it, shoving the offending hand into the pocket of his jeans instead.

‘I’m still thirsty.’ Thin and pasty-faced, he had twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble on his chin and dark rings under his eyes. The overall effect was of a man who had been partying hard for several days.

Joe placed his hands on the table. ‘I don’t want to waste any of your time, Francis.’

‘You already have,’ Clegg shot back. ‘I’ve missed my flight.’ ‘Where is Hannah?’

With a snort, Clegg sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Who?’

‘Hannah Gillespie,’ Hall said flatly. ‘Your girlfriend.’

‘Never heard of her,’ Clegg smirked. He made a show of looking Hall up and down. ‘Have
you
got a boyfriend, sweetheart?’

‘Let’s stick to the point,’ said Joe. ‘When did you last see Hannah?’

‘Like I said,’ Clegg replied, not taking his eyes off the WPC, ‘I don’t know her.’

Hall’s eyes narrowed. ‘One of Hannah’s friends named you. She says she’s seen the two of you together several times.’

‘I know a lot of people.’ The smirk got wider. ‘And I wanna drink.’

‘The girl is missing,’ Hall said slowly, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Her parents are extremely concerned.’ ‘Not my problem.’

‘In that case,’ Joe sighed, ‘we’ll have to take you back to the police station.’

‘Wrongful arrest, man. Police harassment.’

‘We’ll sort that out at the station.’ Pushing back his chair, Joe got to his feet. As he did so, Hall’s right arm shot across the table, grabbing Clegg’s T-shirt and dragging the paedophile out of his seat.

‘Hey!’ Joe stumbled backwards as he watched her drag Clegg across the table and throw him on to the floor, administering three quick kicks to his head and torso as he went down.

‘Maude . . .’

Ignoring the sergeant, Hall gave the prostrate man another swift kick. Groaning, Clegg adopted the foetal position. Crouching down, she grabbed him by the ears. ‘Look at me, fucker,’ she hissed. ‘Open your fucking eyes.’

Resisting the urge to laugh, Joe looked hurriedly around the room. No CCTV – thank fuck for that. The corridor outside was empty. Fingers crossed, therefore, no one had seen what had happened. ‘Maude!’ Jumping forward, he put a hand on her shoulder. Shrugging it off, she jabbed Clegg in the eye with a thumb.

‘Aawww!’ Clutching his face, Francis Clegg began rolling round on the floor like a footballer looking for a penalty.

Standing up, Hall wiped a loose strand of hair from her face. ‘Tell us where she is,’ she said quietly, ‘or you might not even make it back to Charing Cross.’

‘Tell her to stop,’ Clegg whimpered.

At a loss over what to do, Joe stepped backwards until he was leaning up against the window, blocking the view of anyone who might come wandering along the corridor outside. ‘I would advise you to tell the lady what she wants to know,’ he said smoothly. ‘Otherwise, you’re on your own.’

At least there was one person in Charing Cross police station who looked like they had taken more of a kicking than he had. After getting Francis Clegg to sign his statement, the inspector retreated back up to the third floor. Joe was sitting at his desk, drinking a mug of coffee, while WPC Hall was perched on the edge of a nearby desk, munching happily on a banana. Since returning from Heathrow, each of them had maintained an exaggerated air of innocence; just as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

Carlyle put the statement on his desk and eyed his sergeant carefully. ‘So he sold her?’

Hall quickly swallowed the last of her banana, dropping the skin into the cardboard box on the floor that served as a makeshift bin. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He just kind of passed her on to one of his mates.’

‘As one does,’ Joe said, looking sick.

‘Do we believe him?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I think so.’ Joe brightened. ‘Once Maude had a little word with him, he rather quickly decided to lose his attitude and tell us what was going on.’

Blushing, Hall looked at the floor.

‘The Krav Manga worked a treat,’ Joe smirked. ‘I’m thinking of taking a few classes myself.’

‘Krav Maga,’ Hall corrected him, still blushing. ‘It’s a fighting technique developed by the Israeli Defence Forces,’ she
explained, seeing that Carlyle was at a loss. ‘It’s their official martial art – a form of hand-to-hand combat originally developed to defend Jews against Nazi attacks in the 1930s. I go to classes in Westminster twice a week. It’s good fun. You should give it a go.’