The Circus (26 page)

‘How did you know I was here?’ From behind a large glass of Company Bay Sauvignon Blanc, Commander Carole Simpson eyed her subordinate suspiciously. Her friend, a glamorous forty-something interior designer called Laura, had tactfully gone outside for a smoke while the two of them talked business.

‘Your PA told me this was one of your usual haunts.’

‘That girl . . .’ Simpson shook her head. All she really wanted from an assistant was someone who kept their own mouth shut and kept other people’s noses out of the Commander’s business. How difficult could that be? Rather difficult indeed, judging by the turnover in administrative support that she’d had to endure in recent years.

The inspector finished his drink and signalled to a passing waitress that he’d like another, ‘a double’. At £8.50 a pop, he was trusting that his boss would be picking up the tab. ‘I went to visit Meyer at Operation Redhead,’ he said.

‘Mm.’ The look on Simpson’s face suggested that she already knew what was coming next.

‘He’s got quite a set-up over there.’

Sipping more wine, the Commander said nothing.

‘He said you’d spoken to him – about me.’

Placing her glass carefully on the table, Simpson asked, ‘And did he offer you a job?’

‘Yeah. And I refused it, just like you told him I would.’

Simpson said, ‘I did try and warn him, but Russell never was very good at listening.’

‘You know him well?’

‘Not really. I’ve met him a few times – at conferences and so on. I was somewhat surprised when he gave me a call.’

‘He seems like a bit of a prick. Why would they put someone like that in charge of such a high-profile operation?’

‘John,’ Simpson said drily, ‘you know the answer to that perfectly well. Meyer is there solely to provide the necessary sound and fury.’

‘Meyer doesn’t seem to think so,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘He sees himself on a mission to change the world.’

‘Like you said, he’s a prick.’ Simpson’s eyes sparkled and he wondered how much she’d already had to drink.

‘I thought I was supposed to be the . . . what was it?’ He tried to recall one of her previous put-downs. ‘The “self-styled most cynical man in the room”?’

‘Yes, you are – but I’m slowly catching up.’ Simpson took another mouthful of wine just as the waitress reappeared with his whiskey.

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle waited for her to go before he turned back to his boss. ‘Meyer wants me to back-pedal on the Brown investigation.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Simpson sighed. ‘He always was the kind of officer who thought the ends could justify the means.’ She laughed. ‘In the end, he’s probably even more cynical than both of us combined.’

The Clash gave way to Marc Cohn’s ‘Walking in Memphis’. The crowd continued with their chatter.

‘Maybe.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I promised I wouldn’t do anything that would compromise his investigation.’

Simpson looked surprised. ‘That was very diplomatic – by your standards.’

‘The way I see it, my own enquiries are proceeding quite nicely.’

‘Oh, are they?’ Simpson arched an eyebrow.

‘And I don’t need to tread on his toes to get a result.’ The inspector filled her in on the materials recovered from Gemma Millington’s flat – omitting mention of the photo of Ms Millington in a pink wig – and outlined his planned next steps.

‘Fine,’ said Simpson, refilling her glass from the bottle on the table.

‘So, I was wondering if I might be able to take WPC Hall off the shift rota for the next few days?’

Simpson eyed him quizzically. ‘I thought that you already had. The desk isn’t too pleased about it.’

‘Sorry.’ The inspector tried his best to sound apologetic. ‘But she’s doing a good job.’

‘She’s pretty, too, I hear.’

‘Which is why,’ he smiled, ‘she is in good hands with two tired, old married men like me and Joe.’

‘Let’s see how it goes over the next few days. Now, seeing as you are here, you can tell me something useful.’

Uh oh
.

‘How is the Mosman case going?’

Good bloody question, he thought, gulping down a sizeable slug of whiskey.

‘You know the case – the one that I said should be your top priority?’

Yes, yes, yes
. ‘I’m going to speak to Mrs Mosman again
tomorrow,’ he said evenly, glossing over the fact that he had done nothing of note regarding her since they had last spoken.

‘Good.’

‘And,’ he added, belatedly remembering why he had come here in the first place, ‘I want to hold a presser about Hannah Gillespie.’

‘Why?’

‘The media have started running with the story. In particular, a journalist called Bernie Gilmore.’

The Commander eyed him suspiciously. ‘I know Gilmore. I never return his calls.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Mm.’

‘The parents have got to him. He’s already put something online. The girl has been missing for days now, and some of her known associates give us cause for concern. We need to get on the front foot regarding this. We’ve played it by the book so far, but you know as well as I do that, until the kid turns up safe and sound, we will always be accused of not doing enough.’

‘Fine. Organize a presser. But you’ll have to handle it without me.’ Simpson’s days of mugging for the cameras were over. Until not so long ago, she would have run a mile to get in front of a microphone. Now she couldn’t keep far enough away. ‘Just keep it short and sweet.’

‘Sure.’

‘Do you think the girl is still okay?’

‘Hopefully – but I’ve no idea, really. If nothing else, we’ll be covering our own backs.’ Everyone knew that covering one’s back was always a good reason for action. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura reappear at the door and begin making her way towards their table. Carlyle drained his glass and gave his boss a big smile. ‘Lots to be getting on with,’ he said cheerily, and stood up. He could feel the effects of the alcohol as he swayed slightly on his feet. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the drink.’

‘My pleasure,’ Simpson replied tartly.

He nodded at Laura. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You too, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s always fun to meet some of Carole’s more interesting colleagues.’

Curiously disconcerted by his uncharacteristic show of politeness, Simpson watched her underling head for the door.

Placing her iPhone and Marlboros on the table, Laura reached for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Seems like a nice guy.’

‘Mm,’ Simpson replied. ‘He has his moments.’

Walking in Memphis
. . .’ Hoping to clear his head, Carlyle inhaled deeply as he walked down the Edgware Road, heading towards Marble Arch where he could get a bus home to Covent Garden. Passing a kebab shop, he felt a sharp pang of hunger just as one of his phones started vibrating in his pocket.

‘Carlyle,’ he announced.

‘Inspector, it’s Snowdon here.’

Shit. Another job he hadn’t done. If it wasn’t for the drink, he would have had the wit to leave his phone unanswered. Grimacing, he cleared his throat. ‘Good evening, sir. How are you?’

‘I was just wondering if you had managed to speak to your colleagues in Fulham yet?’ Even with all the background noise, Carlyle could detect that the old man sounded drunker than he was himself. Looking up in the nick of time, he narrowly avoided walking into a lamppost.

‘I haven’t been able to get hold of them yet, but I’m hoping to go down there tomorrow.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘And thank you for setting up the meeting with Mr . . .’

‘Highman.’

‘Yes, thank you. That was very useful.’

‘Harris is a good chap.’

‘Indeed.’ His attention was distracted by a takeaway called Hell’s Pizza located, appropriately enough, on the corner of Church Street. His stomach rumbled insistently. ‘Look, my
apologies but I have to go. I will give you a call with an update tomorrow.’

‘Very good,’ Sir Michael said wearily.

Ending the call, the inspector switched off his phone and headed straight towards his culinary salvation.

Sitting back in his chair, Harris Highman contemplated his gloomy, cluttered office. This was the nearest thing he’d had to a home for more than thirty years. Thirty years! Not for the first time, he reflected that he had spent almost half a lifetime sitting in one little room. Now that retirement was looming, he was at a loss as to what to do about it. Where had the time gone? It was such a banal lament.

Through the window, he could make out the London Eye, lit up now as it carried its last tourists of the evening. A cleaner stuck her head round the door but Highman waved her away with a flick of his hand. Loosening his tie, he took a sip of his lemon and ginger tea before scanning the list of names on the sheet of paper resting on his lap.

‘Mm.’ Reaching across his desk, he put down his
Book of the Dead
souvenir mug and picked up a copy of
UK in Germany
, the glossy bi-annual newsletter published by the British Embassy in Berlin. The centre spread was given over to an interview with the Ambassador, Michael Murphy, which had been conducted by Zoe Mosman six months earlier. In it they had discussed works from the Government Art Collection which were then on display in the Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse and also in the Ambassador’s residence. Highman tut-tutted. ‘
Iconic works by some of the greatest sculptors working in Britain today
, indeed!’ he scoffed. Anish Kapoor and Tony Cragg were definitely not to his taste.

On the next page was a series of a dozen or so photographs from a reception held to celebrate the CAG. Zoe Mosman appeared in three of these: one with the Ambassador and his boyfriend; another with two other women, one of whom was the ubiquitous Yulissa Vasconzuelo, the Prime Minister’s floozy,
who seemed to attend every party known to man; and the third with a dark, unsmiling man with cold eyes who looked decidedly unhappy about having his picture taken. Dropping the newsletter on to his desk, Highman checked the list of guests attending the event for the tenth time. ‘Well, well,’ he mumbled to himself. There could be no doubt: he had the name. He even had the photo to prove it. ‘What a very interesting development.’

Harris felt a delicious shiver of self-satisfaction slip through him. He had acquired knowledge. And knowledge – as Sir Francis Bacon had pointed out – is power.

But what was he going to do with it?

His first inclination was to call Zoe Mosman and confront her with what he had discovered. However, he quickly discounted that idea. Under the circumstances, that was not the best approach. Not when he had other options. Flicking through the Rolodex standing on his desk, he found the card that the policeman had handed him when they had met in Wardour Street. Picking up the phone, it took him three attempts to dial the number properly, only for it to immediately go to voicemail. Sighing, he waited for the beep.

‘Inspector, this is Harris Highman. We were introduced recently by Sir Michael Snowdon.’ Slowly and clearly he recited his mobile number and then repeated it. ‘I would be very grateful if you could give me a call at your earliest convenience.’

‘Sit up.’

Sniffling, Hannah Gillespie did as she was told. She no longer noticed the unpleasant smell or the buzzing in her head.

‘Can you stand up?’

She shook her head. Her legs felt like jelly.

‘Never mind.’

‘Please . . .’ Her voice, barely audible over the traffic, sounded small and far away.

‘Just keep still. This won’t hurt.’

‘Mum,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

As usual, the Media Centre at Charing Cross was cold, harshly lit and filled with the smell of stale food from the canteen next door. With Joe Szyszkowski following behind, Carlyle entered the room from a side door, making a quick headcount as he marched towards the platform. To his relief, a handful of hacks had managed to make it out of bed: a news reporter from the
Evening Standard
, a guy from the
Daily Mail
, a local radio reporter, and local television in the shape of Independent Television’s
London Tonight
and BBC London. The small group sat waiting with
Impress me
looks on their faces, idly scribbling on copies of the Hannah Gillespie press release or tapping away on their assorted mobile devices. Bernard Gilmore Esq was nowhere to be seen. That was not a surprise; Carlyle knew Bernie wouldn’t bother turning up just to gloat at rivals that he’d already scooped. He might be a hack, but he was a classy hack.

Carlyle waited for a few extra minutes beyond the appointed start time, in the vain hope that someone else might turn up.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ Joe mumbled, as the clock on the far wall ticked on towards five past ten.

‘Okay.’ With a sigh, Carlyle switched on the microphone in front of him. ‘Good morning.’ Once he was sure he had their attention, or at least as much of their attention as he was ever going to get, he launched into a scripted introduction which explained the background to Hannah’s disappearance and
concluded with an appeal for her to get in touch with her anxious parents as soon as possible.

After he finished there was a pause before an emaciated-looking man in a red Berghaus jacket, sitting in the middle row, raised his hand.

‘Yes?’

‘Edgar Smith, the
Mail
.’ The skeleton looked up from the pad on which he had been scribbling furiously and pinned the inspector with a hostile gaze. ‘Why did you bother calling this press conference when you’d already leaked the story to Bernie Gilmore last night?’ A murmur of approval for the question spread among the other hacks.

And why did you bother coming, if you weren’t interested in the bloody story? Carlyle thought sourly. ‘We didn’t leak anything.’

Smith shook his head in mock disbelief.

‘I think you’ll find,’ said Joe firmly, ‘that it was Hannah’s parents who spoke to Mr Gilmore.’

‘Is that why they’re not here?’ asked another man at the back. ‘Because they’re not happy with the lack of action so far on the part of the police?’

Conscious of TV cameras rolling at the back of the room, Carlyle bit his tongue. ‘There has been no lack of action on our part,’ he said finally. ‘Hannah’s parents are understandably concerned . . .’ As he watched the hacks struggling to find enough enthusiasm to write down these words, he wondered about the wisdom of holding this presser at all. ‘What we are basically asking is . . .’ Just then, he was distracted by a hand landing on his shoulder. Maude Hall had appeared at his side and handed him a note. Reading it quickly, he nodded and gave it back to her.