The Circus (35 page)

‘That, Inspector,’ Simpson deadpanned, ‘is one of your many talents.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’re such a good judge of character.’

‘Ha ha. Maybe you could stop taking the piss for a minute and tell me what
you
think we should do next?’

‘You’re asking me?’ Simpson asked grumpily.

‘I wondered if you could speak to the powers-that-be at Fulham about Snowdon. Phillips’s findings are going to be a big problem for them.’

‘Of course,’ said Simpson. ‘After all, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it – to clean up your mess.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carlyle, choosing to ignore her acid tone. ‘By the way, there’s a Sergeant Singleton down there who’s involved in this. She has been very helpful, above and beyond. If we can stop her being dragged into the mess . . .’

Simpson cut him off. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ The tone, however, was very much
Don’t push your luck
. ‘Meanwhile, what will you be doing?’

‘I need to chase up some loose ends on the Mosman case,’ Carlyle replied, throwing her a bone.

‘I see.’

‘And,’ he added, in the spirit of openness and transparency for
which he was famous, ‘I am obliged to go and see Rosanna Snowdon’s parents. To give them a heads-up that everything is about to explode. It’s the least they deserve.’

‘Very well, but please impress upon them the need for total discretion at the present time.’

Carlyle smiled. When she picked up speed, the Commander could start spouting police jargon with the best of them.

‘This is an
extremely
tricky situation,’ she continued. ‘They simply can’t speak to anyone about this until the matter is further resolved.’

Further resolved?
‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Simpson sounded like she had finally grasped the situation. ‘Just one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Where is Mr Miller?’

‘That’s what everyone’s trying to find out.’

‘Well, be careful. If he has totally lost the plot,’ Simpson said, ‘he might end up coming after you.’ It didn’t sound as if she found that such an unappealing prospect.

‘Let him try,’ said Carlyle grimly.

‘Just be careful, is all I’m saying,’ Simpson chided. ‘And keep me posted.’ Without further ado, she ended the call, leaving Carlyle continuing to pace his office undisturbed.

‘It’s worse for me. I was the one quoted in that bloody paper.’ Folding his arms, Joe sat back in his chair, gazing up at a painting of a bowl of fruit.

‘No one knows it was you.’

‘How long do you think that will last?’

‘Well, if
you
don’t tell anyone,’ Carlyle said evenly, ‘
I
won’t.’

‘Deal.’ Joe sounded unenthusiastic.

‘You didn’t leave your name, so how could it get out?’

‘Mm.’

Squinting, the inspector read the short description that had been discreetly positioned next to the painting.
A Festoon of Fruit
hung above a Stone Table, a view of a Mountainous Landscape beyond
. It was by an artist called Jan Mortel. ‘Nice.’

‘Yeah,’ Joe laughed, ‘it would look really good in my living room.’

‘How much, do you think?’

‘No idea,’ Joe replied. ‘You know what they say: if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.’

‘Story of my life.’ Carlyle glanced along the corridor towards the empty reception desk. The girl who had let them in had disappeared now, and showed no sign of returning. ‘You think they’d at least offer us coffee.’

‘There was a Caffè Nero down the road. Want me to go and get some?’

‘Nah, it’s fine.’ For a few moments, Carlyle forced himself to contemplate Mortel’s work but, try as he might, the inspector had never been able to relate to paintings. You looked at them and then you didn’t; that was that. He otherwise didn’t have much time for them. Even Helen had long since stopped trying to drag him round various exhibitions and galleries, finding Alice a far better companion. Within three seconds, he felt overwhelmed by boredom. A bowl of fruit was just a bowl of fruit. It might have been a big deal in the eighteenth century or whatever, but life had moved on. He glanced at Joe, whose eyes were similarly glazed. ‘So,’ he asked, keeping his voice low, ‘how do you hack a phone?’

Joe shot him a sideways look. ‘Bloody hell, you must be the only person in the country who doesn’t know how it works by now.’

Carlyle gave a small bow.

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘Only when
you’re
quoted in them.’

‘Ha-bloody-ha. Have you got your phone there?’

‘Sure.’ Carlyle fished out his mobile.

‘Right,’ said Joe. Taking his own phone from his jacket pocket, he pulled up the inspector’s number on the screen, then
hit the call button. After a moment, Carlyle’s handset started vibrating in his hand. ‘Don’t answer it. Just let it go to voicemail.’ Tapping a few numbers, Joe lifted his own handset to his ear and started to listen. ‘You’ve got a message from Helen . . .’

‘Hey!’ Carlyle made a grab for the phone, but Joe ducked away.

‘She’s pissed off about something.’

‘Nothing unusual there,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘How did you do that?’

Joe tapped a few more keys before ending the call. ‘If you dial that number, you can access voicemail remotely.’

‘You can?’

‘The factory setting for the security code is four zeros. If you don’t change it, anyone can go in and listen to your messages.’

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Joe smiled. ‘I’ve changed it.’

‘To what?’

‘Four ones.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘I’ll give you a call when I forget it.’

‘No worries.’

Carlyle looked back towards the empty desk. ‘Where the fuck is that girl?’

‘Do you want me to go and look for her?’

‘Give her another minute,’ said Carlyle, happy enough to sit on his arse doing nothing for a little while longer. ‘Tell me about the bloke who owns this place.’

Joe pulled out a small notebook and flicked through the pages until he found his notes. ‘Dario Untersander. Swiss national. Educated in England. Worked in Sotheby’s before setting up his own business twelve years ago.’

‘Mm.’

‘No record.’

‘Obviously.’

‘He is a former Chairman of the Society of London Art Dealers and an executive committee member of the European Fine Art Foundation.’

‘Good for him,’ Carlyle said sullenly.

‘Mr Untersander,’ said a voice from down the corridor, ‘is also a leading light in the British Antique Dealers Association and the Grosvenor House Art and Antiques Fair executive committee.’

The inspector looked round to see a well-fed, middle-aged man with rosy cheeks and a head of thinning silver hair. ‘And who are you?’

‘Daniel Brabo.’ The man advanced towards them, proffering a business card. ‘I’m Mr Untersander’s legal adviser.’ Carlyle shot Joe a disgusted look as Brabo gestured towards the rear of the building. ‘My client will see you now.’

‘Nice coffee.’ Resigned to the fact that it was all he was going to get from this visit, the inspector resolved to appear as magnanimous as he could manage.

Dario Untersander nodded. He was a tall man folded up behind an antique desk that was rather too small for his lengthy frame. Groomed to within an inch of his life, in an expensive-looking suit, with a red and white striped shirt and a red tie, he looked every inch the New Bond Street salesman. ‘Harrods Heritage Blend’. His accent was 100 per cent Sloane Square. ‘We only like the best.’

‘I’m sure,’ Carlyle smiled. He gestured towards the lawyer sitting on a chair to the right of the desk, who was busily demolishing a shortbread finger. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us on a Sunday.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ Untersander said pleasantly. ‘Many of our clients are from the Middle East and this is a working day for them. So it is a working day for us, too.’ He glanced at Brabo, who accelerated his chewing and swallowed quickly. ‘And, under the circumstances, we were expecting your visit.’

‘And what exactly were those circumstances?’ Joe jumped in.

Surprised at the underling asking a question, both Untersander and Brabo shot the inspector an enquiring look. Taking another mouthful of coffee, Carlyle gestured that he was happy for them to answer.

‘The circumstances, as I understand it,’ said Brabo, ‘are that you are interested in a series of phone calls that appear to have been made—’

Giving the waffle short shrift, Joe cut across him. ‘A gentleman now believed to be responsible for three murders,’ he interrupted sharply, ‘made a succession of calls to a phone number belonging to your client. We want to know why.’

A sickly smile passed across Brabo’s face. Maybe the shortbread had gone down the wrong way. ‘And who is this gentleman you refer to?’

‘That’s one of the things we were hoping
you
would be able to tell us,’ Carlyle said smoothly. This lawyer clearly had an inside track on the police investigation, but where had he got his information from? No point in worrying about that now. The inspector eyed the pile of biscuits on Untersander’s desk. Shortbread wasn’t his favourite but he was still tempted.

‘We really have no idea,’ Brabo replied, injecting just the right amount of dismay into his voice to suggest the disappointment of an honest citizen unable to be of more assistance with the police’s enquiries. ‘The phone you are referring to was bought by Mr Untersander for his daughter. But unfortunately, the young lady lost it several months ago.’

How very convenient
, Carlyle reckoned. ‘So why didn’t you cancel the contract?’

Untersander gave a sheepish grin.

‘Apparently,’ Brabo explained, ‘Sofia – Mr Untersander’s daughter – forgot to mention it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You know what children are like.’

‘I do indeed,’ Carlyle agreed. He turned to face Untersander. ‘So you know nothing about these phone calls, but you do admit to knowing Zoe Mosman?’

‘Yes, professionally speaking,’ said Brabo, ‘which should be no great surprise. Both are important players in the London art world, which is not that extensive.’

‘Do you do business with the Government Art Collection?’

‘I believe,’ said Brabo, ‘that the gallery has sold them the odd piece over the years.’

‘Oh? I thought that the government were sellers, not buyers?’

The lawyer shrugged. ‘Recently, yes, they have sold some things, but we have not been involved in that.’

‘What the GAC has been putting into the market lacked quality,’ Untersander explained. ‘They keep the good stuff well under lock and key.’

Brabo shot him a plaintive look that said
Leave the talking to me
. ‘The main thing is that it was not the kind of thing the Untersander Gallery has been looking to acquire.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle frowned, keen to move the conversation along. ‘So the man who kills Mrs Mosman calls a phone number that
was
yours . . . before you lost it. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’

Keeping his face blank, Untersander held the inspector’s gaze.

‘That,’ Brabo snapped, ‘is not something you would reasonably expect us to comment on.’

Having despatched Joe back to the station to check on the ongoing search for Monty Laws, Carlyle headed towards Green Park underground station, pondering his next move. He was just about to descend towards the tube when a call came in from Dominic Silver.

‘What have you got for me?’ the inspector asked brusquely.

‘Not a lot,’ Dom admitted glumly. ‘Over the years, it looks as if Trevor Miller really has turned into a Grade A bastard.’

‘I knew that already.’ In the middle of a relentless stream of pedestrians at the entrance to the tube, the inspector was not inclined to stop and chat. ‘The question now is: where the bloody hell is he?’

‘I’m still asking around.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But I think you need to be careful.’

‘I’m always careful.’

‘Seriously. This guy is way past caring.
I am in blood/Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more/Returning were as tedious as go o’er
.’

‘You what?’

‘
Macbeth
.’

Carlyle grunted. He wasn’t in the mood for Shakespeare.

‘Miller’s just ploughing ahead,’ Dom explained, ‘in the hope that he can somehow escape the mess he’s in. A few more bodies – yours, for instance – is neither here nor there to him now.’

‘He’s running, I’m chasing; not the other way round. That means he’ll want to steer well clear of me.’

‘I hope you’re right – but it wouldn’t do any harm to have someone watching your back.’

‘I’ve got plenty of support. Don’t worry about that. Let me know if you get any lead on his location.’ Not waiting for a reply, Carlyle ended the call, before skipping down the steps and into the station.

The Rolodex standing on Harris Highman’s desk was open at Carlyle’s card. Taking a seat in the dead bureaucrat’s chair, the inspector looked around the grey office, searching for some kind of inspiration. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ he mumbled.

On the desk was a mug from the British Museum’s
Book of the Dead
exhibition. Carlyle recalled Helen dragging him to see it several years earlier. If he remembered correctly, he had trailed round the exhibits with a distinct lack of good grace. Dead people didn’t interest him that much; an amusing thought for a policeman.

Next to the mug, a glossy magazine lay open. Idly picking it up, Carlyle glanced at the photos displayed in the centre-spread and frowned. ‘Shit!’

‘Excuse me?’

A sickly-looking young man in a suit and tie stood in the doorway. He was clutching a collection of files to his breast and there was a pained expression on his face. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ he asked.

‘Police,’ said Carlyle sharply, closing the magazine and tossing it on the desk.

‘Ah.’ The man edged backwards.

‘Sit down.’ The inspector pointed to the chair in front of Highman’s desk. Reluctantly the young man did as he was told. Keeping his eyes on the cop, he slowly lowered himself into the seat.

‘Who are you?’

‘Mark Segel. I’m one of Mr Highman’s assistants.’ The voice was quiet, the accent American. ‘I’ve been working here for a year, on secondment from the Brooklyn Museum.’