by James Craig
‘You gave that guy two hundred quid for a packet of cigarettes?’ she asked as he reappeared.
Swann looked at her blankly, as if he was struggling to remember who she was. Ignoring the question, he ripped the cellophane off the packet and stuck a cigarette between his teeth. ‘Got a light?’
Kelly dug into her bag, pulled out a packet of matches and passed them to him.
‘Ta.’ Lighting the smoke, Swann sucked it down greedily. Exhaling, he went over to the mini-bar and removed another bottle of beer. Flicking off the top with a bottle-opener, he chugged down half of the beer before letting out a satisfied burp. ‘Good times.’
Kelly was starting to get pissed off. ‘I need a drink.’
Swann gestured at the mini-bar. ‘Help yourself.’
Stepping past him, Kelly knelt down and looked inside. After a moment, she scowled at Sandy. ‘You drank all the sodding vodka.’
Collecting up her bags, ready to go, Sandy shrugged.
‘Get a drink in the bar downstairs,’ Swann said. Reaching back into the holdall, he counted out another wad of fifties and handed them to Kelly.
‘Ta,’ she said, smiling.
Swann looked from one girl to the other. ‘And remember to keep your mouths shut.’
Kelly placed a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t worry, sweetie,’ she said. ‘We’d never talk to the newspapers, would we, Sandy?’
Wondering just how much a newspaper would pay for her story, Sandy hastily agreed.
‘You’d better fucking not,’ Swann hissed. ‘My missus would kill me.’
You should have thought about that earlier, Sandy thought. She was trying to remember the name of the guy who sold all the kiss-and-tell stories to the tabloids . . . Frank – Frank Something? The name wouldn’t come. No matter, Kelly would know. She probably had the number in her mobile already.
‘Your wife,’ Kelly enquired sweetly, ‘has she had the baby yet?’ Swann looked at the floor. ‘Next month,’ he mumbled. ‘On the ninth.’
‘Is that the due date?’ Sandy asked.
‘Suppose so,’ Swann yawned. ‘That’s when she’s booked in for the C-section.’
‘Oh.’ Feeling woozy, Sandy tried to smile at Swann as she headed towards the door. His robe had fallen open and she noticed that his penis had shrunk to the point where it was almost invisible. ‘Don’t worry,’ she cooed, nodding at Kelly, ‘only total slappers go to the papers. We’re not like that.’
Downstairs, Sandy began to feel better. Sitting in the Light Bar, she looked around, scanning the room carefully for a sign of any celebrities. Disappointed not to see any familiar faces, she sucked a mouthful of her Good Time Girl cocktail – Finlandia mango vodka blended with fresh mango and passion-fruit purées, passion-fruit syrup, and organic vanilla ice cream, served straight up.
‘A bit quiet in here, isn’t it?’ she said.
Kelly glanced towards the bar and shrugged. ‘It’s still early.’ She took a hit of her Cinnamon Mule – cinnamon infused with ten-cane rum, shaken with limes and fresh ginger and topped with ginger beer – and leaned towards her friend, lowering her voice slightly. ‘And we’ve just shagged Gavin Swann.’
You’ve just shagged him, Sandy thought tartly. I just gave him a bit of hand relief and let him stick his fingers up my arsehole. ‘How much did he give you?’
Kelly took another mouthful of her drink. ‘A grand.’
‘Nice.’
Kelly frowned. ‘It won’t even pay off my credit-card bill. And I owe my mum another five hundred for a phone bill she paid for me.’
Sandy wondered what had happened to her share but, knowing that it wasn’t worth the hassle to argue, she kept her mouth shut.
‘I’m sick of being bloody skint,’ Kelly moaned, plonking her glass down on the table so hard that Sandy was worried it might break.
Sandy gestured back towards the hotel lobby. ‘Maybe you could go back up and do him again.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Kelly laughed, ‘it’ll take him hours to be able to get it up again.’
‘He could take something.’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway, he’ll probably be asleep by now.’
Taking another sip of her cocktail, Sandy eyed her friend carefully. ‘Would you ever, like – you know – go to the papers?’
‘Nah. Gavin would go mad. His wife would kill him. You heard him, she’s something like eight-and-a-half months’ pregnant.’
‘She forgave him last time,’ Sandy pointed out. ‘When he was in the papers for shagging the secretary of his Singaporean fan club on a pre-season tour. And the time before that.’
‘I know,’ Kelly said, ‘but this time, with a kid on the way, you’d have thought . . .’
‘But you deserve something, don’t you?’ said Sandy, quickly changing tack.
‘I suppose.’
‘The papers deal with this kind of thing all the time. They would do it tastefully. And they’d pay. There’s that guy who sells all the stories.’
‘Frank Maxwell,’ Kelly said brightly. ‘I met him once. Seemed like a decent guy.’
‘We could give him a call.’
‘Maybe,’ said Kelly thoughtfully, as if the idea had never before crossed her mind. She gestured at a passing waiter, signalling for him to bring them a couple more cocktails. ‘Just to get his input.’
‘Makes sense,’ Sandy smiled, ‘to see what he thinks.’
EIGHTEEN
‘What do you think of Alice’s plan to give up dope?’
Carlyle scratched his chin . ‘You can only hope.’
‘I was thinking I might take her to Liberia.’
For a moment, Carlyle was thrown by the change of subject. ‘What?’
‘I need to go out there in a couple of months and thought it might be good for Alice to come along.’ Helen helped run a medical aid charity called Avalon. Set up by three British doctors back in the 1980s, it now worked in more than twenty countries around the world.
Images of child soldiers with AK47s and machetes flitted through Carlyle’s brain. ‘Is it safe?’
Helen gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Of course it’s safe. Liberia is one of Africa’s good news stories.’
All things are relative, he thought, waiting for the lecture to begin.
‘The numbers are improving, but it is still shocking. The maternal mortality rate is still among the highest in the world at 994 deaths per 100,000 births. In Britain it is twelve. The death rate for under-fives over there is fourteen per cent. In Britain it is nought point six per cent.’
Statistics, statistics, bloody statistics. ‘But it’s safe?’ he repeated.
‘I wouldn’t take her if it wasn’t.’
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
‘Yeah. She seems quite up for it. Not least because it would mean a week out of school.’
‘How much is it going to cost?’
‘Not much. Just her flight, basically. Mine will be covered by work.’ She gave him a sly grin. ‘You can come too if you want.’
‘Mm, got to run.’ He gave her a kiss on the forehead, already moving for the door. ‘I’ll have a think about it.’
‘Welcome to London.’
Umar Sligo smiled but said nothing.
It was their first day together and the inspector was trying not to pre-judge his new colleague. The initial signs, however, were not promising. The new boy appeared young, good-looking and enthusiastic; just looking at him made Carlyle feel weary to his bones.
They were standing in the empty front room of a Georgian terraced house on Great Percy Street, just down from Kings Cross. On the bare wooden floorboards lay a machete and an empty can of Carlsberg lager. Under their feet, technicians were removing ‘skunk’ cannabis plants estimated to be worth more than a million pounds that had been found growing in the basement.
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Umar, ‘is how a Scotland Yard Deputy Assistant Commissioner can afford to have a place like this as an investment
property?’
Carlyle thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘He’s got a rich wife apparently.’
‘Nice.’
‘He’s completely straight. Been on the job more than thirty years. Started off as a beat constable in Southwark. They live somewhere in Surrey now. The wife rented the place out through an online letting agent to a British man who provided proof of identity and bank details. The neighbours had complained about the noise, on and off, but the clincher was the £50,000 electricity bill.’
‘I bet he feels like a bit of a berk,’ Umar laughed.
‘The Deputy Assistant Commissioner?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Yeah, well, he should, shouldn’t he?’
‘Mm.’
‘It’s tough at the top,’ the inspector mused. ‘So they tell me.’
‘It’s not that uncommon, though. Police in England and Wales uncover about twenty cannabis factories every day, and last year officers and customs seized a million-and-a-half plants worth about two hundred million pounds.’
Carlyle gave his new sidekick a funny look. ‘Did you swallow a copy of the Economist or something?’
‘No,’ Umar said defensively. ‘It’s just one of those things you pick up.’
A uniform appeared from the hallway. ‘Inspector?’
Carlyle recognized the constable. ‘Lea!’ he grinned. ‘Good to see you back on duty. How’s the head wound?’
PC Lea smiled sheepishly and looked at the floor. ‘Fine, thank you. They took the stitches out last week.’
‘What happened?’ Umar asked.
Lea started blushing violently. ‘There are some reporters outside,’ he said hastily, ignoring the question. ‘They’re looking for a quote.’
Carlyle glanced at Umar. ‘Tell them we’re all looking forward to getting high tonight.’
A confused look spread across the young constable’s face. ‘Inspector?’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Only joking. Only joking. Tell them: The police were called to a report of a disturbance in a property on Great Percy Street. The property was found to house a cannabis factory. There have been no immediate arrests, and enquiries continue. That’s more than enough to be going on with.’
‘Okay,’ said Lea, moving off.
Gesturing to his sergeant that it was time to leave, Carlyle followed him to the door. ‘Speak to the neighbours,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’m going back to the station.’
On the wall was a sheet of A4 paper, headed, in outsized, bold type, Frank Maxwell’s Guide to Becoming Famous. Sitting in front of the great man’s desk, Sandy Carroll read down the list, butterflies dancing in her stomach:
1. Appear on a reality series
2. Enter a talent show
3. Be abysmal on a talent show
4. Gain fame by association
5. Date a celebrity
6. Flaunt your body
7. Date a member of the Royal Family
8. Make a home sex video
9. Be a success on YouTube
10. Be in the right place at the right time
Underneath the poster was a sideboard cluttered with photographs: Frank Maxwell with Bruce Forsyth, Frank with Simon Cowell, Frank with Victoria Beckham, Frank with some black guy whom Sandy didn’t recognize.
Kelly elbowed her in the ribs. ‘He’s here,’ she whispered.
Frank Maxwell breezed into the room, steaming mug of tea in hand, PA in tow. He saw Sandy looking at the photos and smiled. ‘That’s the PM,’ he said pointing at the black guy, before dropping into the oversized chair behind his desk. ‘Edgar Carlton. Nice guy.’
‘PM?’ Sandy frowned.
‘Yes,’ said Frank, placing his mug onto a copy of the Sun lying on the desk. ‘The Prime Minister.’
Kelly elbowed her again.
‘Oh,’ said Sandy, embarrassed. ‘I’ve heard of him, I think.’
Frank exchanged a glance with the PA, a camp-looking guy in his twenties in a grubby blue T-shirt and torn jeans, who stood at the corner of the desk, pen and notepad in hand, ready to take notes. ‘So,’ Maxwell said, leaning across the table, clasping his hands together, his dull green eyes fixing them with a careful stare, ‘what can I do for you two ladies?’ He was a short man with well-barbered silver hair and a serious expression. He looked trim, in good shape for his age which, Sandy guessed, had to be somewhere in his early-to-mid sixties.
Sandy opened her mouth but nothing came out.
‘Well,’ Kelly piped up, launching into an explanation of their encounter with Gavin Swann.
A massive grin broke out on the PA’s face and he began scribbling furiously.
After a few moments, Frank held up a hand. ‘I get the picture,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but I don’t have much time this morning.’ He looked from one girl to another. ‘You know that bloke who was accused of hiring a hitman to kill his wife on their honeymoon in Thailand?’
‘Yes,’ the girls lied in unison.
‘I’ve got to take him to do some media interviews in . . .’ he lifted his left wrist in front of his nose and peered at his steel Rolex Oyster Perpetual Submariner, ‘about forty-five minutes.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible situation. Truly terrible. To lose your wife like that . . . and then be accused of such a vile crime.’
The girls looked at him blankly.
Sitting back in his chair, Frank raised his arms to the heavens. ‘He’s totally innocent, of course. And the good news is that we’re winning in the court of public opinion. Anyway, you want to do a kiss and tell – am I right?’
The girls nodded.
‘Fine.’ Frank gestured towards the PA. ‘Brian here will sort out all the details. When is your next liaison?’
‘There isn’t—’ Sandy started.
‘Next week,’ Kelly cut her off.
Frank nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good. Good. That gives us time to get everything in place.’
Kelly squirmed in her seat with excitement. ‘How much will we get?’
Frank smiled. ‘That depends. We need pictures, video, text messages . . . then I can make the calls to the newspaper editors. We’ll have another meeting next week.’ The phone on his desk started ringing. Waving goodbye to his newest clients, he picked it up on the second ring.
‘Darling . . .’
Getting to their feet, the girls shuffled silently to the door.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Nice to see you too, Inspector,’ Abigail Slater smiled. She introduced the man sitting next to her in the second-floor meeting room of Charing Cross police station. ‘This is Clive Martin, my client.’
The inspector looked the cheery-looking pensioner up and down. The man was somewhere between his late sixties and early seventies, and his trademark silver mullet shone under the strip-lighting. Martin was a local celebrity if ever there was one; Carlyle knew exactly who he was but chose to say nothing.
‘Mr Martin,’ Slater explained patiently, ‘is the owner of Everton’s Gentleman’s Club, along with various other . . . entertainment venues in and around Central London.’ Sitting next to her client, the lawyer was an imperious figure. At over six foot tall, with curves in all the right places, Slater looked as if she would be perfectly at home in one of Martin’s clubs. Even dressed ultra-conservatively, in a navy business suit with a pink blouse, buttoned all the way to the neck, she exuded an aggressive sexuality that made Carlyle feel uncomfortable.
‘We are here to make a formal complaint about your illegal raid on Everton’s.’
‘Ah,’ Carlyle said. ‘So the Catholic Legal Network is representing smut kings now, is it?’ he asked, making a reference to their last professional meeting, when Slater had represented a paedophile priest by the name of Father Francis McGowan. Justice – in Carlyle’s book, at least – had finally been done when McGowan had taken a leap off a church roof, but not before Slater and the CLN had tried to destroy the inspector’s career.
‘This has nothing to do with the CLN,’ Slater said tartly.
Martin g
azed at Carlyle, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Are you a prude, Inspector?’
Maybe I’ll just book the pair of them for wasting police time, Carlyle thought.
‘These days, we’re all in the sex industry,’ Martin opined. ‘Everyone who sells clothes, music, movies, whatever – we are all sex people, like it or not.’
‘Anyway,’ said Slater, putting a hand on her client’s shoulder, ‘the point of this meeting is to make a formal complaint and to notify you that we will be looking to recover damages for loss of earnings.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Carlyle snorted. ‘One of my officers was assaulted.’
‘Whose fault was that?’ Martin chirruped.
Cursing himself for having had the stupidity to ever walk into the room, Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Look,’ he said, wagging an angry finger at Slater, ‘if you want to go and moan to someone about the alleged infringement of your client’s “rights”, go and complain to your boyfriend. This was an initiative from the Mayor’s office. Maybe after your next fuck, you can get him to talk you through it.’
Sitting up in her chair, a look of grim fury settled on Slater’s face.
Carlyle then got to his feet. ‘If you want to make a complaint, the desk sergeant will help you fill out a form.’ He looked down at Martin. ‘I presume you are a pragmatic businessman.’
‘Of course,’ Martin said smoothly.
‘Good,’ said Carlyle. ‘In that case, do not waste my time again. Or I might just make it my business to come and visit all of your establishments on a regular basis.’ Shoving his chair out of the way, he stormed out of the room and headed back upstairs.
NINETEEN
It was already standing room only in the tiny first-floor bar of the Chandos pub, just north of Trafalgar Square. David Guetta’s ‘Who’s That Chick?’ was blasting out of a couple of tiny speakers hanging from the ceiling while an Arsenal game played mutely on a TV screen on the far wall. Carlyle felt a trickle of sweat run down his back as he watched a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit glare angrily at Umar as the young sergeant brushed past him, carelessly knocking a quarter of an inch of London Pride from the pint.