by James Craig
‘That’s Inspector Carlyle in a single word,’ Holyrod laughed nastily. ‘Annoying.’
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Mayor.’ Carlyle flashed his most insincere smile.
Neither man offered a handshake.
‘I was wondering,’ Carlyle grinned innocently. ‘How is your wife? No one ever seems to see her these days.’ Glaring at the impudent policeman, Holyrod clamped his jaw tight shut. Carlyle felt Simpson’s boot kick him right on the ankle. Refusing to wince, he pushed his smile as far across his face as it would go. ‘I hear that SO1 are doing a great job taking care of her.’ Eyes blazing, Holyrod looked like he wanted to throttle him, but still the Mayor kept his counsel.
Resisting the temptation to wring Carlyle’s neck, Simpson put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘John,’ she said, her voice infinitely weary, like a disappointed teacher with a terminally wayward pupil, ‘I thought that you wanted to speak to Dino?’
‘That’s correct,’ Carlyle nodded, still eyeballing Holyrod.
‘Now is not the time,’ Dino grumbled. ‘The game is starting soon; there’s not that long till kick-off.’
‘Dino,’ Simpson commanded, ‘I suggest you give the inspector ten minutes, in your office.’
THIRTY-TWO
Deep in the bowels of the stadium, Carlyle glanced around Dino’s surprisingly small and rather cramped office. Bizarrely, the walls were crammed with framed photographs of cricketers, rugby players and golfers, with not a footballer in sight.
Gratifyingly, Dino made a beeline for the booze. ‘Drink?’
‘Yes, please.’ Carlyle scanned the bottles on top of the sideboard, which stood by the far wall. In the absence of any whiskey, he went for a glass of twelve-year-old Glenkinchie, known as ‘the Edinburgh Malt’.
‘You are very good at annoying people,’ Dino said gruffly, as he poured the inspector a less than generous measure.
‘It’s good to have a talent at something,’ Carlyle said smoothly. Taking the glass, he took a sniff and then a sip. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Shame his glass was almost empty already. He watched in dismay as Dino poured himself a much larger measure before slumping into a nearby leather sofa.
‘What do you want?’
‘I am very sorry about what happened to your step-daughter.’ Ignoring the armchair beside him, the inspector stayed on his feet.
Dino stuck his face as far into the glass as possible, sucking out the whisky with a loud slurp. ‘Bah!’
Finishing his drink, Carlyle placed the empty glass on the sideboard, resisting the temptation to pour himself another. ‘Car—Commander Simpson said you were very upset about it.’
‘Carole is just trying to make me seem nicer than I am.’ Dino threw the rest of the whisky down his throat. ‘The reality was I couldn’t stand her. Sandy was always a greedy little pain in the arse. To tell you the truth, I’m not surprised that something like this happened to her.’
Enjoying the warmth of the whisky in his gut, Carlyle rocked gently on the balls of his feet. ‘No one deserves what happened in that hotel room.’
‘No, no. Of course not.’ Dino pushed himself off the sofa. ‘All I’m saying is that it was very predictable – just like the girl herself.’ Stepping in front of Carlyle, he looked him in the eye. ‘Anyway, you got the lout who did it, so justice has been done.’
‘Quite.’ Carlyle took a step backwards.
‘I’m just glad that Gavin Swann is okay.’
Only with the utmost effort did Carlyle manage to avoid doing a double-take in disbelief.
‘We’ve spent months getting him fit enough to play,’ Dino mused. ‘Paying his bloody wages every week while he gets up to all sorts. With luck, he should be back next week. We need this like a hole in the head. The little bastard just can’t keep it in his trousers.’
‘Amongst other things,’ Carlyle mumbled.
Dino glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up.’ Before Carlyle could utter a protest, he had reached the door. ‘Hope you enjoy the game,’ he said, before disappearing into the corridor.
Fuck the football, Carlyle thought, reaching for the Glenkinchie.
After enjoying a generous amount of Dino’s fine malt, Carlyle encountered some difficulty in finding his way out. He was just about to enlist the aid of a steward, when he felt a hand on his arm.
‘Inspector Carlyle! How’re you doing?’
Trying not to sway, Carlyle turned to see a fresh-faced man with thinning blond hair and the general air of an ageing roué. I know you, he thought rather groggily, but who the hell are you? ‘Hi.’
Shaking his hand, the man smiled. ‘It’s been a while,’ he said.
‘Yes, I suppose it has.’
The man finally picked up on Carlyle’s confusion. ‘Eddie Fitzsimmons.’
‘Eddie! Yes, yes, yes,’ Carlyle scratched his head, trying to clear it a bit. Eddie Fitzsimmons, the poor man’s Gavin Swann fifteen years ago; famous for taking three hookers and a bag of coke on an open-topped-bus celebration after he won the FA Cup single-handed with two goals in the final. Slightly less famous for beating up his then wife, a former Miss Bournemouth or Brighton or something, and being arrested by one John Carlyle. ‘What are you doing here? You never played for either of these clubs.’
‘I’m working for radio.’ Eddie pointed at a door down the corridor with PRESS stencilled above it in red paint. ‘I do the summaries.’
‘Nice job.’
‘Nah.’ Eddie yawned. ‘It’s boring as shit. The games are crap these days and the players are like robots.’
It was a familiar refrain; the kind of thing you heard in the media all the time.
‘It’s not like the old days,’ Eddie droned on.
‘Never is.’
‘There’s no fun in the game any more.’
Fun, Carlyle thought, as in getting banned from playing for England for a year, after punching the manager.
Or getting relegated twice on the bounce.
Or getting sent off before a game had even started for urinating on an opponent in the tunnel.
Selected highlights from the Eddie Fitzsimmons canon.
‘Not like in my day.’
That was the great thing about never having been ‘somebody’; you never had to worry about being a has-been. Carlyle smiled indulgently. ‘Why do you do it then?’
‘Need the money,’ Eddie shrugged. ‘Mrs F took me to the cleaners.’
Good for her.
I’m living in a one-bed flat in Kensal Green with the girlfriend and there’s not room to swing a cat.’
Aw.
Eddie glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve gotta go in a minute. You watching the game?’
‘This lot?’ Carlyle belched. ‘You’d have to pay me.’
‘Sooo,’ a little lightbulb started glowing weakly above Eddie’s head, ‘you’re here on business?’
Carlyle sighed. Anything that was said to Eddie would doubtless be round the press box before the first foul of the game; he had to stay schtum.
Something behind Carlyle caught Fitzsimmons’ eye. ‘If you’re sniffing around Dino Mottram, this is your man.’ Stepping away from Carlyle, he intercepted a tall Asian guy in a navy suit and white shirt, open at the neck, who was heading for the press box.
‘Baz?’
With a curt nod, the guy tried to sidestep Eddie and reach the press room. However, Eddie still had some of the old magic in his feet and wasn’t caught out by the feint.
A full-throated roar went up outside. On a monitor bolted to the wall, Carlyle saw the two teams take to the pitch.
‘Kick-off,’ the guy protested. Round his neck was a press pass with a passport photo of his mug and the legend Baseer Yazdani, Honeymann.
‘What are you worrying about?’ Eddie laughed. ‘It’s not like you have to file a match report. Anyway, with this lot there won’t be much worth writing about!’
‘Eddie!’
‘You want to talk to this guy,’ Eddie said, gesturing at Carlyle.
‘He’s a cop investigating Dino. You two should have a lot to talk about.’
Fuck, Eddie, Carlyle groaned to himself. Tell everybody my business, why don’t you?
From outside came another roar. This time it really was kick-off.
‘Shit!’ Eddie turned and bolted for the door. The Honeymann hack started after him, then hesitated. Turning, he offered a hand to Carlyle, without quite managing to smile. ‘Baseer Yazdani, Honeymann Newswire Services.’
‘So I can see,’ Carlyle frowned, shaking his hand.
The men exchanged cards.
‘Why aren’t you investigating Gavin Swann?’ Baseer asked.
Carlyle waved the guy’s business card in the air. ‘What’s a reporter from Chicago doing at a football game?’
Baseer stroked the stubble on his chin. He was a good-looking guy – a poor man’s Umar Sligo, if you will – but with the air of someone who hadn’t slept for a week. ‘I cover leisure industries.’
Carlyle nodded sadly. Sport was now big business and his enjoyment of the game was dying, day-by-day, as a result.
‘I have been working on a special investigation into the sports interests of Dino Mottram and Entomophagous Industries.’
‘Why?’ Carlyle asked a bit too eagerly.
‘The rumour is,’ Baseer said, effortlessly returning to his own agenda, ‘that Gavin Swann was in the hotel room when that girl was killed.’
‘No one has written that.’
‘That’s hardly a surprise,’ Baseer scoffed, ‘given that Clifford Blitz got a super injunction within twelve hours of the body being found.’
How on earth had that one passed him by? A flash of intense frustration shot through the inspector’s core, passing in an instant. Then again, he thought, keeping the press out of it – if you can – is never a bad thing.
‘What you’ve got to appreciate,’ Baseer continued, ‘is that you can’t hide behind the courts forever. The injunction will get lifted in the end.’
‘Or someone will run the story anyway,’ Carlyle said wryly. ‘Sooner or later.’
Baseer gave a small nod. ‘Quite.’
‘Not you, though.’ Carlyle knew that Honeymann, being American-owned, had far more rigorous editorial checks and balances than most of its British media rivals. That meant Baseer had to reach much higher standards of accuracy than his rivals. It also meant that he was someone that the inspector could probably do business with.
‘No.’
‘Look,’ Carlyle said, ‘there’s not a lot I can tell you at the moment but let’s keep talking. If I can give you a heads-up on anything, I will.’ An empty but friendly promise.
Baseer smiled. ‘Okay.’
‘You can call me at any time, but I can never be quoted.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘And you can never write anything that can be traced back to me. No fingerprints.’
Baseer nodded and they shook again.
‘One final thing,’ the journalist said as Carlyle moved away.
‘Yeah?’
‘The other rumour that I don’t expect you to comment on is that Swann is paying Paul Groom to take the fall for Sandy Carroll’s death.’
Carlyle stopped and turned to face the journalist. ‘Good luck getting that past your editor,’ he said pleasantly.
‘The gossip is that Groom’s agent agreed a deal so that Groom gets a million pounds for every year he has to spend in prison.’
Carlyle resumed walking towards the stairs. ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ he commented drily. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Shivering under his official team blanket – a bargain £29.99 in the club shop – Christian Holyrod gazed sullenly at the electronic scoreboard in the far corner of the ground. There were still more than ten minutes to go to half-time and the prospect of a nice double measure of Highland Park that would ease the pain of watching this rubbish. The crowd groaned as another simple ten-yard pass went astray. At least Abigail, sitting to his left in her replica shirt, seemed to be reasonably enthralled by it all. He was amazed by the way his girlfriend could develop new passions at the drop of a hat. He was fairly sure that Abigail had never been to a football match in her life before he had taken up this job. Now she behaved as if she’d been a season-ticket holder in the main stand for thirty years. The Mayor couldn’t work out if it was really quite impressive or just rather sad.
Just then, the referee called a foul against the home side, much to the anguish of the crowd. Abigail promptly gave the official the kind of gesture usually seen from the cheaper seats.
Sitting to the Mayor’s right, Dino pointed at a block of empty seats in the opposite stand. ‘I reckon we are about ten thousand down on capacity tonight.’
‘Mm.’ Holyrod scanned the ground; there were clumps of empty seats at regular intervals all the way round.
‘The locals aren’t happy,’ Dino grumbled, ‘and they’re starting to vote with their feet.’
‘Isn’t this about the time when you’re supposed to sack the manager?’ Holyrod asked, drawing on his non-existent knowledge of the football business.
‘If only we could,’ Dino replied. ‘It would cost north of ten mill to get rid of the son of a bitch and all his support staff. That’s ten million more than we can afford.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know.’ Dino pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘We just have to hope that Swann comes back all guns blazing. A couple of good results and the fans will be happy again.’
‘Referee!’ Slater and thirty thousand others rose in unison to protest at an unpunished assault in the centre circle.
Dino elbowed Holyrod. ‘At least Abigail is getting into the spirit of things.’ He allowed himself the smallest of leers. ‘And that shirt looks very good on her.’
For the first time in the evening, the Mayor allowed himself a smile. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Does she wear it in the bedroom?’
Holyrod glanced at the scoreboard. Five minutes and he would be at the bar. ‘Amongst other things.’
‘You are a very lucky man,’ Dino congratulated him.
‘You know what? It can be very exhausting.’
‘Ah.’ Dino gave him a knowing wink. ‘I have just the thing to help you with that.’ Not waiting for the half-time whistle, he struggled out of his seat. ‘In the meantime, let’s go and get a bloody drink.’
THIRTY-THREE
‘I haven’t been able to track down Kelly Kellaway.’ Umar looked almost sheepish.
Kelly Kellaway? Carlyle had forgotten all about her. ‘Why the fuck not?’ he barked.
‘Well,’ Umar said stiffly, ‘for a start, that number you gave me doesn’t work.’
Carlyle’s face crumpled in annoyance. ‘Go back and hassle Blitz then. She can’t have disappeared into thin air. What about her family?’
‘I spoke to her parents. They haven’t seen her in two years, apparently.’
‘ATM records? Mobile records?’ Carlyle threw his hands up in the air. He knew that Umar didn’t have the time or resources to do what he was asking any time soon, but he didn’t feel like being reasonable about it. ‘What do they tell us?’
Umar stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I haven’t been able t—’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle exploded. ‘Just fucking find her!’
‘Did you get anything from Dino Mottram?’
Good question. The inspector had been too focused on the malt whisky in Dino’s office to remember why he’d been there in the first place. ‘Nah,’ he said guiltily, forcing his anger to dissipate. ‘He wasn’t any help at all.’
‘Did you stay for the game?’
‘I wouldn’t waste my time watching those berks.’
‘Nil-nil,’ Umar mused. ‘Sounds like it was a good game to miss.’
‘Yeah.’ Carlyle looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t got much time. What are we doing here?’ He looked around the New Belvedere hostel, in Limehouse, East London, unimpres
sed.
‘We’re seeing Dr Ian Bell. CEO of Veterans United.’
‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle suspected that this would be a waste of time. In his experience, anyone who called themselves ‘Chief Executive Officer’ of anything was not likely to have much of interest or relevance to say.
‘He’s also Visiting Senior Research Fellow in the Department of War Studies at King’s College,’ Umar added. ‘He has a PhD in the causes of homelessness among veterans and wrote a book that came out last year on the war in Afghanistan.’
Over-achieving bastard, Carlyle thought.
‘It’s a good read,’ the sergeant said. ‘I can lend you a copy if you want.’
‘Thanks,’ Carlyle mumbled, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.
‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’ A small, smiling man dressed in grey jacket over a button-down blue shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of freshly pressed jeans, appeared at Umar’s shoulder and shook the sergeant’s hand. ‘You must be Inspector Carlyle.’
‘I’m Sergeant Sligo,’ Umar grinned.
‘I’m Carlyle,’ the inspector interjected abruptly, offering his hand.
‘Ah, my apologies, gentlemen.’ Bell gestured at some chairs clustered around a low coffee table in the corner of his office. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘So,’ said Carlyle when they were all seated, ‘it looks like you’ve got a lot on your plate here.’
The smile that had seemed permanently plastered on to Bell’s face faded somewhat. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we do a very important job, even if I say so myself. Veterans United has a uniquely holistic approach when it comes to trying to deal with the serious problems that ex-military personnel face in modern Britain. At the most practical level, it’s about homelessness prevention; we provided more than thirty-five thousand nights of accommodation last year. At the moment, we provide a home to around a hundred and fifty-two veterans here at the hostel. We don’t judge people. What we do is help them deal with the complexities of the welfare system and other aspects of state bureaucracy including, fairly regularly, the police.’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘If you have any problems in the future, please call Sergeant Sligo. He will be delighted to try and help you.’ Catching the grimace that flashed across Umar’s face, he added, ‘Any time of the day or night.’