London Calling ic-1

by James Craig

  Sounds about par for the course, thought Carlyle.

  ‘Not that Robert would have made a complaint anyway. Under the circumstances, who would?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can understand his reasoning,’ she said. You’re not going to go up against guys like those. You’re not going to hold up your hand and admit to anyone that it happened. Everyone would assume – like those policemen at the hospital did – that you let it happen, even if you couldn’t have fought them off. They were leaving Cambridge, anyway, but he had to go back. And he did go back. I was very proud of him for that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was proud of us for sticking together.’

  ‘I can understand.’

  She looked as if she was desperate for another drink, but she kept going. ‘We had a quiet summer and put it behind us – or so I thought. When we returned in September, Robert had gone back into his shell, somewhat. He was a bit more clingy, but it wasn’t all that different to how he’d been before hooking up with those guys in the first place.’

  Carlyle nodded to signal that he was keeping up.

  ‘I felt that he must be getting over it. He was attending all his classes, enjoying his studies. And we started having sex again.’

  Carlyle blushed slightly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, almost defiantly. ‘It wasn’t the full-on, greedy, needy fucking of the early days, but that goes anyway, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Er…’ Carlyle’s brain had temporarily stopped sending signals to his mouth, which remained stuck, immobile, in a slightly open position.

  ‘I always had to take the lead, and it took us about four or five months, but he was able to perform again. At least he made the effort, and we were getting back to something like you might call a normal relationship. Or so I thought. And then I found out that I was pregnant, during the January…’

  She suddenly stopped.

  Carlyle managed to re-establish lines of communications between his brain and his vocal cords, but he still couldn’t bring himself to ask about the kid.

  ‘So… when Robert dies…?’

  She slowly met his gaze. ‘So, when he threw himself off that balcony, it was a hell of a shock, yes.’ She put her empty wine glass back on the floor and stood up.

  ‘Did you make another complaint after his death?’ Carlyle asked, trying to move the narrative along.

  ‘I made as much fuss as I could, but I was in a bit of a state.’

  ‘Not surprising.’

  ‘And then I thought to hell with it. One morning, I just got up, packed my bag and left Cambridge. It took me a while to get my act together, but the baby helped. After our son was born, I was able to move forward. Eventually, I went back to university.’

  ‘To Cambridge?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t face going back there, so I ended up studying Law at UCL. Being in London was a lot easier, and I was able to get on with my life.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now,’ she smiled, ‘I have a very boring life.’

  ‘And your son?’ Carlyle asked casually.

  ‘Travelling.’ She eyed him carefully.

  ‘Where?’

  She smiled. ‘Right this moment, I’m not exactly sure. Somewhere in Thailand, I expect.’

  Another Trustafarian waster, no doubt, Carlyle thought. He changed tack. ‘Do you have any photos of Robert?’

  ‘Just the one. I keep it upstairs in my bedroom.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  What she handed him a couple of minutes later was a slightly faded photograph in a simple oak frame. It showed a younger, slimmer Susy Ahl sitting outside a cafe with Robert Ashton, his pretty-boy good looks preserved there for all time. She had one arm round his shoulders and they were laughing in a way that didn’t look at all posed for the camera. It was clearly not the same photograph that had been left beside Nicholas Hogarth’s corpse.

  ‘That was the Easter before it all happened,’ she explained, as Carlyle handed the picture back to her. ‘We took a holiday in France, near Lake Annecy. It was incredibly beautiful and serene – the Venice of the Alps and all that. We had the most perfect time.’ She gave him a fleeting, fragile smile. ‘It was probably the happiest moment of my life, but I suppose you don’t realise things like that ’til much later, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle left her reflection on the transient nature of happiness hanging in the air for a few seconds. Now it was time for the sharp end of the conversation. ‘And, with what happened afterwards, the past is the past?’

  ‘The past is the past,’ she agreed.

  ‘And your son?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Does he know about what happened to his father?’

  Susy Ahl blanched, but quickly composed herself. ‘He knows about Robert’s suicide, yes.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘absolutely not. What would be the point of that?’

  ‘I understand,’ Carlyle nodded.

  ‘That is the one thing I ask of you, Inspector,’ she said slowly. ‘He is a sensitive boy, like his father in many respects. I do not want him to have to face all that being dug up after all this time.’

  ‘I understand,’ Carlyle repeated. Good luck, he thought. ‘So what about the Merrion Club now?’ he asked, edging the conversation forward.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘It’s the General Election tomorrow,’ Carlyle mused.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It must be galling to see Robert’s attackers having such power, sitting smugly there at the top of the tree.’

  She grimaced. ‘Let them do what they like. The past always catches up with people, don’t you think?’

  ‘Do you want them dead?’ he asked quietly.

  She stared at him quizzically. ‘Do you expect me to answer that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly, ‘I do.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘I should say so,’ Carlyle said gently. ‘You are connected to all the people involved, and you have a motive. A very good motive, if I may say so.’

  ‘I do?’ she said, almost coyly.

  ‘If revenge is a dish best served cold,’ said Carlyle, ‘it might appear that you are taking your meal out of the freezer.’

  ‘What a tortuous metaphor, Inspector.’

  It struck Carlyle how people always addressed him as ‘Inspector’ when they were patronising him. He took a deep breath and vowed to rise above any slight. ‘Let me ask it another way,’ he continued. ‘Do you care that some of them are dead?’

  ‘No.’ She did not flinch from the question. ‘It really doesn’t make any difference to me.’

  ‘And if the others were to be killed?’

  ‘The same. Inshallah, as my Arab clients might say. It is the will of God.’

  ‘That is not an answer that encourages me to look elsewhere for suspects,’ he reproached her, as sternly as he could manage.

  ‘I guess you have to use your professional judgement,’ she sighed.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

  She looked at him carefully. ‘But maybe they deserve to die.’

  A lot of people deserve to die, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Someone has to judge them.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ He strove to sound reasonable. ‘They haven’t yet been arrested or charged with any crime.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ she pouted.

  ‘Life is not about right and wrong,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s about who gets to choose. You don’t get to choose… neither do I, for that matter.’

  ‘You have to set your sights higher than that, Inspector. Remember Jeremy Bentham: “Publicity is the very soul of justice. It is the keenest spur to exertion, and the surest of all guards against improbity. It keeps the judge himself, while trying, under trial.”’

  Carlyle was lost. ‘Who?’

&n
bsp; ‘Jeremy Bentham. He was a philosopher and jurist who lived two hundred years ago.’

  ‘Ah.’ Carlyle didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. Philosopher and jurist? The only Jeremys he could think of were a couple of TV presenters.

  ‘At UCL they still have his skeleton on display,’ she grinned, ‘dressed in his own clothes, and with a wax head on top.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘It’s what he said he wanted.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll go for something similar myself,’ Carlyle joked, ‘but in the foyer at New Scotland Yard.’

  All trace of her smile vanished as the lawyer inside took over. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time here,’ she said sharply, ‘so let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you actually have?’

  I wish people would stop asking me that, thought Carlyle. ‘The investigation is proceeding in a fairly normal manner,’ he replied lamely.

  ‘So how can I actually help you?’ she asked neutrally.

  ‘Are you assuring me that you had absolutely nothing to do with the deaths of Hogarth, Blake and the others?’

  She stared at him blankly. ‘I’m telling you that those types of questions will require the presence of my lawyer.’ She took a second business card from the mantelpiece and handed it to Carlyle.

  He looked at the name on it. ‘Different firm?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At our place, we don’t have anyone who specialises in… this type of thing. And, anyway, it is not something that you really want to discuss with your colleagues.’

  ‘No.’

  Arthur the Labrador reappeared, looking for another biscuit. Susy Ahl gave the dog a big smile and idly patted his back. ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The smile grew bigger. ‘No evidence?’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  She headed towards the door. ‘I need another drink. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Carlyle, ‘I’ll be going now. Just one final question: are you planning on leaving the country on any more business trips?’

  Under the effects of the wine, she took a few moments to mentally flip through her diary. ‘I am due back in Dubai in something like ten days’ time. Let me know soonest if that’s not allowed.’

  ‘I will. We may also ask for your passport. And, we might need to take your fingerprints and a DNA sample.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ she said, waving an ever so slightly inebriated hand in his direction, ‘I know that you have a job to do, and I will not impede you in any way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her eyes suddenly focused on him sharply. ‘But I won’t do your job for you, either.’

  She then showed him to the front door. Standing there on the doorstep, she turned to him and said: ‘What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Inspector?’

  Exhaling deeply, Carlyle thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing really springs to mind. I suppose I’ve been quite lucky.’

  ‘You can’t really judge me, then, can you?’

  ‘No, that’s true. It’s not my job to judge, though, is it?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘It’s not,’ he said firmly. ‘All I would say is that, even when terrible things happen, the world doesn’t stop turning. That may sound callous, but it’s the truth. If you’ve still got a life, get on with it. Don’t crucify yourself. Don’t become a victim. No one else really gives a toss.’

  ‘Good night, Inspector,’ was the only reply he got.

  He heard the front door click as, this time, she closed it properly.

  As he walked back down Stevenage Road, the procession of planes above his head continued unabated. Lost in thought, Carlyle paid them no heed.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The restaurant Kami no Shizuku, translated ‘Drops of God’, aimed to provide diners with a thoughtful, almost spiritual environment that would ensure the emotional calm required to spend thousands of pounds on a single meal. The celebrated Italian designer Simone Mestaguerra had chosen the finest natural materials to provide the place with a sophisticated image of timeless luxury that kept just on the right side of decadence. Drawing on the aura of a medieval monastery, the main dining area was a serene space detached from the wearisome realities of the everyday world. Exactly the right marble, the perfect limestone, the best hardwoods, they had all been sourced from around the globe to create a template for perfection.

  Owner Kanzaki Carew thought about Mestaguerra’s €250,000 consultancy fee and uttered a silent prayer for his salvation. This evening, however, the timeless luxury didn’t make the place look any less empty. Business was slow, whereas this time last year it could have easily taken diners up to four months to secure a table. Back then the joke had been that reservations were so sought after that they were traded on the futures market. Well, no one was joking now: this market, like so many others, had collapsed.

  Like everyone else, Kanzaki had become a victim of the recession. The private dining-room bookings from American finance houses had completely dried up over the last few months. The lunchtime trade – made up largely of City wives, media creatives, spin doctors and entrepreneurs – had similarly evaporated. And the days when bankers would spend tens of thousands on wine during a meal – a common enough occurrence for Kanzaki to have then instituted a house rule that the food was always free when the wine bill climbed beyond twenty thousand pounds – were a very distant memory indeed.

  With a nervous sadness, he glanced at a framed bill displayed behind the cash register and vowed to take it down. It was undoubtedly bad karma. The highest bill ever charged in Kami no Shizuku’s history now mocked the penury of the present. It had been run up by a dozen bankers at the height of the boom, celebrating the closing of a monster deal by indulging in a nine-hour beano. The bill had once excited him and he could still recite it from memory, like his very own Lord’s Prayer:

  Four bottles of 1995 Dom Perignon at?6,750 each;

  A magnum of Mouton Rothschild 1945 at?20,000;

  Three bottles of 1982 Montrachet at?2,400 each;

  A 1945 Petrus at?15,600, a 1946 Petrus at?11,400;

  A 1947 Petrus at?13,300; and

  A 1900 Chateau d’Yquem at?10,700.

  The tip alone had come to thirteen thousand pounds – half of which had gone straight into Kanzaki’s own pocket. The bankers had all been regular customers, but six of them had since been sacked. Of those still in a job, two were now working in Hong Kong and another two in Dubai, while another was trying his luck in Mumbai. Only one of them was still managing to keep his head above water in the bombed-out London market, and he, Kanzaki reflected bitterly, hadn’t been seen in the restaurant for more than three months.

  Kanzaki knew that this record bill would never now be beaten. Indeed, no one would get anywhere close. Tonight, for example, none of his diners would end up spending much more than three thousand, tops. That kind of return was just not enough to keep the place going, and he now bitterly regretted splashing out more than three hundred thousand pounds on refurbishing his kitchen earlier in the year. At the top of the market, he had employed forty cooks; now they were down to less than half that number and he had plans to let another five go. Two of his three sommeliers had also departed, along with half a dozen other front-of-house staff. It distressed him to let his people go – they were a great team, professional, knowledgeable and charming – but he had no choice. The carefully stocked wine cellar would soon be quietly shipped out to Switzerland and sold. Plans to roll out Kami no Shizuku as a global brand, backed by a Chinese or Indian investor, were now totally dead in the water. With every quiet night that passed, Kanzaki was increasingly resigned to closing the place. There was no point in hanging on. Another two months like this and the costs would start seriously eating into whatever money he’d made for himself in the better years.

  Sitting in the restaurant’s VIP
section, Joshua Hunt watched Kanzaki Carew pacing the floor, and felt a stab of sympathy for his restaurateur friend. Joshua looked at the empty tables all around them and did some quick calculations in his head. The place had to be losing at least fifty grand a week, so it couldn’t be long before it closed. Joshua gave it two months, tops. He didn’t like to see Kanzaki suffering but, of course, life went on. Ultimately, it wasn’t Joshua’s problem. There would still be plenty of other places to choose from.

  He felt a stab of pride that he himself could make money regardless of the economic situation. Whether the market was going up or down made no difference to Joshua and his computer programmes. His company, McGowan Capital, had run three of the best-performing investment funds in London for each of the last four years. This year, thanks to a timely move out of equities, property and oil and into gold, government bonds and, above all, cash, there was a good chance that they would win the top three places by some considerable margin.

  Glancing at his Omega Seamaster, Joshua failed to stifle a yawn. The dinner seemed to have gone on for hours, so it was a relief when his two guests had finally called it a night. Now that he had been liberated from the client and his wife, he was in no hurry to leave. The abalone with goose web had been a delight that he wanted to spend some time ruminating on.

  He never came to Kami no Shizuku simply for work alone, but for the whole experience. Tonight, having dealt with business, the exquisite meal demanded an extended period of reflection. Even more importantly, his two-grand bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild still had some wine left in, it and he certainly wasn’t going to waste it. He stared into his glass and smiled, before raising a gentle toast to his wife. ‘Thanks for putting up with that.’

  ‘What?’ Carole Simpson had already forgotten about the couple they had spent the last two and a half hours dining with. Rather, she was wondering about the wisdom of having chosen the sticky toffee pudding for dessert. It had been delightful, as always, but she shouldn’t have let Kanzaki talk her into it. Once consumed, it became just a pile of additional calories that she didn’t need. Despite her surroundings, she still saw herself very much as a regular police officer, and was therefore embarrassed by the amount of time she spent sitting on her backside behind a desk. Her attempts to keep in shape were tortuous enough.