by James Craig
Born in Antwerp in the late 1970s, Zelle was a member of that rarest breed, famous Belgians. Known, in no particular order, for being a model, singer and animal lover, she had lost an arm in a climbing accident on the Neige Cordier peak in the French Alps. Her ex-husbands included a banker, a semi-famous actor and a former England football manager. An acrimonious divorce from the last had resulted in her being awarded £8.3 million in a highly publicized court settlement.
Washing the sandwich down with a mouthful of coffee, Carlyle unceremoniously started on the Belgian bun. Pouting, Zelle picked up a copy of Metro that had been left by a previous diner and started pointedly reading a story about a government adviser who claimed that some police officers were barely literate.
Swallowing the last of the bun, Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee. ‘Ah,’ he muttered to himself, ‘that’s better.’ If not exactly full, he was no longer starving. Zelle was still pretending to read the scathing article. Maybe he could grab a Mars bar – or maybe not. Helen would definitely not approve.
A question suddenly came into his mind. ‘Do you happen to know why a Belgian bun is called a Belgian bun?’
‘What?’ Zelle stared at him blankly. Despite the fierce countenance, she was a good-looking woman. Tall, thin and blonde, she had high cheekbones and only the faintest of lines around her sharp blue eyes.
‘Never mind.’
Tapping the newspaper with her prosthetic hand, she gave a grin. ‘It says here that police officers are, quote “barely literate” unquote because the entry standards are so low. Reading, writing and maths skills have fallen significantly.’
Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, Carlyle thought, but what concern is it of yours? ‘I might not be able to read or write,’ he said gruffly, ‘but my timekeeping skills are still up to scratch.’ He pointed at the clock on the far wall. ‘I really do have to get going soon, so tell me what the problem is and let’s make it quick.’
The grin widened, making Zelle look even more attractive in a dangerous type of way. ‘My, my,’ she teased. ‘We are sensitive, aren’t we?’
Fuck it, thought Carlyle, I will have that Mars bar. And a double espresso to go with it. ‘You’ve got five minutes. Remember to keep it simple though, given how stupid us cops are.’ Then, getting to his feet, he bolted for the confectionery display and came back almost immediately clutching his prize.
‘My publicist suggested I should come.’
That’s not a line you hear every day, Carlyle thought, chomping on the Mars bar.
‘My phone’s been hacked.’
‘Mm.’ As the last piece of chocolate disappeared into his maw, the inspector realized that he should have gone for the king-sized bar.
‘It needs to be investigated.’
Finishing his coffee, Carlyle screwed up the Mars wrapper and dropped it into the empty mug. He told himself firmly that he wasn’t going to lose his temper. ‘There’s a special task force looking into this whole issue. You should go and talk to them.’
‘Don’t try and fob me off!’ the woman snapped. ‘I’ve been waiting upstairs for ages.’
‘I’m sorry that you had to wait,’ Carlyle replied evenly. ‘All I’m trying to do is ensure that you get to talk to the right people.’
‘A journalist called me last week,’ she continued, ignoring what he had just said. ‘He was able to quote verbatim from phone messages that Sam had left for me.’
‘Sam?’ Carlyle asked, curious despite himself.
‘Sam Grove.’ Grove was the former England football manager – Mr Zelle number three, or maybe it was number four. Either way, marriage to Margaretha, combined with a run of shockingly bad results, was enough to make him public enemy number one up until the point where he was ceremoniously sacked.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t you follow football, Inspector?’
He shrugged. Proper football fans don’t support England, they support their club. ‘I’m a Fulham fan.’
Not knowing what to make of that, she ploughed on. ‘Anyway, I told this journalist: “If you do anything with this story I’ll go to the police”.’
‘And what happened?’ Carlyle already knew the answer but asked anyway.
‘The bastard ran the story last weekend.’ Zelle hoisted a massive red Chloé python-skin tote bag on to the table and untied the flap. Carlyle watched in silence as she pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed him a half-page cutting. ‘This is it.’
Squinting, Carlyle scanned the article. Under the headline MAD MARG BLOWS HER TOP was a not very flattering picture of Zelle wearing a bikini on a Caribbean beach. The ‘story’ itself involved an argument over money; just a précis of the kind of routine domestic row that any couple might have. As a ‘story’, it was utterly boring. No wonder newspapers were dying on their feet.
Rereading the piece, Carlyle noticed the byline and realized that the article had been written by Duncan Brown.
He looked at Zelle. ‘You spoke to Duncan Brown?’
‘So, you can read, then,’ Zelle said petulantly. ‘And I didn’t even see your lips moving.’
God give me strength, Carlyle thought morosely. ‘When exactly did he call you?’
Zelle gazed into the middle distance. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said, before reeling off a number of possible dates. ‘I think it was the Wednesday and I’d just come out of the gym. But you can check my phone records.’
Yes, Carlyle thought, I suppose we can. ‘Did you ever actually meet him?’
‘No!’ Zelle made a moue. ‘I only spoke to the nasty little rodent once on the phone. That was it.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced again at the clock. The day was slipping away from him but the Mosmans could wait a little longer. After all, he hadn’t committed to turn up at their lawyer’s office at any precise time. Turning his gaze back to Zelle, he tried to smile. ‘What we need to do now is this . . .’
NINETEEN
‘Shouldn’t you be in uniform?’ Louise Greco studied the warrant card carefully before handing it back to the WPC. The pretty young officer had arrived in her office only ten minutes ago, but already she had created a significant glitch in Greco’s tight schedule.
When you were headmistress of St Marylebone C of E Secondary School, the bureaucracy was never-ending. Greco pined for the time – long gone – when her days hadn’t been chopped up into thirty-minute blocks, each of which was completely filled with a range of wearisome tasks.
Greco checked her watch. As of right now, she had a letter to write to all parents of Key Stage 3 students regarding the use of social networks and mobile phones, as well as drafting an invite for the White Paper Consultation meeting. And the Pupil Achievement Team meeting was due to start in less than fifteen minutes. In short, the headmistress simply didn’t have time for some girl who looked like a refugee from the Sixth Form Common Room waltzing into her office and demanding to be allowed to interview various pupils.
Maude Hall smiled sweetly. She had been in the MPS for barely nine months, but already she understood well enough that most people were naturally suspicious of the police. ‘It’s my day off.’
‘So . . .’ Greco peered over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses and did a double-take; the girl had a tiny diamond stud in her left nostril. The thing was so small that it looked like a spot. Surely you can’t wear things like that when you are in the police? Greco pondered. Even if you are off duty?
As the girl self-consciously scratched the other nostril with her right index finger, Greco noticed that her nails were painted a bright sky-blue colour. Picking up a pencil, Greco scribbled the word ‘varnish’ on the pad resting on her desk. She should send out a reminder that it was not appropriate to come into school with nail varnish and that all girls must remove any before they arrived for class in the morning. That was just another task to add to the list of things she had to do. She let several moments pass before returning her gaze to meet that of the WPC. ‘I should assume then that this i
s not official business?’
‘Oh, it is,’ Maude replied evenly, before briskly going on to explain the reason for her visit. ‘Hannah Gillespie’s parents are extremely worried about her and I didn’t think that I should wait until—’
Greco cut her off with a curt: ‘I would in no way wish to take a situation like this lightly, but Miss Gillespie does rather have a history of this kind of thing.’
‘Oh?’ Hall fished a notebook and biro from her bag.
‘Yes,’ Greco went on. ‘I’d have to check the records for the precise dates but, to my certain knowledge, Hannah has been absent without permission at least three times during the current calendar year. I keep a very close eye on such things, as you can imagine.’
‘Yes.’ Head down, Hall began making notes. ‘How long was she away previously?’
‘Twice it was just for a day, but the third time was longer: three or maybe even four days.’
‘I see. And did she explain what she had been doing?’
‘Not to my satisfaction,’ said Greco grimly.
‘Mm. And what does that mean?’
‘She said only that she was visiting friends; wouldn’t say anything else.’
‘Was it a boyfriend?’
‘I would assume so. You know what young girls are like.’ Catching Hall’s eye, Greco hesitated before saying defensively, ‘They sometimes lack a certain amount of self-control and discipline.’
Tell me about it. Grinning, Hall focused on her notebook.
‘Although,’ Greco continued, talking more now to herself than to the WPC, ‘to be clear, Hannah Gillespie is a very good student with great potential. And she is a valued member of our community. She takes her studies seriously and has a particular interest in history.’
And boys, Hall supposed.
‘If anything,’ Greco sniffed, ‘I would say that young Hannah is just a touch too independent for her own good. She doesn’t know where to draw the line.’
‘All part of growing up,’ Hall mused.
‘Precisely,’ Greco agreed. ‘I am sure that she will learn better – eventually. Happily, this type of behaviour is very much the exception here at our school. We have an absolutely fantastic collection of girls – and I would include Hannah in that. So we’re very lucky really.’
‘I’m sure.’ Hall put the cap back on her pen. ‘It would be great if I could speak to some of Hannah’s close friends.’
Once again, Greco looked her up and down. ‘If you wish to do that,’ she said slowly, ‘I think you will need to come back in a more official capacity.’
‘But—’
‘Anyway,’ Greco interrupted, ‘I’m sure that Hannah will be safely back with us soon. In the meantime, I do not want to cause unnecessary upset among her classmates. They have exams to prepare for, and any distractions can be most unhelpful.’ Greco turned her attention back to the letter waiting on her desk. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
A chocolate tartlet and two cups of Mariage Frères tea slowly helped Maude Hall get over her irritation at the way she had been treated in the headmistress’s office. Maybe she had been a bit informal by going there when off duty, but even so, the woman’s attitude annoyed her.
Maybe she would come back in her uniform tomorrow. First, however, Maude needed to talk to Joe Szyszkowski about how he wanted her to proceed with the investigation. She was sure that the sergeant would appreciate the fact that she’d taken the initiative – on her day off, too. As far as she could tell, Joe was a nice bloke who treated everyone fairly. Above all, he was a team player, unlike their boss. The inspector seemed a bit of a berk. Stuck in his own little world, he probably wouldn’t even notice the effort she had been making to track down Hannah Gillespie.
Sitting in Café Luc at the north end of Marylebone High Street, she poured the last of the tea from the pot into her cup and took a sip. The school day had just ended and a steady stream of girls now passed by the window, in their green skirts and jumpers, chatting happily in little groups of two and three. Hall smiled to herself, thinking that they all looked like nice kids. It wasn’t so long ago since that had been her. She tried to remember back to her own schooldays, but nothing memorable came to mind.
‘Excuse me.’
Putting her cup back on its saucer, Hall looked up at a pretty blonde girl who could easily have passed for twenty-something except for the school uniform she was wearing.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you the policewoman who was asking Mrs Greco about Hannah?’
Hall raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Someone heard you asking at the front desk.’ Without waiting to be invited, the girl slipped into the chair opposite. ‘I’m Melanie – Melanie Henderson.’
‘I’m Maude.’
‘Funny name.’
Hall laughed. ‘You’d have to ask my parents about that. Are you a friend of Hannah’s?’
‘I’m in her class,’ the girl said. ‘Is she in trouble?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ Maude smiled. ‘Mrs Greco might be another matter though.’
Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘We just want to make sure that Hannah’s okay. Her parents are worried.’
The girl picked up a menu and started reading it.
‘Want something to eat?’
‘Nah.’ Melanie shook her head, then remembered her manners. ‘But thanks though.’
Hall took another sip of her tea. ‘The headmistress said she’s missed school before.’
Melanie nodded.
‘Any idea where she is this time?’
‘Not really, no.’
Finishing her tea, Hall tried not to look irritated with the girl.
‘But I know who she’ll be with.’
TWENTY
‘Where the hell have you been?’
The inspector shrugged. The conversation with Margaretha Zelle in the Charing Cross canteen had delayed him by about an hour or so. Even so, he wasn’t really that late.
At least, he didn’t think so.
Short, bald and in a bad humour, Melvin Boduka obviously disagreed. The lawyer unhooked his thumb from the waistcoat of his three-piece suit and jabbed an angry index finger at Carlyle. ‘Horatio Mosman’s parents have been waiting here for more than three hours now.’
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Carlyle replied brusquely. Hopping from foot to foot, he felt himself sinking into the plush carpet of Boduka’s ridiculously expensive Park Lane offices. He was feeling hyper with the buzz of trying to keep multiple investigations moving along at the same time – not to mention multiple espressos – and wasn’t in the mood to take any shit from this expensive ambulance-chaser. ‘Where are they?’
Boduka gestured along the hallway. ‘In the boardroom.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced at the pair of flunkeys standing behind their boss. ‘Something to drink would be good.’ Wired or not, he had to keep going. Presumably, the good folks at Blutch, Boduka, Lanners & Nahon LLP could stretch to a decent cup of coffee without too much difficulty.
Boduka grunted at one of the assistants who looked at Carlyle enquiringly.
‘I’ll have a macchiato – make it a double.’ He was tempted to ask for a pastry as well, but suspected that would be pushing his luck.
With a nod, the girl turned on her heel and hurried off down the corridor.
‘Thank you.’ He turned back to Boduka. ‘Let’s get started then.’
‘Just remember, Inspector,’ said the lawyer, placing a hand on Carlyle’s arm as he lowered his voice, ‘you were the last person to see their son alive.’
‘One of the last people,’ Carlyle corrected him.
‘Yes, well, it’s effectively the same thing.’ Boduka resorted to a stage whisper. ‘The point is, please treat them with respect.’
‘I always treat people with respect,’ Carlyle lied.
‘But under the particular circumstances . . .’ The lawyer’s
voice rose with his exasperation.
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle said gruffly. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we? As you said, they’ve been kept waiting for long enough.’
On entering the room, the first thing he noticed was the view. The vista through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the law firm’s boardroom – directly across Park Lane towards Hyde Park – was quite spectacular. The inspector, however, was the only one enjoying it. Everyone else was on the far side of the table, with their backs to the window. Next to Boduka was Ivor Mosman, ramrod straight in an expensive-looking navy suit, with a light blue shirt. Even though he was unshaven and looked tired, Mosman was still an imposing-looking man, tall with broad shoulders, a strong chin and a full head of hair that showed only a slight sprinkling of grey. He held his wife’s hand tightly as they waited for the inspector to get this unpleasant meeting under way.
Zoe Mosman was clearly not holding up as well as her husband. In a grey polo shirt, with a white sweater wrapped around her shoulders, she looked like she was heading for the Tennis Club, but her face was crumpled and she had clearly spent much of the last twelve hours in tears. Her gaze remained lowered towards the table as she rocked gently in her seat. With her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, she looked extremely young – easily a good fifteen years younger than her husband when, in fact, Carlyle knew that their actual age difference was less than half that.
Boduka’s two assistants made up the numbers. Taking a sip of his macchiato – disappointingly insipid and cool – Carlyle arranged his papers on the table before letting the Skoob plastic bag, in which he’d transported them over, drop to the floor. Flipping open a notepad, he pulled a biro from his inside jacket pocket and began listing all the names of those present. When he’d finished, he placed his pen on the pad and looked up at the parents directly.
‘My condolences for what has happened,’ he said, waiting for a nod of acknowledgement from Ivor Mosman before continuing, ‘and my apologies for keeping you waiting this afternoon.’ Another nod. ‘As you will know, there is a huge amount of effort and resource going into this investigation.’ He tapped the A4 folder in front of him with an index finger. ‘There is only a limited amount that I can say at this moment. However, I can assure you we are moving things along as quickly as we can.’