The Circus

by James Craig

  Gilmore lifted the glass back to his mouth. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘As you well know, Inspector, these days, wait and see is never an option.’ Gilmore paused to demolish the rest of his beer. ‘If you’re going to ask me to just sit on this, there’s no chance. Pretty girl, a top student, goes missing in the middle of the big city? It seems very surprising that the police haven’t gone public on it already. Meanwhile, the parents, as you would expect, are worried sick. So, what are you waiting for?’

  What do you know about the parents’ worries? As far as Carlyle knew, Gilmore didn’t have any kids. Even if he did, it was a fair bet he never got to see them. Being an in-your-face, muckraking journalist was a 24/7 gig; it did not sit easily with family responsibilities. ‘We don’t actually know that the girl is in danger.’ He kept his voice low, his tone even. ‘So far, this is just a missing person inquiry.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. The Missing Persons Bureau hasn’t heard of her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carlyle grimaced. ‘Maybe – and this is not for quotation – we’re a bit behind on the paperwork.’

  Folding his arms, Gilmore sat back in his seat. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not interested in giving you a hard time.’

  Carlyle shook his head disbelievingly. ‘No?’

  ‘No, really, I’m not. But the point is, I’ve got more than enough material to go with this story. I’ve spoken to the parents, and to the best friend. By all accounts, Hannah was a smart kid.’

  ‘Is,’ Carlyle corrected him, hoping that he was right.

  ‘Very smart,’ Bernie continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Her parents were already dreaming of a scholarship at Stanford. That’s an American university.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Silicon Valley and all that.’

  ‘You can hardly blame them,’ Bernie mused, ‘what with tuition fees here going through the roof. Who’d want to scrape together nine grand a year to send their kid to some shitty polytechnic that no one’s ever heard of?’

  ‘Do they still have polys?’ Carlyle asked.

  Bernie thought about that for a moment. ‘Maybe they changed their names,’ he offered finally. ‘Still, no match for the Ivy League, though.’

  ‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.

  ‘So the boyfriend was obviously a bit of a fly in the ointment when it came to the grand plan.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Teenage hormones,’ Bernie shrugged. ‘They’re a killer.’

  A thought struck Carlyle. ‘Did you tell the parents about Clegg?’

  ‘You really are off the pace on this one, aren’t you?’ Gilmore shot him a pitying look.

  Fuck, the inspector thought, as he realized that he would have to talk to Mr and Mrs Gillespie asap. That was something else to look forward to.

  ‘So you did tell them?’ Carlyle asked again.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to let them read about it in the paper, am I? I’ve even got a photo of young Hannah posing with the Mayor.’

  ‘Christian Holyrod?’ Carlyle felt himself shudder. ‘When did he manage to find his way into the story?’ He had a sudden nasty thought. ‘He hasn’t been shagging her too, has he?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Bernie tutted in disgust. ‘She was introduced to him at a Peer Workers’ Outreach event. Hannah is a member of the Link Up Crew.’

  What the hell are you talking about? Carlyle wondered.

  ‘The Link Up Crew,’ Gilmore explained, ‘are kids who are supposed to go out and spread the word about the Mayor’s good deeds, informing young Londoners on what’s happening in the capital and sending their views, opinions and feedback to City Hall. It’s all part of the Mayor’s policy of engagement with the youth of today – trying to stop the little buggers looting sneakers next time there’s a riot.’

  ‘What a load of old crap,’ Carlyle snorted.

  ‘Quite. But the fact that Hannah signed up to take part shows she’s trying to be a good corporate citizen. In other words, she is not just some feckless chav.’

  ‘No one ever said that she was,’ Carlyle replied defensively.

  ‘No, but equally, she’s not the kind of middle-class kid with connected parents for whom the forces of the state would be deployed in the blink of an eye without any of this let’s wait and see stuff.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Giving up on the social commentary, Bernie spelled it out. ‘Maybe you could be doing a bit more.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You tell me. You’re the policeman.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing that out.’

  For a few moments they sat in uneasy silence, until Gilmore gestured to Carlyle’s empty glass. ‘Want another?’

  The inspector let out a deep sigh. ‘Why not?’

  Returning from the bar, Gilmore handed Carlyle his whiskey. ‘Got you a double this time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You look like you need it. I saw how the last one didn’t touch the sides.’

  ‘There’s a lot going on.’

  ‘There always is.’ Gilmore sat down heavily, dropping a packet of Flame-Grilled Steak crisps on to the table. ‘Dinner,’ Bernie said succinctly, noting the policeman’s dismay.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Lifting the glass to his lips, Carlyle took a modest mouthful, letting the Jameson’s slide across his tongue.

  Gilmore sat back, waiting for the negotiating to begin.

  ‘Look,’ said Carlyle, returning his glass to the table, ‘I know that we might be playing catch-up . . . but I can trade.’

  Now it was the journalist’s turn to shake his head. ‘Not your style.’

  That was true enough. It was well known that the inspector was not a great one for cosying up to journalists. Here and now, however, it looked like he was going to have to make an exception. ‘Circumstances change.’

  Gilmore contemplated his new pint for several moments. ‘I’ve got the girl, the boyfriend and the worried parents,’ he said, not looking up. ‘That’s everything I need; more than enough, in fact.’ Carlyle nodded, letting him say his piece. ‘What’s more, it’s an exclusive.’

  The inspector patted the phone in his pocket. ‘It wouldn’t be for long if I gave it to someone else.’ But it was a feeble threat, and they both knew it.

  ‘What would be the point of that? It would hardly solve your problem.’

  ‘I’m also working on Horatio Mosman . . .’

  ‘Big deal!’ Gilmore scoffed. ‘Everybody knows that. And it’s been done to death already.’ Opening his new packet of crisps, he arched an eyebrow. ‘No pun intended, of course. And anyway, I am perfectly well aware that you have no progress to report.’

  ‘Then there’s the Duncan Brown case.’

  ‘Mm . . .’ Gilmore dropped a handful of crisps into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘That may be a little bit more interesting. What have you got so far?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘A bird in the hand, Inspector.’

  Looking around, Carlyle lowered his voice. ‘I will give you a full heads-up on both Mosman and Brown – in due course. Also, if anyone else starts sniffing around the Gillespie story I will let you know straight away, so that you can still get it out there first.’

  Gilmore took another crisp from the packet and contemplated it carefully. ‘You have my mobile number?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t forget to use it.’

  When he returned to Clegg’s apartment, Carlyle was surprised to find WPC Maude Hall there, talking to Joe.

  ‘How did it go?’ Joe asked.

  ‘He’ll give us a little time,’ Carlyle replied, not wanting to go into the details. ‘Did you get anything of use from the concierge?’

  ‘Nah,’ Joe said. ‘The guy says that Clegg travels a lot; hasn’t seen him in the last week or so. He doesn’t recognize the girl – says he hasn’t seen her coming or going from the flat.’

  ‘Or doesn’t want
to let on,’ Carlyle grumbled.

  ‘Either way, it’s the same situation.’ Joe gestured towards the WPC. ‘Anyway, Maude’s come up with something interesting.’

  ‘On Mosman,’ Hall clarified, ‘not this.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle was more than happy to accept good news wherever he could find it. He looked her up and down: out of uniform she looked so very young. And was that a stud in her nose?

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Yes?’ He belatedly restored eye-contact.

  ‘Zoe Mosman told you that she was an art historian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite the whole story. She is, in fact, Creative Director for the Government Art Collection.’

  ‘That’s the thing Sir Michael Snowdon was talking about,’ Joe reminded him.

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘the bikini picture. But is that of any significance?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Hall. ‘The picture that was pinned to Horatio’s shirt was a view of Covent Garden, painted by a Flemish painter called Joseph van Aken in the 1700s. The GAC bought it back in 1929 and the last record of it being on display was in an exhibition put on by the British Embassy in Lagos in 1986.’

  Carlyle looked at Joe and Maude in turn. ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘It’s all easily accessible,’ Hall smiled, ‘if you know where to look.’

  ‘Good. Well done.’ The inspector turned to Joe. ‘So, it looks like we need to go and have another word with Mrs Mosman.’

  ‘Yes.’ His sergeant looked eager at the prospect.

  The inspector thought about it for a moment longer. ‘But maybe I should talk to Sir Michael first.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Trevor Miller shovelled the last forkful of Cumberland sausage into his mouth before pushing away his empty plate with a satisfied sigh. Wondering what he could stuff down his gullet next, the Prime Minister’s Senior Security Adviser noticed that his dining companions had barely touched the food on their plates. Sonia Claesens had ordered the caviar omelette (sixty quid!) and Simon Shelbourne the haggis with fried duck eggs (only a tenner). Twenty minutes waiting for their orders to arrive, and then the two of them spent another ten minutes pushing the food around their plates, waiting for Miller to finish eating so that they could finally get down to business. The bill would come to more than a hundred quid and all they would actually get out of it was a cup of herbal tea.

  It all seems like a terrible waste of good food, Miller thought idly. But what did he care? It wasn’t like he would be picking up the tab.

  Smearing a slice of white toast with butter and adding a layer of Dundee rough-cut marmalade, Miller took a large bite, before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. Detecting more than a hint of impatience in Sonia’s eyes, he quickly squashed the rest of the toast into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Finishing his coffee, he placed the cup back on its saucer and pushed his chair an inch or so away from the table, signalling that the eating part of the proceedings was at an end.

  ‘Very nice breakfast,’ he smiled, holding in a small burp.

  An officious-looking waiter appeared at the table. Sonia Claesens glared at him balefully and he scurried away.

  ‘Amazing service in this place,’ Shelbourne mused. ‘And always so busy!’ He gestured to the people queuing at the door, waiting for a table to become available. ‘You’d never know that there was a recession on.’

  ‘And has been for the last six years,’ Claesens added somewhat resentfully.

  Miller stared at them blankly. Small talk wasn’t his forte. ‘Mm,’ was all he could manage. Amazingly, he still felt rather hungry. He wondered if he could have some more toast.

  ‘Of course,’ Shelbourne trilled, ‘I used to come here all the time – before I started working for Sir Chester, that is.’

  Before you started having to get your expenses through the Met’s Accounts Department, Miller thought. The Warham would never have been his first choice for this meeting. The Piccadilly café-restaurant in the grand European tradition – a former car showroom with lots of Venetian and Florentine influences; pillars, arches and stairways all over the place – was too busy, too noisy and too showy for his own taste. Looking around, it seemed that everyone else was busily checking out their fellow diners; or tapping away on their BlackBerrys and iPads while holding desultory conversations. It was a place to be seen, rather than somewhere for a discreet tête-à-tête. There was no semblance of privacy. A journalist working for Claesens had even been banned for prowling the tables, hassling the great and the good over their food in his relentless search for ‘exclusive’ stories. The venue made the veteran security consultant feel distinctly uncomfortable. It had been chosen by Shelbourne’s PA and Miller belatedly wondered if he should have insisted on somewhere else. By now, the fact that the three of them were breakfasting together was probably already a matter of record on some social networking site.

  Fucking Twitter, Miller thought with a sigh. You never had to worry about that kind of shit in my day; you could go about your business in peace. Social media provided a limitless platform for voyeurs, the ego-crazed and the criminal. If his boss, the Prime Minister, had any sense, he would just close the whole internet thing down. Maybe Miller should suggest it once he got back to Downing Street. It wouldn’t be that difficult – or, at least it wasn’t for the Chinese and the bloody Iranians. He poured himself some more coffee. It was too late to worry about the location now, so he would just have to make the best of it. If the meeting ever did become public, perhaps he could hold up the venue as evidence that they were being totally open and transparent. Hiding in plain sight had a lot to recommend it.

  Gazing around the room for the hundredth time, Miller picked out various familiar faces, a banker here, a newspaper editor there; a chat-show host complaining to his waiter about something; a couple of actresses looking bored in one corner as a television executive wittered on. No one caught Miller’s eye or returned his gaze. Deciding against extra toast, Miller folded his mauve cotton napkin and placed it on the table. ‘So . . .’

  ‘So . . .’ Shelbourne blinked once, twice, before turning to his former boss for help. Encased in a Moschino red tweed bouclé jacket buttoned to the neck, Sonia Claesens fixed Miller with a steely glare. She had the pinched features and dead eyes of someone who had spent the last two decades subsisting on half-rations.

  ‘I think,’ she said solemnly, ‘that we will be able to find an agreement on an intelligent way forward.’

  Shelbourne nodded enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely.’

  I very much doubt that, thought Miller. He smiled. ‘The PM would welcome that.’

  ‘Good.’ A well-preserved, forty-something platinum blonde, Claesens was Senior Managing Director at the Zenger Corporation. This role gave her responsibility for the Sunday Witness and other British assets owned by the global new media conglomerate. In such an elevated position, she had become used to sharing a table with prime ministers, rather than slumming it with their minions. Now, however, with Zenger enmeshed in scandal, Sonia’s stock was sinking at an alarming rate. Edgar Carlton, the current PM, had appointed Trevor Miller as Number Ten’s ‘gatekeeper’ on the phone-hacking issue. To her immense chagrin, Claesens found herself in the position of having to mix with the bag carriers.

  Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin, she glanced at her Omega Ladymatic. Time, as always, was precious. ‘Broadly speaking, Mr Miller, is Edgar happy about where we are now?’

  ‘The Prime Minister is in Birmingham today,’ Miller grinned, ‘visiting some widget factory or other and having to mix with the plebs. So, no, I don’t suppose that he is very happy at all.’

  Claesens grimaced at the feeble quip.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be with him then?’ Shelbourne asked. ‘Given that you do his security?’

  Miller shook his head. This boy was clearly an idiot. ‘There is a team of more than seventy who cover the PM’s security detail. I’m not one of
the guys who stand next to him, wearing an earpiece, ready to take a bullet.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘I’m too old for that.’

  ‘But you would if you had to,’ Shelbourne persisted. ‘Take a bullet, I mean?’

  Not in a million years. ‘Of course,’ Miller said. ‘If the situation arose, I would definitely step in.’

  Shelbourne removed his spectacles and began cleaning the lenses with a napkin. ‘You were previously in the police, weren’t you?’

  Miller stiffened. The less people enquired about his past, the better. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘In the Met?’

  ‘Yes. I was born here in London. I started out in the mineworkers’ strike up north in the eighties.’ He gave the little scrote a dismissive look. ‘I guess that was before you were born.’

  ‘Almost,’ Shelbourne said, steadfastly not taking any offence. ‘But we did it at school. Or at least, I remember seeing something about it on the telly. So I know a bit about it. The whole thing looked pretty brutal – the “enemy within” and all that. Good to know that you were there, standing up for law and order.’

  ‘We cracked a few heads,’ Miller replied, smiling at the memory.

  ‘But it’s rather a long way from the coal mines to Downing Street. How did you end up as the Prime Minister’s Security Adviser?’

  ‘It just happened,’ Miller shrugged. ‘After leaving the Met, I set up my own consultancy . . .’ He suddenly remembered his Downing Street media training and a pre-prepared soundbite popped into his head. ‘Edgar Carlton is the best leader we’ve had in a long time – certainly the best since Margaret Thatcher put the country back on track. I am very lucky to have had the chance to work for him.’

  Shelbourne smiled wanly. As an ex-journalist, he knew when he was being spun a line. So did Sonia Claesens, who looked like she was in pain.

  ‘And I also have a very interesting job,’ Miller continued, ‘taking an overall view of different issues . . . general situations and specific threats, trying to neutralize them before they become active.’ God alone knew what that guff meant, but it was a well-rehearsed explanation. He regularly used it around Westminster, where the lame-brained politicians always lapped it up.