The Circus

by James Craig

  Carlyle thought about Margaretha Zelle. ‘You have proof?’

  Gilmore nodded.

  ‘So why don’t you go and talk to the good people at Operation Redhead? This is specifically their thing.’

  Sitting back on the bench, Gilmore pawed at his T-shirt, scratching Bert on the nose – or maybe it was Ernie. ‘Because, Inspector, I’m not simply a concerned citizen, I’m a man who needs to make a living.’

  Fair enough, Carlyle decided.

  Shifting in his seat, Gilmore settled into lecture mode. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘there’s no real money to be made from conventional journalism. No money at all, in fact.’

  Aware that he needed to get up to speed, Carlyle sat and listened, happy to let the other man talk.

  ‘Most information isn’t worth shit. There’s far too much of it about – in fact, we spend all our time trying to fight it off. No one wants more of it. There’s more information in one single edition of a daily newspaper – a broadsheet anyway – than an ordinary person would have been exposed to in their whole lives, two hundred years ago.’

  All of it crap, too, Carlyle reflected.

  ‘And that’s just newspapers. Then there’s television, radio and the universe’s great intellectual garbage dump known as the internet.’ He looked the inspector up and down to make sure he was keeping up. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Carlyle lied.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘your basic law of supply and demand tells you that information is now effectively worth nothing. That’s bad news for someone like me who sells information for a living.’

  ‘You could always become a plumber,’ Carlyle smirked. ‘Or even a copper.’

  Gilmore ignored this feeble attempt at humour. ‘Of course, some types of information will always be worth something . . . in particular circumstances. But even the stuff that is worth something is only worth something if you know that it’s worth something.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘And even then, that same information may have a value that changes over time.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So,’ said Gilmore, finally getting to the point, ‘what I knew about Trevor Miller wasn’t really that useful – until I ran into you.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker winced in pain. The operation on his bad back had been declared a success but it didn’t feel much like that to him. The painkillers provided by the hospital were simply not up to the job. Even after downing four of them in quick succession, it still felt as if someone was stabbing him repeatedly in the lower spine with a hot needle.

  Noting his boss’s obvious discomfort, Simon Shelbourne adopted a solicitous demeanour. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have discharged yourself for another day or two.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Looking round the room he had been given, Sir Chester dismissed his spin doctor’s concerns with as imperious a wave of the hand as he could manage. The Laura Ashley décor did nothing to improve his mood. ‘It’s like a bloody twelve year old’s bedroom in here.’

  Shelbourne nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s the best room they had available,’ he said. ‘I double-checked. Anyway, the wallpaper is the same in all of them.’

  ‘And how much do people pay to come here?’

  ‘About twelve hundred a night.’

  ‘Good God!’ At least he wasn’t having his bank account raped as well as having his senses assaulted. Another spasm of pain shot through the Commissioner’s back and his face crumpled in distress.

  Shelbourne gestured towards an armchair in the corner of the room. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’

  No fear, thought Sir Chester. If I sit down, the pain will only get worse. ‘It’s nothing,’ he insisted. ‘At least, nothing that a large scotch won’t sort out.’

  Lowering his gaze, Shelbourne shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The doctors were very clear. No alcohol allowed until you come off your medication.’

  ‘Bugger that!’ Sir Chester eyed the sideboard sitting by the wall. ‘Where is the booze in this place anyway?’

  ‘That’s the other thing,’ Shelbourne said. ‘This is a one hundred per cent dry facility. There is no alcohol at Laanti’s.’ He tried not to smirk. ‘Zero tolerance of booze is a cornerstone of their “guaranteed detox” policy.’

  With increasing impatience, Sir Chester listened to his minion run through a series of rules and regulations that the younger man had seemingly learned off by heart.

  Having reached the end of his recital, Shelbourne gave a shrug. ‘This code of conduct extends to the customers as well as to the staff.’

  ‘It sounds more like a bloody prison than a health farm,’ Sir Chester said grimly.

  ‘Anastasia Carlton can’t speak highly enough about it,’ Shelbourne remarked.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Sir Chester mumbled, ‘the Prime Minister’s wife has plenty of time on her hands for swanning around spas these days, from what I hear.’

  ‘Sonia is a big fan too.’

  ‘Sonia Claesens?’ The faintest of alarm bells began ringing in the back of the Commissioner’s fatigued brain.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shelbourne, ‘she comes here all the time. At least, she used to when I was working on the Sunday Witness. Her ex-husband built the kriotherapy centre here. It’s considered state of the art.’

  Sir Chester frowned. ‘I thought the former Mr Sonia Claesens was a farmer or something?’

  ‘He’s in agribusiness,’ Shelbourne nodded, as if that was one and the same thing. ‘This is just a sideline. I think it was Sonia who got him interested in it in the first place. She might have ditched him for a toyboy, but she is still a big kriotherapy fan.’

  The bells started ringing louder but Sir Chester dismissed them angrily as he fought to process the random bits of information his PR man was now throwing at him. Dammit, all he wanted was a bloody drink! Was that really too much to ask?

  ‘Kriotherapy,’ Shelbourne droned on, ‘comes from the Greek word cryo meaning “cold” and therapy meaning “cure”. It involves using extreme cold to reduce pain and inflammation.’

  This idiot has swallowed the marketing brochure whole, the Commissioner reflected.

  ‘I’ve even booked you in for a session, since it should be good for your back.’

  ‘I’ll try anything,’ Sir Chester decided. A thought suddenly hit him: ‘Is it expensive?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Shelbourne smiled, ‘everything is being taken care of. Hannes was absolutely clear that this isn’t going to cost you a penny.’ He was referring to Hannes Laanti, the owner of the eponymous spa. ‘You will get an itemized bill at the end of your stay, but that is simply so that you can place it on the Official Register of Interests when you get back to work.’

  Sir Chester harrumphed. This kind of so-called ‘transparency’ was all the rage these days. He could barely go to the bloody toilet without having to report it to someone or other. The whole thing went against all his old-school principles. Why he couldn’t let a friend do him a favour without having to tell the whole world about it was beyond him. He felt his mood darkening by the minute. He really did need that damn drink. ‘I’ve got to ring Tanya,’ he said gruffly, ‘and tell her to bring me a bottle of Royal Lochnagar.’ He patted his pockets, searching in vain for his mobile.

  ‘The use of mobile phones is not allowed here either,’ Shelbourne chirruped. He had a cheeky glint in his eye which irritated the Commissioner even further.

  ‘Simon,’ he said wearily, ‘just give me your bloody phone, so that I can call my good lady wife.’

  ‘The reception’s crap as well,’ Shelbourne pointed out. Nevertheless he fished an iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it over, before politely retreating to the far corner of the room to allow his boss some privacy. After struggling with the number, Sir Chester listened to the phone ring for what seemed like an eternity before Tanya�
��s cheery voicemail kicked in. Stifling a curse, he mumbled a brief message, hung up and forcefully bowled the handset back to his lackey.

  ‘Is she on her way?’ Shelbourne asked brightly, plucking the phone out of the air just before it smashed against the wall.

  ‘She’s taking her own sweet time about it,’ Sir Chester grumped. He imagined that she was probably tied up with her Pilates class, or the Bikram yoga, or whatever the latest fad was for this week. He sighed deeply. No sense of priorities, that woman; no sense of priorities at all.

  Stepping over to the window, Shelbourne looked out across the carefully manicured front lawn which extended in front of the original manor house around which the spa had been developed. A small group of fat, middle-aged women were waddling across the grass under the watchful gaze of a couple of young instructors dressed in army fatigues. Obviously, the luxury bootcamp brigade were heading off on their country hike.

  ‘Look at that lot,’ he giggled. ‘Let’s just hope none of them suffers a heart attack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Still focused on the matter of refreshment, Sir Chester eyed his aide thoughtfully. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you could go and find me an off-licence?’

  ‘What?’ Shelbourne turned away from the window and frowned at his boss. ‘Er . . . well, not really,’ he stammered. ‘For a start, we’re in the middle of nowhere. And anyway, I need to get going.’

  Resisting the urge to throttle the useless little shit, Sir Chester’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, remind me, why exactly are you here?’

  Shelbourne stole another glance out of the window. A couple of the fattest women in the group were struggling to reach the far side of the lawn without collapsing; it looked like the bootcamp had been a bit too ambitious. Maybe the cost of their stay would have been better spent on liposuction or on having a gastric band fitted. ‘I just wanted to make sure that you were settled in okay,’ he lied.

  The reality was that he had been called into a strategy session by Hannes Laanti himself, for whom he moonlighted as a freelance adviser. After three hours’ talking crap in a tiny room, Shelbourne was more than ready for a stiff drink himself. Turning back to face his boss, he smiled. ‘And also to talk to you about my meeting with Sonia Claesens and Trevor Miller.’

  Mention of Miller’s name made Sir Chester wince yet again. By some margin, Miller had turned out to be the most annoying individual the Commissioner had come across since arriving in London. As head of the MPS, Sir Chester had assumed, somewhat naively as it turned out, that his job had included responsibility for the security of the Prime Minister. Instead, he was horrified to discover that the job had been entrusted to a grubby private contractor. A man who had barely risen above the rank of constable when he was serving in the Force now had the ear of the most powerful man in the country. The whole situation was a total disgrace.

  ‘What did that oaf have to say for himself?’

  ‘He was particularly brusque.’ Shelbourne shook his head at the memory. ‘Even Sonia was given short shrift.’ He allowed himself the briefest of peeks out of the window. Two of the hikers were now lying on their backs on the lawn, surrounded by staff dressed in white coats. It looked like they were receiving extra oxygen. ‘I thought she was looking terrible, by the way; a bit like Cruella De Vil on crack.’ He sniggered at his own joke.

  Not picking up the reference, Sir Chester gingerly lowered himself on to the bed. As his buttocks made contact with the duvet, a now familiar pain shot up his spine and he immediately jumped back to his feet. ‘What precisely is Miller suggesting in terms of a course of action?’

  ‘He basically told her that she’s on her own,’ Shelbourne replied, trying to ignore Sir Chester’s signs of discomfort.

  ‘And us?’

  ‘The clear implication of what he said is that the PM considers that we’ – meaning you – ‘are also expendable.’

  ‘We’re all expendable.’ His gaze focusing on the patterned carpet, Sir Chester began pacing from the bed to the armchair and back again. ‘The question is whether there is anything we can do to try and retrieve the situation?’

  Damned if I know, Shelbourne thought. Outside, an ambulance had appeared. One of the hikers was being lifted on to a stretcher.

  ‘Where are we on the other stuff?’ Sir Chester asked, realising that this boy was not about to deliver anything useful or insightful on the phone-hacking front.

  ‘Other stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Sir Chester racked his brain, trying to remember what concerns had been current before he had gone under the surgeon’s knife. That had been less than forty-eight hours ago but it felt like weeks, if not months. ‘The teenager who was blown up?’

  ‘Horatio Mosman,’ Shelbourne reminded him. ‘I haven’t had any update. Do you want me to ring Commander Simpson?’

  ‘We need news,’ the Commissioner mumbled, ignoring the question. ‘Good news. Something to show that we are moving things forward.’ He eyed the other man hopefully but even his spin doctor, who could always be relied upon for a vacuous phrase or a meaningless soundbite, seemed lost for words.

  Salvation came in the form of a knock at the door. Before either of them had time to respond, it opened and a pretty blonde girl appeared in the room.

  ‘Sir Chester?’

  The Commissioner suddenly felt his spirits rise.

  ‘I’m Sally,’ the girl said cheerily. ‘It’s time for your kriotherapy.’

  Having let the polite ripple of applause die away, Carole Simpson stepped quickly off the stage in the gymnasium of the Bernard Rhodes South Camden Secondary School. There was a time when the Commander would have given awards ceremonies like this the widest of berths, but nowadays she was more relaxed about such events. All she had to do was hand out a few prizes, then have a quick cup of tea with the headmistress in the staffroom; undemanding if somewhat boring, it was the Met’s idea of winning hearts and minds.

  ‘Boss.’ Carlyle emerged from behind a curtain just as she reached the bottom step.

  Simpson took a half-step backwards, almost falling over. ‘Jesus! Why do you have to creep up on people like that?’

  ‘Sorry.’ The inspector glared at a timid-looking woman in a cheap business suit hovering a few yards away. ‘We won’t be a moment,’ he told her. The headmistress gave a nod and retreated to a respectful distance. The kids had already fled, along with the rest of the teachers, leaving the cavernous hall empty apart from the three of them.

  ‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle feebly.

  ‘What do you want?’ If the Commander noticed the bruises on his face, she chose not to comment on them. Instead, she glanced theatrically at her watch. ‘I need to get going.’

  ‘Your office said I would find you here. I need to update you on various things.’

  ‘Okay.’ Simpson shot the headmistress a look that was more of annoyance than apology. ‘Make it quick.’

  Carlyle quickly took her through the highlights, careful to focus mainly on the Mosman case.

  ‘So,’ she said, cutting him off before he had finished, ‘when are you going to bring the mother in?’

  It was the obvious question. At the very least, Zoe Mosman had some explaining to do. ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ he said.

  Simpson tugged at a button on her uniform. ‘You might not be but the bloody Commissioner is.’

  ‘How’s his back, by the way?’

  ‘He’s recuperating.’

  ‘At Laanti’s, I hear.’

  Simpson looked off into the middle distance, signalling that she didn’t want to discuss the matter.

  ‘Mrs Mosman,’ said Carlyle, returning to the matter in hand, ‘is already lawyered up. Plus, I suppose, she thinks she can bluff us about the missing picture.’

  Simpson gave him a blank look.

  ‘Joseph van Aken’s View of Covent Garden.’ Carlyle went on to explain the significance of the painting to his investigation. ‘First, I want to see what m
ore we can find out from Harris Highman’s GAC audit before jumping in and trying to force a confession from her.’

  ‘A confession to what?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Carlyle smiled, as if she had just made his argument for him. ‘I dunno yet.’

  He thought he heard Simpson mumble something that sounded like ‘smug bastard’ under her breath but he let it slide.

  ‘Okay,’ she said finally, ‘do it your way. But don’t leave it too long. Sir Chester is still enjoying his spa treatments, but it won’t be long before he’s back at his desk in New Scotland Yard and wanting to see some progress.’

  ‘Understood,’ Carlyle said. The headmistress reappeared in the corner of his vision and hovered. ‘Just a couple of other things,’ he said quickly, as the Commander turned towards her.

  ‘Yes?’ Simpson did not seem at all happy at the prospect of extending their conversation.

  ‘It won’t take long at all,’ said the inspector emolliently. Guiding his boss by the elbow, he moved them away from their host, saying, ‘Excuse us just one moment longer.’

  The woman struggled to come up with a smile. This was her school and she wasn’t used to being kept waiting.

  ‘Quickly,’ Simpson hissed.

  ‘Right.’ Lowering his voice, Carlyle skipped through his conversation with Gilmore about Trevor Miller and Wickford Associates.

  Folding her arms, Simpson assumed what Carlyle felt was a rather schoolmistressish air of her own. ‘All this is in the public domain,’ she said dismissively. ‘It has been known about for a long time. As far as I know, Mr Miller gave up the day-to-day running of his business when he first went to work for Edgar Carlton.’

  ‘But he still owns it.’

  ‘He may still be a shareholder,’ Simpson conceded. ‘So what?’