The Circus

by James Craig

  Spare me the speech, Carlyle thought.

  Seeing the less than impressed look on the inspector’s face, Meyer decided to change tack. ‘You know what the really shocking thing is?’

  ‘Shock me.’

  Valette suddenly coughed; it sounded like she was trying to stifle a giggle.

  ‘I’m fairly certain that the practice is still going on.’

  ‘Phone hacking?’

  Meyer nodded.

  Bollocks, Carlyle thought. ‘That would be fairly stupid, given what’s happened.’

  ‘These things tend to develop a momentum of their own,’ Valette interjected. ‘It can be hard to get out of the habit. When the furore about phone hacking first kicked off, Zenger Corporation looked at closing down the Sunday Witness, which was where most, if not all, of the stories were appearing. After a bit of hand-wringing, they decided against it. Ironically, their sales have gone up. Readers assume that they’re still busy hacking phones, so they must have the best stories.’

  ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ Carlyle tried to think back to the last time he’d properly read a Sunday newspaper himself. Not in the last couple of years, at least. Life, he had decided, was too short.

  ‘So, we’re fairly sure that they’re still doing it,’ Valette continued. ‘They still need to find exclusive stories.’

  ‘And,’ Meyer jumped in, ‘they’re still using Wickford Associates.’

  Is that so? Carlyle, however, kept his thoughts to himself.

  ‘Duncan Brown was involved in the tapping of more than a dozen people’s phones before he was killed,’ Valette added. ‘Indeed, that’s why he was killed.’

  Carlyle looked at her, then turned to Meyer. He spoke slowly, keeping his tone even. ‘You know who killed Duncan Brown?’

  ‘We have a good idea.’ Valette couldn’t resist a smirk.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ Meyer said sharply. ‘Are we doing business here, or not?’

  ‘We’re doing business.’ Carlyle would work out precisely how to shaft this self-important little prick later. For now, he just needed the information.

  ‘Very well.’ Meyer seemed a little uncertain, but he ploughed on. ‘Bear in mind though, that we don’t currently have anything that would definitely stand up in a court of law. And anyway, it is not technically part of my operation.’

  ‘Technically,’ Carlyle repeated.

  ‘Not unless you go the whole hog,’ Meyer smiled, ‘and decide to join us.’

  Carlyle stared at Meyer and then at Valette. The Chief Inspector’s smirk had grown, and he was beginning to find DI Valette more than a little annoying. He sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Why would I want to join Operation Redhead?’

  They looked at him with a mixture of pity and dismay. ‘This is an extremely high-profile investigation,’ Valette explained. ‘It’s all over the newspapers.’

  ‘Which is quite ironic, when you think about it,’ Meyer quipped.

  Carlyle wondered just how often the man had used that line over the last few months.

  The Chief Inspector waved his hands in front of his face. ‘This thing is getting bigger all the time. More people are coming forward; there are more cases to investigate. Our budget has been increased but the single biggest threat to this investigation is not political interference, but simply the risk of us disappearing under a mountain of material. Every day I worry that it could all simply collapse under its own weight.’

  Not my problem, Carlyle thought happily.

  ‘We need more people,’ Meyer went on, ‘meaning good people. People who can take this investigation forward, wherever it goes, without fear or favour.’

  ‘Outsiders,’ Valette added.

  Meyer assumed his most sincere expression. ‘People like you.’

  Holding the Chief Inspector’s gaze, Carlyle sat in silence, not liking at all the way they had teamed up on him. Nor did he like the idea that they assumed they could flatter him into shovelling their shit for them. He recalled that the Americans had an appropriate phrase for it: blowing smoke up your ass. John Carlyle didn’t like in the least the idea of anyone blowing smoke up his ass.

  ‘No,’ he said finally.

  Meyer looked pained. ‘Why not?’

  Carlyle shrugged. ‘Because I’ve got plenty of my own stuff to deal with, not least Duncan Brown.’ Meyer started to say something, but the inspector held up a hand. ‘And also because, ultimately, I’m not really that bothered about phone hacking. Even if it’s not just a bunch of witless celebrities who are being affected. ‘

  Meyer drummed his fingers angrily on the table. ‘So you’re the kind of copper who likes to pick and choose what kind of alleged criminal he investigates?’

  ‘We all pick and choose,’ Carlyle said, ‘all the time. Some politician chose to set up Operation Redhead. You chose to take it on, for whatever reasons. In the process, you will have turned down something else.’

  ‘I’m not a dilettante,’ Meyer protested.

  ‘Neither am I. I’m just a run-of-the-mill police inspector who is trying to deal with a number of cases where the victims have suffered fates much worse than having their phones hacked.’ Realizing he was sounding a bit pompous, Carlyle tried to lighten the tone. ‘Anyway, everyone knows what the British press is like, so why would anyone expect they wouldn’t be tapping people’s phones?’

  ‘This is a very serious issue,’ said Meyer, trying to sell the job one last time. ‘The relationship between Zenger and the MPS needs to be cleaned up. The connections with the political elite are also complex and troubling. Our job is to sort it all out.’

  You sound like a politician yourself, Carlyle thought. If this whole thing is so very important, why did they put the investigation into the hands of a Chief Inspector no one had ever heard of? You’re trying to operate way above your pay grade and it won’t work. All these people you are supposed to be investigating can bury you at any time they want.

  Folding his arms, Meyer sat back in his chair. ‘I have carte blanche with this investigation. I will get to the bottom of things.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’ The inspector couldn’t resist a chuckle as he pushed himself out of his seat.

  Meyer watched him get up. ‘Carole Simpson warned me that you were extremely cynical.’

  ‘You’ve talked to the Commander?’ Carlyle sat back down.

  ‘Carole and I go back a long way,’ Meyer told him. ‘She is very supportive of you – too supportive according to some people.’

  What people?

  ‘But even she recognizes that there are long-standing concerns about your attitude.’

  Fuck my so-called ‘attitude’, Carlyle thought. If he hadn’t come here for a job interview, he certainly hadn’t come for a lecture either.

  ‘She was quite amusing about it, in fact.’

  Oh, was she? He was intending to have words with Commander bloody Simpson.

  ‘She said that you could start a fight in an empty room.’

  ‘Just another macho cop,’ Valette agreed.

  ‘Carole warned me that I would struggle to get you on board,’ Meyer said. ‘Not very good as a team player, are you?’

  Having heard enough, Carlyle stuck up a hand. ‘Hold on, hold on. I appreciate the feedback but I merely came here to share information and to find out more about Duncan Brown.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Now, whatever my personal opinions, I understand and respect what you are trying to do here. Nor have I any interest in doing anything that would in any way compromise your investigation. But if you have any information about who killed Mr Brown, you need to share that with me immediately. And you can have confidence that I will use it carefully and appropriately.’ He paused, waiting for a response. None was forthcoming. ‘Look, if you’ve spoken to Simpson about my . . . attitude, she must have also told you that I’m a safe pair of hands. I’m clean.’

  After satisfying himself that the inspector had said his piece, Meyer finally replied. ‘Yes, yes,�
� he said, ‘but it comes down to one simple fact: you’re either with us or you’re not.’

  Carlyle shook his head. ‘Sorry, but I’m not.’

  Valette made to get up but Meyer gestured for her to remain seated. ‘Because what we are doing, it’s not important enough for you?’ he sneered.

  Carlyle gave an apologetic gesture. ‘No, because I don’t think it will make any difference. All the time, effort and money. All of those “victims” coming forward to tell their story. All the guys seconded to your investigation. The years and years and years of work . . .’

  Meyer jabbed an angry finger across the desk. ‘Heads will roll.’

  ‘Okay, so a few people may get the chop. Even a few terribly important people. So what? They’ll all be replaced sooner or later, anyway. And what will that leave us with? Same circus, different clowns.’

  ‘What?’ Meyer snapped.

  ‘That’s exactly what we have here,’ Carlyle went on. ‘The names of the clowns may change, but it’s still the same bloody circus. That’s just the way the Establishment works.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Valette gave him a quick round of mock applause. ‘The most cynical man in the room speaks. So we’re banging our heads against a brick wall?’

  Carlyle said nothing.

  ‘But isn’t it just the same with all the cases you condescend to investigate?’ she demanded.

  He thought about Duncan Brown’s friends and family, Hannah Gillespie’s parents, the Snowdons, and he said, ‘I can either make a difference to the lives of a small number of people or I move on.’

  Arrogant, ego-driven little prick, Meyer thought. ‘So . . .’

  ‘So tell me who killed Duncan Brown.’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or I’ll come back with a warrant.’

  Meyer stared vacantly into space for a few moments. ‘We had Mr Brown under surveillance,’ he said finally. ‘We watched him go into the Cockpit Yard depot with another man.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A guy called Warren Schwartz,’ said Valette.

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment but the name didn’t ring any bells. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He is a freelance consultant,’ Meyer explained, ‘a former soldier who provides a range of ill-defined services to clients. Last heard of in Montevideo, but he is known to have worked for Wickford Associates at least three times in the last eight years.’

  The inspector couldn’t prevent himself from breaking into a smile.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Valette. ‘He is a known associate of Trevor Miller.’

  ‘So,’ Meyer sighed, ‘finally do you see why we want you to leave it alone?’

  ‘No,’ Carlyle said quietly. ‘Quite the reverse.’

  ‘It will get sorted in due course.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Meyer pulled a mobile from his jacket pocket. ‘Do you want me to speak to Commander Simpson again? She has already agreed that you may not act on anything we have told you here today. If there is a problem with that, I can have you taken completely off the Duncan Brown case in less than a minute.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ Trying to look suitably chastened, Carlyle stood up for a second time. ‘I understand.’

  Meyer looked at Valette and then back to the inspector. ‘If anything significant develops, let Vanessa know straight away.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is our investigation and you cannot be allowed to compromise it in any way.’ Meyer dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Vanessa will see you out.’

  ‘No need,’ said Carlyle, already halfway to the door and pondering his next move.

  THIRTY

  By the time he got back to the station, Carlyle had managed to put all thoughts of Meyer, Valette and Operation Redhead behind him. Walking through reception, he was surprised to find Gemma Millington, Duncan Brown’s girlfriend, waiting patiently for him. Dressed for work in a grey trouser suit and cream blouse, she didn’t look any more upset about her boyfriend’s death than when they last spoke. Head down, she was typing furiously on her BlackBerry in one corner of the room. Carlyle was just thinking about leaving her there, when she looked up and saw him.

  ‘Good job you showed up,’ she began, getting up and moving briskly towards him. ‘I was only going to give you another couple of minutes.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  She finished typing her email and hit send before dropping the handset into an outsized black leather bag. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Aware of his stomach growling, he took her gently by the arm and propelled her towards the front door. ‘We can talk outside. Let’s go and get some coffee.’

  Five minutes later, they were sitting in a new café called Cactus that had sprung up on Monmouth Street. After careful consideration of the menu, Carlyle ordered a double macchiato and a mozzarella, tomato and basil panino. Millington settled for a Diet Coke with ice, no lemon.

  Not having previously patronized the establishment, Carlyle gave it the once-over, quickly concluding that it wouldn’t last a year. ‘Not quite as fancy as the canteen in your offices,’ he observed. ‘If you’d given me a call, I’d have happily come over for lunch.’

  Millington smiled. She looked less tired and more relaxed than the last time they had talked; in fact, she looked like she’d had a few days off in the sun. ‘I thought this would be better dealt with off-site.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The waitress arrived with the Diet Coke and his macchiato. After taking a sip, Carlyle winced: it should have been hotter and sharper. He briefly thought about complaining but decided that he couldn’t be bothered, satisfying himself instead with revising the café’s life expectancy down to nine months.

  Millington reached into her bag. After a few moments rummaging around, she pulled out a white A5 envelope and placed it on the table. ‘This is some stuff of Duncan’s that I found in my flat.’

  Trying to feign interest, Carlyle eyed the envelope. It was unlikely to contain anything of note. After spending the best part of a day searching Brown’s own flat, he and Joe had come up with precisely nothing. The guy had clearly been very careful about covering his tracks. And, even if they did find something, the inspector was less than sure what he’d be able to do with it. After his conversation with Meyer and Valette, it was clear that his murder investigation had become merely a pawn in a wider game.

  Tugging at the ring-pull on the can, Millington poured some of her Coke into a glass. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘Back at the station.’ He held up his right hand and wiggled his fingers. ‘When I’ve got some latex gloves on.’ Where was his sandwich?

  ‘Ah, yes.’ She sipped her Coke demurely, placing the glass carefully back on the table, next to the envelope.

  Carlyle smiled. That’s the good thing about CSI, he thought; everyone who’s watched it on TV thinks that they know how things get done.

  A frown crossed her face. ‘Have you got any?’

  ‘Gloves? Sure. I always keep a pair on me, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what?’

  ‘Just in case.’ He pointed at the envelope. ‘First off, why don’t you give me a quick rundown of what’s inside. Was there anything that you were surprised to find?’

  She thought about it for a moment. ‘No, not really. Just notes for some of his stories, a few business cards and a USB stick. I don’t know if any of it is going to prove useful, but I thought that you still might want to have a look.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The panino arrived, looking rather anaemic. The waitress put the plate down right on top of the envelope, ignoring Carlyle’s irritated glare as she walked away. ‘What’s on the USB stick?’ He took a bite of the sandwich and shook his head in disgust. It was too cold and there wasn’t enough tomato. If he hadn’t been so bloody hungry, he might have left it unfinished. By now, he was convinced that this place would struggle to last three months.

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Millington finish
ed the Coke in her glass and carefully poured some more from the can. ‘Transcripts of interviews, some notes . . . Duncan always kept various drafts of things that he had on the go at any one time.’ She sighed. ‘For a guy writing for a newspaper which requires a reading age of eight, he spent forever fiddling with his copy.’ She reached back into her bag to pull out her BlackBerry and check the time. ‘Shit! I really do have to go.’ Pushing back the chair, she got to her feet. ‘Anyway, I hope it’s useful. And thanks for the Coke.’

  ‘No problem,’ Carlyle told her. ‘Thank you for taking the time and effort.’

  She hoisted the bag over her shoulder. ‘Are you any closer at all to finding out who did it?’

  Carlyle gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I can’t really talk about that.’

  ‘No, no, of course.’

  ‘But murder is really quite rare in London – and the clear-up rate is very high. So you can assume that we will catch whoever did this to Duncan.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nervously juggling her BlackBerry, Millington didn’t look as though she quite believed him.

  ‘And, of course, as far as possible I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Finishing off his panino, he watched Gemma Millington walk out of the door and disappear down the street. Once she had turned the corner, he grabbed the envelope from under his plate and opened it with a knife. Clearing a space on the table, he carefully emptied out the contents.

  On first glance, it was basically as Millington had described. Pulling a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket, he slipped them on, ignoring the funny look he received from the waitress as she cleared away his plate. The USB stick was unbranded: a small blue plastic rectangle missing its removable cap from the end. There was nothing he could do with it right now, so he put it back in the envelope. Next, he glanced through Duncan Brown’s notes. A dozen or so sheets of lined A4 paper, torn from a notebook, were covered from top to bottom in a tiny, undecipherable script. ‘Someone else will have to check that out,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself, shoving the papers back inside the envelope. That left five business cards. While looking quickly through them, one caught his eye.