The Circus

by James Craig

  ‘Bingo!’

  Dropping the card in his pocket, he signalled to the waitress for the bill.

  On the third floor of the police station, the inspector tossed Joe Szyszkowski the envelope that he’d just been given by Gemma Millington. ‘There’s a USB stick in there. Don’t get your prints on it. Check it out first then hand all that stuff over to Forensics.’

  ‘What is it?’ Joe tipped the contents on to his desk.

  ‘Stuff Duncan Brown’s girlfriend found in her flat.’ Carlyle flopped into his chair. ‘We should have gone round there and had a look, really.’

  ‘Mm.’ Both of them knew that was an oversight. But, badly overstretched, there was no way that they could hope to cover all bases on the various investigations that were ongoing. Using a paper napkin, Joe lifted the memory stick from his desk and stuck it into one of the USB slots in his computer. ‘What about the other stuff the girlfriend handed over?’

  ‘Not worth worrying about, as far as I could see.’

  ‘Okay.’ A window opened on the screen and Joe clicked on the Open folder to view files icon. ‘So what have we got here?’ He scrolled down through a series of Word documents, clicking on a couple at random. Carlyle’s gaze wandered to the TV screen suspended from the ceiling nearby. Sky News was running a report about an HM Inspectorate of Constabulary report into undercover policing. The report had been delayed – again – after allegations of officers taking part in trials using aliases. Personally, the inspector couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It was just the kind of shit you had to do to get the job done.

  ‘Looks like copies of his stories,’ said Joe. He started laughing. ‘“I had a sex swap on my sixteenth birthday”! “Zoo-keeper lets killer animals loose”!’

  A thought popped into Carlyle’s head. ‘Anything about Margaretha Zelle?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see. We’ve got some pictures on here as well though.’ With a couple of clicks of the mouse, he pulled up the first image. ‘Whoa!’

  Carlyle stepped over to the desk. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Look at that,’ said Joe, reducing the size of the picture so that it wasn’t quite so obvious to anyone passing by what they were looking at.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Hands on hips, legs apart, a rather drunk-looking Gemma Millington smiled back at him wearing nothing but a pink wig and a black bra.

  ‘The Forensics boys will love this,’ Joe grinned.

  ‘That’s the girlfriend,’ Carlyle told him. ‘At least we know she didn’t delete anything before she handed the stick over. She can’t have bothered to check it.’

  ‘Silly girl.’

  They were so busy gawping at the screen that they didn’t notice Maude Hall approaching. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder.

  ‘Er . . . nothing important,’ Joe stammered, quickly closing down the window. Carlyle stared intently at his shoes.

  ‘You guys aren’t breaking the standard HR guidelines on inappropriate computer use, are you?’ Hall grinned.

  ‘Probably,’ Carlyle mumbled, feeling himself blush.

  ‘It was just a picture on a memory stick belonging to Duncan Brown,’ Joe explained, ‘the guy who was found in a rubbish truck in Cockpit Yard. The girl is his girlfriend.’

  Maude frowned. ‘And you think she did it?’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘But she’s still worthy of some careful investigation?’ Hall’s grin grew wider. ‘It’s good to know that I am working with a pair of dirty old men.’

  The inspector was about to protest but thought better of it. When in a hole . . . and all that.

  ‘By the way,’ Hall added, ‘Bernie Gilmore called.’

  Carlyle groaned. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?

  ‘He says you owe him a phone call.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bernie wanted his pound of flesh, which was fair enough. But a bit more patience wouldn’t hurt. Right on cue, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Pulling out his mobile, he stared at the blank screen, puzzled. Then he pulled out the private mobile he used alongside his police-issue device.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Inspector? It’s Bernie Gilmore.’

  Carlyle looked at the handset. The Nokia 1800 was one of the cheapest, most ubiquitous pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash and then topped it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. The number was shared with as few people as possible; even then he would change both the phone and the SIM card every three or four months. This didn’t guarantee him complete secrecy, but it meant that no one in the MPS could check his calls as a matter of routine. It gave him some measure of privacy and for that it was worth the hassle and extra cost involved.

  ‘How did you get hold of this number?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call,’ Gilmore replied, ignoring the question. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ Carlyle made a gesture to Joe and Maude indicating that he would be back in a minute, then headed off to one of the small meeting rooms that lined the far wall of the room, playing for time while he pondered how best to play Bernie.

  ‘Okay.’ Stepping inside the room, he carefully closed the door behind him and perched on the single desk that took up 80 per cent of the floor space. Through the wall-to-ceiling glass, he could see there was no one within twenty feet of him. Regardless, he was careful to lower his voice before resuming the conversation.

  ‘You still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, this is what I think you should do.’ The inspector filled Gilmore in on the developments with Clegg and Monty Laws. ‘I would go with the Gillespie story tonight. We’ll hold a presser tomorrow, so you’ll be ahead of the game.’

  There was a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Okay. So, what else have you got?’

  Carlyle sighed. He should have known that Bernie would drive a hard bargain. At the other end of the line he heard car horns blaring and someone shouting.

  ‘Duncan Brown,’ he said finally, once the noise had died down, ‘is going to cause a storm.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Later,’ said Carlyle as firmly as he could manage. ‘I need to nail down a few things first.’

  ‘But we have a deal?’

  ‘Of course, Bernie, absolutely. I’ll keep my side of the bargain. You’ll get a heads-up well before anyone else.’

  ‘Okay, but keep me firmly in the loop.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’

  After checking a few more details on the Gillespie case, Gilmore hung up. Making a mental note to change SIM cards straight away, the inspector put the phone back in his pocket.

  As Carlyle returned to his desk, Joe was scrolling through one of the Word files on Brown’s USB stick.

  ‘No more photos, then?’

  ‘There were plenty more photos.’ Joe kept his eyes on the screen. ‘I must say, that girl is really quite uninhibited in front of a camera.’

  ‘Maybe she was just drunk,’ Carlyle mused. ‘Or high.’

  ‘I’ve found the Zelle story.’ Joe was pointing at the screen. ‘Nice headline: MY HELL WORKING FOR RANTING PARANOID MARG.’

  ‘Not a favourable piece, then?’

  ‘Hardly. It goes: Queen Bitch’s nanny tells how she was driven to thoughts of suicide by threats and bullying. It’s a story that appeared a few weeks ago.’

  ‘But nothing that tells us any more about the phone hacking?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced over at Hall, who sat working away at a nearby desk. It struck him that he was beginning to really quite like this girl. Maybe she could be a good addition to the team; he would have to talk to Simpson about that. ‘Maude, what are you doing this afternoon?’

  The WPC looked up at him and smiled. ‘That depends. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Don’t worr
y,’ Carlyle grinned.

  ‘It doesn’t involve a pink wig.’

  Hall narrowed her eyes. ‘Shame.’

  ‘I was wondering if you could check something out for me.’

  Perched on the edge of the sofa, Sir Gavin O’Dowd appeared a study in concentration as he slowly peeled the skin from a Cox’s pippin, letting the peel drop on to the table.

  ‘I hope you’re going to clean that up after you,’ Edgar Carlton, sitting in an armchair opposite him, said huffily.

  Ignoring him, Sir Gavin continued carefully wielding his Swiss Army knife.

  I know what I’d like to do with that, thought Trevor Miller grimly. Standing by the window, he was playing Angry Birds on his smartphone, while watching the rain fall on Downing Street.

  After finishing his task, the Cabinet Secretary took a modest bite from the denuded apple, and chewed happily before swallowing. ‘You know,’ he said, waving the knife airily, ‘the study is my favourite room in Number Ten. Lady Thatcher used to work in here on important documents from her red boxes until late into the night. Sir Winston Churchill apparently used it as a bedroom.’

  Enough of the bloody history lesson. Stepping away from the window, Miller looked at his boss. ‘We need to decide on your schedule.’

  Crossing his legs, the PM looked up. ‘My schedule has already been decided,’ he whined, ‘by Mrs Carlton.’

  Miller tried not to let his irritation show. ‘But my advice—’

  ‘I’m well aware of your advice, Trevor,’ Edgar snapped. ‘And also of the advice of the Communications Director – and the advice of the Party Chairman, and so on and so forth. And it’s not as if I want to go to any bloody harvest festival. But Anastasia has decided that she must go. And that’s that. I have to indulge her on this.’

  Seeing as you’re banging some Peruvian bird behind her back, Miller reflected.

  ‘And you will just have to make sure that nothing embarrassing happens.’ Edgar waved a finger towards his security chief. ‘Make absolutely sure I’m never standing close enough to Sonia Claesens for anyone to get a picture of us together, and things will be fine.’

  Sir Gavin placed the remains of his apple on the table, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began cleaning the knife. ‘The formidable Ms Claesens will make a beeline for you, of course.’ Closing the knife, he put it back in his jacket pocket. ‘Even if Trevor has already warned her off, she is a very determined lady’

  Closing his eyes, Edgar began massaging his temples vigorously. ‘Well, you’ll just have to manage it somehow.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Miller unhappily. His mobile phone began vibrating in his hand. He didn’t have to look at the screen to know who it was, and they could wait.

  ‘Good.’ Re-opening his eyes, Edgar stood up. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to go and see Yulissa. She’s hanging one of her paintings in the White Drawing Room. It’s called Final Voodoo or something. Worth three to five mil at auction, apparently, but now another gift to the nation.’

  ‘Your . . . friend is too generous,’ Miller smiled.

  Saying nothing, Sir Gavin stared intently at the table. Three to five mil? The work in question looked like something cobbled together by a rather backward six year old. Nevertheless, if Edgar was right, the damn thing was worth more than he had earned in total, over almost a quarter of a century as a high-ranking civil servant. As he fought to keep the rising tide of self-pity at bay, an idea popped into the mandarin’s head: Perhaps I should turn the remains of my apple into a work of art?

  ‘Simon?’

  Shelbourne blinked through the smoke of his Ramon Allones Extra. His lunch was settling heavily in his stomach and he was more than a little pissed. Even so, the appearance of such a pretty girl at his table managed to perk him up somewhat. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How are you?’ The girl smiled broadly before sliding into the booth opposite. His gaze was instantaneously drawn to her handsome décolletage.

  Men! They were the most predictable creatures on the planet. Wondering if she had maybe undone one button too many, Maude Hall let him stare for a few moments. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Placing the cigar in his ashtray, he pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘Jenny Southerton,’ Maude purred. ‘I was an intern on the Sunday Witness when you were still Editor.’ Crossing her legs, she brushed the back of his calf with her foot. ‘When the paper was in its heyday.’

  ‘Of course,’ Shelbourne smiled. How could he have forgotten? So many girls, so little time. That was one thing he certainly missed about Zenger: the women in the MPS just didn’t compare – didn’t even come close. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘It must be hard . . .’

  It’s certainly getting there, Shelbourne smiled inwardly.

  ‘. . . keeping track of so many people when you are the Editor, right at the top.’

  Picking up his Ramon Allones, Shelbourne took another drag. ‘Certainly the responsibilities of office are considerable.’

  Wrinkling her nose at the smoke, Maude sat back in the booth. ‘Are you allowed to smoke in here these days?’

  ‘Balmoral is a private members’ club – “the epitome of fine English dining since 1743”, so they say. Therefore, technically, they have more leeway,’ Shelbourne told her, ‘or something like that.’

  That’s nonsense, Hall thought, but she let it slide.

  ‘Anyway, they allow a few select patrons like myself some special privileges.’ And so they bloody should, Shelbourne thought, given that I drop a hundred and fifty quid or more in here almost every day. Stubbing out the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, he lifted the bottle of Massaya Gold Reserve that was sitting in the middle of the table and pointed it towards an empty glass. ‘Would you like some? It’s from the Bekaa Valley . . . not bad.’

  Maude gestured vaguely towards the front of the restaurant. ‘I was having lunch with some friends,’ she said. ‘I just thought that I’d come over to say hello.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Shelbourne poured the red wine into the waiting glass. ‘Let’s have a drink and you can tell me what you’re up to these days. And then maybe I can show you the rest of the club.’

  ‘But what about your table companion?’ Hall gestured at the remains of the Burnt Cambridge Vanilla Cream pudding on the plate in front of her.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Shelbourne gestured to the fat, sweating, middle-aged man in a Marks & Spencer suit who was now approaching. ‘Trevor was just leaving.’

  Trevor Miller scowled at the bimbo who had stolen into his seat while he was off having a slash in the bogs. His attempts to get Shelbourne to persuade Sonia Claesens to stay away from the harvest festival had proved futile, but at least he had managed to get a good lunch out of it. Whatever Simon bloody Shelbourne might tell the girl, he had every intention of helping finish off the wine before he left.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked sharply.

  Shelbourne waved a hand in Hall’s direction. ‘Trevor, this is . . .’

  ‘Jenny Southerton,’ Hall reminded him, taking a sip of her wine.

  ‘A former colleague at the Sunday Witness,’ Shelbourne explained. ‘Jenny, this is Trevor Miller.’ Adopting a tone of mock secrecy, he lowered his voice. ‘Trevor is the Head of Security for the PM.’

  I know exactly who he is, Hall thought, smiling sweetly at the former policeman.

  Realizing that he was not about to get his seat back, Miller could barely manage a grunt in reply.

  ‘I know that you have to get moving,’ Shelbourne said to Miller, his eyes looking glassier by the minute. ‘Regarding the thing we were talking about – I’ll see what I can do.’

  Bollocks, thought Miller sourly. Giving up on any more wine, he started towards the door. ‘Keep me posted.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Shelbourne murmured as he watched him leave. Turning back to Hall, his eyes once again fell on to her chest. ‘Now,’ he smiled, slurring his words sl
ightly, ‘where were we?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Lifting the glass to his lips, Carlyle took a gulp of Jameson’s, letting it sit on his tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. It tasted good; he should have ordered a double. From the speakers above the bar came the familiar refrain of ‘Rock the Casbah’, the volume turned low so as not to interfere with the animated chatter of the early-evening customers. The Clash as background music? Sacrilege. At the same time, he liked the idea that his favourite band had survived the test of time so well.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ From behind a large glass of Company Bay Sauvignon Blanc, Commander Carole Simpson eyed her subordinate suspiciously. Her friend, a glamorous forty-something interior designer called Laura, had tactfully gone outside for a smoke while the two of them talked business.

  ‘Your PA told me this was one of your usual haunts.’

  ‘That girl . . .’ Simpson shook her head. All she really wanted from an assistant was someone who kept their own mouth shut and kept other people’s noses out of the Commander’s business. How difficult could that be? Rather difficult indeed, judging by the turnover in administrative support that she’d had to endure in recent years.

  The inspector finished his drink and signalled to a passing waitress that he’d like another, ‘a double’. At £8.50 a pop, he was trusting that his boss would be picking up the tab. ‘I went to visit Meyer at Operation Redhead,’ he said.

  ‘Mm.’ The look on Simpson’s face suggested that she already knew what was coming next.

  ‘He’s got quite a set-up over there.’

  Sipping more wine, the Commander said nothing.

  ‘He said you’d spoken to him – about me.’

  Placing her glass carefully on the table, Simpson asked, ‘And did he offer you a job?’

  ‘Yeah. And I refused it, just like you told him I would.’

  Simpson said, ‘I did try and warn him, but Russell never was very good at listening.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve met him a few times – at conferences and so on. I was somewhat surprised when he gave me a call.’