by James Craig
‘He was so immature, it was really annoying.’
‘That’s boys for you. If I were you, I’d think about ignoring them until you reach your thirties, at least.’
She made a face.
‘Ideally, it should be your late thirties.’ His mobile phone started vibrating in his pocket. Thinking it might be Helen, he pulled it out but there was no number on the screen. He brandished the handset at Alice. ‘Might be work.’
She gave him a smile. ‘Take it, Dad, I don’t mind.’
Carlyle hit the receive button. ‘Hello?’
‘Inspector. .’
Damn! He immediately recognized the precise tones of Sir Michael Snowdon and was conscious that he still hadn’t checked on the Rosanna investigation. His recent visit to the Snowdon residence — their stilted conversation over a glass of Bladnoch, until the unfolding Mosman fiasco offered a chance of escape — seemed like half a lifetime ago. So much had happened since that he had simply been overwhelmed by events.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered, ‘but I haven’t yet been able to speak to anyone at Fulham.’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ Snowdon said amiably. ‘That wasn’t why I was ringing.’
‘No?’ Thank God for that.
‘No, this is about the other thing.’
What other thing?
The older man continued, ‘There’s someone I think you should meet.’
Leaving Alice to enjoy the sunshine, Carlyle headed towards Soho. Less than twenty minutes later, he was sitting in the first-floor dining room of a private members’ club on Wardour Street. All the other tables were empty, the lunchtime rush being long over.
A waiter hovered in the background while Sir Michael Snowdon ordered a glass of La Grace de l’Hermitage 2007. ‘Are you sure that I can’t interest you in something to drink, Inspector?’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
The former Permanent Secretary waited for the waiter to retreat before gesturing towards the third man at their table. ‘Apologies if I seem to be interfering in your investigation,’ Snowdon smiled.
‘Not at all.’
‘I am confident that you would have got round to speaking to Harris here soon enough. .’
Having no idea where this was going, Carlyle nodded firmly.
‘. . but I assumed that sooner might be better than later, as it were.’
Waiting for Sir Michael to finish his preamble, Harris Highman looked Carlyle up and down, as if reluctant to make up his mind about the policeman too quickly.
‘Thank you.’
Highman couldn’t quite manage a smile. ‘I’m glad to be of help in any way I can.’ He was a small, pale man of indeterminate age, wearing an old-fashioned, double-breasted grey wool suit with a white shirt and a navy tie. ‘When I saw the news about poor Horatio Mosman, I realized immediately.’
‘Realized what?’ Carlyle felt unable to hide his curiosity any longer.
‘That — at some level — it had to be related to what his mother was up to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the van Aken.’
His mind blank, the inspector turned to Snowdon for help.
The waiter arrived with Sir Michael’s wine and he sniffed it appreciatively. ‘Joseph van Aken’s View of Covent Garden,’ he declared.
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle said, recalling the conversation he’d had with Maude Hall. ‘You mean the picture pinned to the boy’s shirt.’
Highman scratched his nose. ‘It is one of a number of government-owned paintings which have gone missing.’
‘As in stolen?’
‘As in unaccounted for.’
Snowdon took a mouthful of the wine. ‘When Her Majesty’s Government decided to sell off some of the works in its collection, it realized that it didn’t really know what it had. Quite sensibly, therefore, it decided to conduct an audit of the entire collection. Poor old Harris here was tasked with trying to track them all down. Quite a few, a rather shocking number, in fact, remain “unaccounted for”, as the dear fellow so euphemistically puts it.’
The inspector thought about that for a moment. ‘How does this connect to Zoe Mosman? When I showed her a copy of the painting, she didn’t even recognize it.’
Snowdon glanced at Highman, who allowed a pained expression to dance across his face. ‘That would be hard to believe, Inspector. In fact, it is impossible, simply impossible. I have had three meetings with Zoe over the last year concerning the missing paintings. We have discussed the van Aken at least twice.’
‘So someone was trying to drop her in it,’ Carlyle mused.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Snowdon solemnly. ‘It certainly looks as if someone was trying to give you a very big clue.’
* * *
Wondering how best to deal with Zoe Mosman, Carlyle wandered up Drury Lane, heading for home. Turning into Macklin Street, he fumbled in his pocket for the fob that opened the front entrance to Winter Garden House. On the step, he flicked it across the small black entry pad and heard the heavy door click open. Stepping inside, he breathed in the powerful smell of pine disinfectant that Daniel, the caretaker, used on the stairwell every day. The LCD display above the lift doors said it was currently on the third floor, heading upwards. Maybe he should take the stairs instead.
‘Hello, John.’
Slowly turning round, Carlyle smiled. ‘Trevor. I was wondering when you’d show up.’ He glanced towards the CCTV camera positioned above the door, which covered the lobby area. Someone had yanked the cable out, which was not a good sign.
Squaring his shoulders, Trevor Miller moved forward. The man was six foot plus, giving him a height advantage of four inches. These days he also had a weight advantage of four or five stone. ‘Our paths cross again.’ It came out like a line he’d been rehearsing for a while.
‘It seems so.’ Carlyle tried to hold his irritation in check. Despite the fact that the guy was hopelessly out of shape, Miller could beat him to a pulp with one hand tied behind his back. He would therefore have to let him have his say, respond calmly and face him down. ‘What can I do for you?’
Miller shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that you, of all people, ended up on the Duncan Brown case.’ In a grey suit and with a white shirt open at the neck, he looked more tanned and relaxed than Carlyle could ever remember him. But, carrying so much weight, he still looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.
If only, Carlyle thought. Half-turning away, he pressed the call button for the lift. ‘A bloke gets stabbed and dumped in a rubbish lorry in my patch, so what do you expect?’
‘And it’s just my luck that the world’s most fucking offside plod happens to get the case.’
Carlyle watched his former police colleague slowly ball his fists. ‘Do you perhaps have some information that you would like to share with the investigation?’ he asked evenly.
‘Yes, I do.’ Miller stepped even closer. The strong whiff of alcohol on his breath made Carlyle wonder if he’d had a few in the Rising Sun across the road, while waiting for his quarry to arrive. But he held his ground and tried to retain eye-contact, which was difficult now that Miller was actually towering over him. ‘Even you have to realize that this is one time when you need to try and understand the bigger picture,’ Miller told him.
‘Oh?’ Carlyle said. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Don’t play stupid with me.’ Miller jabbed a meaty finger towards his face. ‘Brown, as you very well know, was up to his neck in this phone-hacking business. It is very important for the MPS to be-’ The entrance door to the building buzzed open and Miller suddenly shut up. A small boy in the uniform of the nearby St Clement Danes Primary School heaved it open, struggling with his oversized backpack. The boy, who was called Samuel Bajwa, looked at the two men suspiciously.
Carlyle suddenly wondered if Alice had made it home yet. He didn’t want her to walk in on this nonsense. Stepping away from Miller, he gave the boy a cheery smile. ‘How’s it goi
ng, Sam?’
‘Okay, Mr Carlyle.’ But the boy looked less than reassured.
‘School all right?’
Samuel’s face brightened a little as he waved the sheet of A4 paper that he was carrying in his left hand. ‘I am Star of the Week.’
‘Good for you,’ Carlyle said. ‘Your mum will be really pleased.’
Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Miller glared at the boy.
The inspector pointed to the lift, which was now back at the third floor. ‘It’s really slow today. Why don’t you take the stairs?’
The boy didn’t look thrilled about that idea, but Carlyle knew that he only lived on the first floor. The exercise would do him good.
‘Go on.’
Samuel made his way to the first step and began climbing up with the help of the handrail. Slowly his footsteps grew quieter and then there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
With some satisfaction, Carlyle realized that he couldn’t even recall what Miller had been saying. ‘This is neither the time nor the place,’ he declared. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve by-’
Leaning forward, Miller gave an instant response, by way of a sharp punch to Carlyle’s gut. As the inspector staggered backwards, he followed it up with another, and then a swift kick between the legs. Sinking to the concrete, Carlyle took another two quick blows to the side of his head.
I guess that means I’ve won the argument, he thought, trying not to puke all over himself.
The concrete floor was cool, with that reassuring smell of disinfectant. Carlyle didn’t try to get up. Concentrating on breathing, he wiped a tear from his eye and waited for the pain to subside.
Stepping forward, Trevor Miller wiggled the toe of his boot right in front of Carlyle’s face. ‘Remember last time.’
The inspector said nothing. Last time, Miller had drowned a young man in a swimming pool. Carlyle had watched it happen. But, still, he hadn’t been able to put the bastard away for it.
‘You know the drill,’ Miller hissed. ‘For once in your life, don’t be a stupid cunt. Remember, I’m on to you. Push things too far, look into anything that is beyond your immediate brief, and I will make sure you are fucking dealt with once and for all.’ He aimed a final kick at Carlyle’s ribs, before stomping away.
The inspector listened to the leather soles of Miller’s boots on the concrete, the click as the main door was opened and then the clunk as it shut again. A few moments later, the returning lift finally reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, two women he didn’t recognize stepped out, chatting away about something on last night’s television. Each was pushing a stroller containing a small child. If they were surprised to see him lying there, they didn’t let it show. Without interrupting their conversation or otherwise acknowledging his presence, they expertly manoeuvred the buggies past the prone policeman and headed out of the door.
Slowly, the buzzing in his head started to subside. I should get up, Carlyle thought. A quick check suggested that nothing was broken. He would end up with a few bruises, nothing more. Struggling to his feet, he stepped towards the lift just as the doors started to close.
‘Shit!’ He tried to catch it but was too late. Reluctantly he limped towards the stairs, hoping that, like Samuel, the exercise would do him good.
The welcoming sound of The Clash coming from Alice’s bedroom made Carlyle smile. His daughter had expropriated large chunks of his music collection, and he took considerable pleasure from the fact that she took an interest in the music he himself liked; not least because Joe Strummer, Mick Jones et al had, for the most part, stood the test of time very well indeed.
Sitting on the living-room sofa, nursing a small glass of Jameson’s whiskey, he mumbled along to ‘London Calling’ while he pondered the implications of his visit from Trevor Miller. Miller had never been the most sophisticated individual but, even by his standards, such a clumsy intervention in a murder investigation was surprisingly crass. By coming to Carlyle’s home, he had definitely crossed a line.
From the bedroom, ‘London Calling’ gave way to ‘Safe European Home’.
‘All the classics,’ he grinned. The whiskey was easing the pain of his beating nicely; so, finishing his drink, he reached for the bottle sitting on the coffee table. Refilling his glass, he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to organize all the information strewn around inside his brain.
He quickly realized that was impossible. Everything was a jumbled mess, overlapping and confused. Yawning, the thought suddenly occurred to him that Trevor Miller and Rosanna Snowdon were connected, kind of. When Miller had murdered one of Edgar Carlton’s advisers, drowning him in a swimming pool on election night, Carlyle had taken the story to Rosanna Snowdon. She had listened to him explain how the crime would never reach court, and then gently told him that no journalist would touch a story like that. Reluctantly accepting her advice, the inspector was thereafter in her debt — just as he now owed her father.
Ah, yes, Sir Michael — another member of the Snowdon clan who deserved better from J. Carlyle Esq. The inspector resolved that he would definitely speak to his colleagues in Fulham about the latest on the Rosanna Snowdon case.
Definitely.
In the morning.
The front door clicked open, then was slammed shut.
‘Turn that down!’ Helen shouted.
Carlyle opened his eyes as the introductory crescendo of ‘I Fought the Law’ quickly fell away to a low-level growl. His wife appeared in the doorway, her gaze falling first on the open whiskey bottle on the table, and then on the bruises that were beginning to appear on his face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ she asked, her concern sounding rather more like an accusation than Carlyle would have liked.
‘Shit day,’ he said wearily. ‘Let me make you a cup of tea, then I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘There you go.’ Carlyle handed Helen a cup of decaf green tea, recovering his glass of whiskey before taking a seat next to her on the sofa.
‘Thanks.’ Helen balanced the cup on her knee. ‘So, have you been in some kind of fight?’
‘Not exactly.’ Carlyle explained what had happened.
‘He came here?’ was Helen’s first reaction, once he’d finished.
Carlyle nodded.
She placed the teacup on the table and folded her arms. ‘Bloody hell, John.’
I’m the one who got a beating, he thought grumpily. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said, emptying his whiskey glass for the second time. ‘It was a stupid move on his part.’ Pouring himself another drink, he let her think things through.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘Miller’s clearly spooked. It’s now well known that there is an uncomfortably close relationship between the police, the government and the Zenger journalists — almost certainly inappropriate and possibly corrupt. But for the PM’s security guy to go blundering about like this means there must be something more to it than that — some kind of smoking gun he’s trying to hide.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Carlyle grunted. He didn’t believe in smoking guns, reckoning that life was never that simple.
‘What about Duncan Brown?’
‘What about him?’
‘Is there a connection linking him to Miller?’
‘Not as far as I know. Not directly, at any rate.’
‘Maybe the killer is the common link.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe Miller is the killer?’
Carlyle thought back to the CCTV pictures. ‘Nah.’
‘But he could be connected to it somehow?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s simple, then,’ Helen announced, reaching over and picking up her cup of tea. ‘All you have to do is find the killer.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Carlyle sarcastically. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
The door to the hotel room clicked open. With a deep sigh, Zoe Mosman dropped the key card into her Marc Jacobs leather satchel, pushed it open and stepp
ed inside.
‘Come in. Help yourself to a drink.’
Zoe dropped the bag on to the floor and tried to wish away the monster headache that was building at the base of her skull. Scanning the hotel room, she forced herself to confront the scene before her; a flashback to a former life.
The man lying on the bed, his erection clearly visible through his underwear, kept his gaze on the football match playing on the muted TV.
For the briefest moment, the sense of deja vu was overwhelming. It was like she was nineteen years old again.
Almost.
‘Get me another vodka, will you?’
Zoe reached into the minibar, pulling out a handful of 5cl bottles. Tossing a Grey Goose towards the bed, she slipped into the bathroom and dumped two miniatures of Hendrick’s gin into a glass standing by the washbasin. Throwing back her head, she downed them both in one. Her headache was getting worse. Turning on the tap, she splashed some cold water on her face and gazed into the mirror. A little girl lost.
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘I’m just coming.’ Burying her head in a towel, she fought back a sob. A small box of paracetamol sat by the basin; popping three, she washed them down with some water. ‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she hissed. ‘Pull yourself together.’
‘Zoe?’
Feeling sick to her stomach, she stepped back into the bedroom. He was naked now, sitting on the end of the bed, cradling himself with one hand while holding a scalpel in the other.
‘Come.’
Obediently she stepped in front of him, her eyes flicking from his erection to the blade. Her obvious discomfort seemed to excite him even more; she could see the pre-cum glistening on the tip of his penis, and she worried that he was about to ejaculate all over her Iro Svevalia leather skirt.
‘Do you remember the first time?’
Zoe nodded. It was the greatest misfortune of her life; probably the last thing she would remember on her deathbed.
He waved the scalpel airily. ‘That was what? Twenty-three years ago?’
‘Something like that.’ Her throat was dry and it came out like a whisper. The blade definitely had her full attention now.
‘You were the best thousand dollars that I ever spent. Ever. You know that, don’t you?’