by James Craig
The all too appropriate use of the past tense made Carlyle smile. He whipped out his warrant card and held it up for the late Mr Miles’s replacement to see.
The woman did a double take, glancing over her shoulder to check that no one was listening in on their conversation. ‘A policeman?’
‘That’s right, Debbie.’ Carlyle stuffed the ID back into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. ‘I work just round the corner at the Charing Cross station.’
‘It’s Deborah,’ she said stiffly.
‘OK, Deborah. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m just here to meet a couple of guys who happen to be staying in this place. Nothing to do with the hotel.’
‘Good, good.’ She edged further away.
‘But Alex and I had a good working relationship. We should have a chat about that when I’ve got a bit more time.’
The young woman smiled nervously, once again looking over her shoulder, this time for someone to come to her aid. ‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘Fine, I’ll see you later then.’ Not wishing to cause Deborah any more discomfort, he strode off in the direction of the reception desk to try and track down his two Germans.
* * *
Five minutes and four attempted phone calls later, he was none the wiser as to the whereabouts of Sebastian Gregori and Werner Kortmann. Neither man was answering the phone in his room. Their mobiles were going to voicemail. Gregori had not responded to the email Carlyle had sent earlier. The inspector looked at his watch. He had been late arriving and it was now more than forty-five minutes past the time they had agreed to meet. ‘If they’ve gone to see Barbara Hutton without me,’ Carlyle mumbled under his breath, ‘I’ll . . .’
You’ll what? said a voice inside his head. Why do you care what that pair get up to? This is not your problem. Leave it alone.
‘Good advice,’ Carlyle agreed, staring at the ground as if he was conversing with his shoes. ‘But what should I do now?’ Looking up, he caught sight of Deborah Burke watching him from behind her desk in the corner of the lobby. Not wishing to waste all of his morning talking to himself, he gave her a brisk wave and headed towards the exit.
‘Hey, Inspector!’
Carlyle turned and smiled. ‘Hey. How are you?’
Sonia Coverdale danced across the limestone floor of the hotel, wearing a flowery dress.
‘I hear I owe you an apology.’
‘Me?’ Carlyle frowned.
‘Yeah. I heard you had to deal with the guy who was demanding his money back.’
‘Ah, yes. The unhappy Mr Brian Yates.’
‘I never knew his name,’ she shrugged. ‘But what a nerve.’
‘It was a strange one,’ Carlyle agreed. Standing in front of him, the girl looked tanned and healthy. To his eyes at least, she was very attractive too.
She gave him a cheeky grin. ‘Did you nick him?’
‘Nah. I just sent him on his way with a flea in his ear.’
‘Shame.’
‘I don’t think he’ll do it again.’
‘That’s not much good to me,’ Sonia said, her face turning serious. ‘Word gets around.’
Carlyle gestured in the direction of the rooms upstairs. ‘It’s not like business has dried up completely.’
‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve got my reputation to consider.’
‘Well, it was the best I could do, under the circumstances.’
‘I know, and I’m very grateful.’ The smile returned and she slipped her arm through his and led him towards the door. ‘And, to show my appreciation, I’ve got something for you in return.’
Carlyle felt himself stiffen. He glanced nervously towards the concierge’s desk but Deborah Burke had disappeared.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sonia chuckled, pulling him closer, ‘it’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’ Carlyle asked, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
‘In a minute.’ Reaching the revolving door, she gently pushed him in front. ‘First, I need some breakfast. It was a long night.’
He watched the last piece of toast disappear into Sonia’s mouth and wondered if he could have managed something more than a cup of tea. They were sitting in a café near Seven Dials. It was the kind of place whose name you could never remember, even when you were in it; not really a tourist trap, but not a hangout for the locals either.
‘Long night?’
‘Yeah,’ the girl grinned. ‘The pair of them kept me at it till almost five o’clock.’ She took a slurp of her tea. ‘That’s the problem with all this Viagra and stuff; people want to feel they’re getting their money’s worth.’
Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Two guys? They weren’t German, were they?’
‘Nope. Americans. Why do you ask?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Rich college kids.’ She made a face. ‘I much prefer older guys, like you.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Apart from that wanker who made the complaint, obviously.’
‘Yates,’ Carlyle reminded her.
‘Whatever. The older blokes usually just hand me the cash there and then. Ten minutes of slobbering and it’s over and done with.’ She appraised the inspector coolly. ‘I reckon six or seven for you. Eight max.’
‘Good to know,’ said Carlyle, less than pleased with her assessment, even though he knew it was somewhat on the generous side.
‘The younger guys though, they’re popping the blue pills and trying to go all night. It’s an abuse of the fair usage policy.’
‘The what?’
‘Fair usage. Like with your internet company. You use too much and they cut you off. Happens to Darren all the time. Mind you, the silly sod spends all day downloading all the illegal crap he can lay his hands on.’
Carlyle wondered who Darren was, but wasn’t curious enough to ask.
‘Anyway, I’ve complained to the agency about it, but they don’t want to know.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘At the very least, we should be thinking about changing our pricing structure, to take account of that kind of thing.’
Christ, when did you do an MBA? ‘I don’t suppose Royal Escorts has given much thought to changing its business model,’ Carlyle observed drily, ‘given that they’re operating in the oldest profession of them all.’
‘No,’ Sonia nodded, ‘but you would have thought Harry would have been prepared to at least think about it. After all, it’s all about him making more money.’
Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. Harry Cummins, the cheery public schoolboy owner of Royal Escorts, had more than enough money already. For Harry, being a pimp was more about a lifestyle choice than putting bread on the table. ‘How long has he been out of jail now?’
‘I dunno,’ Sonia shrugged, ‘A couple of years, maybe?’
Carlyle tutted. ‘I don’t know how he gets away with it.’ Even when sending him down, the judge had commented favourably on Harry’s ‘remarkable’ and ‘enlightened’ business, which paid Corporation Tax, National Insurance, VAT and council tax, as well as refusing to have anything to do with trafficked women. ‘The whole operation had been kept as legitimate as a criminal enterprise could have been,’ the beak had concluded, before passing a ridiculously lenient sentence. So far, it had been Harry’s only spell inside.
‘He’s OK, really,’ Sonia claimed.
‘If you say so.’ The inspector took a sip of his tea and signalled to the waitress behind the counter for the bill. ‘Breakfast is on me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So,’ he continued, finally getting down to business, ‘you said you had something for me?’
‘Yes.’ Finishing her tea, Sonia placed the cup back on the saucer. ‘I hear you were asking about Marvin Taylor?’
Jeez, Carlyle thought, how is it that everyone always knows my business? ‘How did you hear that?’
‘I have my sources,’ she said cheekily, ‘just like you.’
Another thoug
ht popped into his head. Instead of batting it away, he asked: ‘Did you know him?’
‘In passing. I’d seen him around a few times.’
Thank God for that. The last thing he needed were skeletons to start falling out of cupboards.
Recognizing the look of relief on his face, Sonia waved an index finger at him. ‘No, no, you dirty-minded sod, he wasn’t a punter. Although, if you want, I could give you a list of cops round here who are. It’d be quite a long list too.’
‘No, thanks.’ He thought of the havoc that such information could wreak and shuddered. ‘Let’s just get back to Marvin, shall we?’
‘It wasn’t so much about Marvin as that place in Chelsea he was guarding.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve been there a lot. One of my best clients lives there, on the top floor.’
Carlyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has anyone spoken to you about this?’
‘No, why would they? I’ve haven’t been there for over a month. The place is always deserted anyway; you never see another soul there.’
‘What about Harry?’
‘What about him?’
‘Presumably he would know that you went there.’
‘Yeah, but he hasn’t mentioned it. Probably hasn’t made the connection. Harry isn’t the kind of guy who spends a lot of time following the news.’
‘Smart bloke. So, who is the client?’
‘He was a businessman. About fifty, I’d say.’ Sonia let out a chuckle. ‘He was a seven-minute man . . . like you.’ Reaching into her bag, she rummaged around for a few moments, finally pulling out a business card and placing it on the table in front of Carlyle. ‘Voilà.’
Picking up the card, Carlyle squinted at the script.
‘You need glasses,’ Sonia observed.
‘I’ve got glasses,’ Carlyle told her ‘but I don’t really need them for reading. I tried varifocals, but they didn’t work for me.’ He squinted harder. Tallow Business Services, Michael Nicholson Managing Director. There was a mobile number and an email address. He looked at Sonia. ‘Tallow?’
‘It’s a kind of Chinese tree,’ she explained. ‘The guy did a lot of business in China, apparently.’
China. He thought back to his conversation with Roche and the mysterious call about the ‘ninjas’. It vaguely felt like he could be on to something, even though he didn’t really want to be. Holding up the card, he waved it at Sonia. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘Sure.’
‘And if Nicholson gives you a call, can you let me know?’
‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. He goes off on his business trips and I might not see him for months.’
The waitress appeared with the bill and Carlyle dropped a tenner and some change on the table. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
‘OK,’ Sonia smiled. ‘I’m in no rush.’
‘Thanks for the info.’ He got to his feet. ‘And I hope you don’t have too many hassles with the punters.’
The smile vanished. ‘You know what it’s like, Inspector. You never know what you’re gonna get when you walk through that door.’
FOURTEEN
The first thing Carlyle noticed when he walked into the room was the urn, a small metallic pot squatting on the mantelpiece. At first glance, he imagined that it was glowing slightly, as if it was radioactive. Distracted by its malevolent presence, it took the inspector a couple of moments to acknowledge the woman’s presence. Perched on the sofa, Naomi Taylor seemed to have shrunk since their last meeting.
Rocking backwards and forwards, she blew her nose into a handkerchief as he sat down in an armchair by the fireplace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry.’ Embarrassed, Carlyle pointed towards the pot. ‘What happened?’
Taylor’s face crumpled. ‘They cremated him,’ she sobbed.
‘Yes.’
‘We went to collect the body and they gave me . . . that.’
Carlyle took a deep breath. ‘Did you give your consent for the cremation to take place?’
‘No. I wasn’t even there when they did it.’ She looked up. ‘I was just given the ashes. I don’t even know that it’s him.’
‘I’m sure that—’
‘Why would they cremate him,’ she wailed, ‘without my permission? Why would they do that?’
Because they’re berks, Carlyle thought wearily. ‘What did they say?’
She mumbled something that sounded like ‘bureaucratic error’.
Carlyle scratched the back of his head. There was nothing useful he could tell the poor woman. ‘You could sue,’ he said finally.
‘No.’ Trying to compose herself, she sat back on the sofa and wiped her eyes. In a pair of jeans and a Breaking Bad ‘I am the one who knocks’ T-shirt, she looked about sixteen, even though he knew that she must be pushing forty-five. ‘They made me sign something before I could take the ashes away. My lawyer says it was a declaration that I am happy with what was done, even though I’m not, obviously.’
It looked like she was going to start sobbing again, but she blinked back the tears and pulled her knees up under her chin. Her feet were bare and the inspector noticed that her toenails were painted different colours. He looked away, focusing his attention on the far wall, which was dominated by a large photographic print of the New York City skyline at night. After some ill-tempered debate inside his head, the inspector decided that it was not hanging straight.
‘Anyway,’ Taylor continued, ‘I don’t want money.’
‘No.’
‘I want to know who killed Marvin. And why.’
Money would be easier, Carlyle thought glumly. He reluctantly met her expectant gaze. ‘Well, I have spoken to some people who are working on the investigation and there does not seem to be a lot for them to go on at the moment.’
She waited patiently for him to say more.
The inspector rubbed a hand over his face. Now was the time for him to get up, make his apologies and scarper. Only he couldn’t. On the one hand, the decapitation of Marvin Taylor was nothing to do with him. Indeed, the irony was that it probably wasn’t much to do with Marvin himself either. On the other hand, the inspector felt unable to just ignore it and walk away. Sometimes cases chose you, rather than the other way round.
‘I was, er, wondering what you might be able to tell me about Marvin’s business. In particular, whether you knew anything about the people he was working for on the night that he was killed.’
‘The other people asked me about that.’
The other people. SO15. ‘Yes.’
‘But I couldn’t tell them anything much. Marvin and I never really talked about his work.’
‘No.’
‘He was big on client confidentiality.’
‘Of course.’
She pointed towards the ceiling. ‘We use the spare bedroom as an office.’
‘Jolly good.’ Carlyle got to his feet.
‘The anti-terrorism people came and searched it the other day.’
‘Ah.’ He sat back down again.
‘They took the computer, a couple of laptops and our back-up hard drives. I asked the bloke how long till we got them back but he just said, “how long is a piece of string?”.’
‘Helpful.’
‘Marvin’s mum had to go down to PC World and get another one, so Laurie could do her homework.’
‘Yes.’ The inspector stole another glance at the urn. Marvin, you silly sod, if only you knew the trouble you’ve caused. He looked back at the wife. ‘What did the SO15 boys say that they were looking for?’
‘Dunno,’ she sniffed. ‘The same as you, I suppose.’
‘OK.’ Carlyle wondered what to do next. Maybe he should go back to Roche; see if he could do a trade with the information that Sonia Coverdale had given him. Maybe SO15 already knew about Michael Nicholson and Tallow Business Services, but maybe they didn’t.
‘They didn’t take the paper records though.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We keep paper copies of all Marvin’s files. I mean, you never know with all that electronic information, it could all just disappear in a puff of smoke one day and then where would you be? Marvin was always paranoid about losing all the data, so we had a back-up to the back-up.’
Good old Marvin. ‘Only the paranoid survive, as they say.’
Naomi Taylor blinked away a tear.
Carlyle, you idiot. ‘Sorry.’
She struggled to her feet. ‘Would you like to see them? They’re in the kitchen.’
After an hour of sifting through a pile of papers six inches thick, Carlyle was none the wiser as to the job Marvin Taylor had been doing on the night of his death. Marvin and Naomi might have been keen on keeping duplicate records, but they hadn’t been too interested in filing them in any discernible order. Moreover, it was clear that Marvin’s clients were not the kind of people who liked to provide too much information for the purposes of an invoice. Pushing his chair back from the kitchen table, he closed his eyes and yawned.
‘Who are you?’
Opening his eyes, Carlyle saw a young girl standing in the doorway. He smiled. ‘I’m John. Who are you?’
She didn’t answer his question, but went on: ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m a policeman.’ Taking his warrant card from his pocket, he held it out for her to inspect. ‘I’m looking at some information for your mother.’
The girl thought about it for a moment, then stepped into the kitchen and took the ID from his hand. Studying it carefully, she read aloud: ‘Inspector John Carlyle, Metropolitan Police.’
‘That’s me.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘You don’t look like your picture.’
‘That was taken a while ago now,’ Carlyle said, ‘when I wasn’t as old as I am now.’
The girl took one last look at the photo and handed the card back to him. ‘Not so much grey hair. And no glasses.’
‘I’m getting old,’ Carlyle shrugged, dropping the card back into his pocket. ‘It happens.’
‘Are you older than my dad?’
Carlyle felt a sick feeling in his stomach. ‘Yes, a few years older.’
‘My dad’s dead,’ the girl said matter-of-factly. ‘His ashes are in the living room.’ She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to deny it.