by James Craig
Damn! Carlyle thought. ‘No one?’
Another pause.
‘Just the man with the beard.’
‘The man with the beard?’
Dog tossed the bottle over his shoulder and stood up. He looked at Carlyle. ‘You don’t have to repeat everything I say,’ he grumbled. Reaching into an inside pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out what looked like a slice of beef. Tilting his head back, he dropped the morsel into his mouth. Resisting the urge to gag, Carlyle waited for the man to chew his food, swallow and then let out a satisfied burp. He willed himself to show some patience. After all, he had caught Dog on one of his more lucid days – maybe coming back from the dead had helped sharpen up his thought processes – and knew that he should now be prepared to wait it out.
Finally, Dog wiped his hand on his belly. ‘Came down the stairs back there, just like you. I asked him for some money. He said somethin’ foreign.’
‘In Spanish?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Mebbe.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Had a beard,’ said Dog, his eyes returning to the piles of rubbish; his mind doubtless wondering where he was most likely to find something else to drink.
‘Okay,’ said Carlyle, realising that the wino’s mind was beginning to wander and that he wasn’t going to get anything else from him right now. ‘Thanks.’ He fished a ten-pound note out of his trouser pocket and offered it to Dog. ‘Here, get yourself some Diamond White or something.’
Mention of the demon drink instantly got Dog’s attention, but he eyed the money suspiciously. ‘Will it work?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle, ‘if you drink enough of it.’
‘No,’ said Dog, still not accepting the banknote. ‘The money, will it work? They wouldn’t take the other one.’
‘Who wouldn’t?’ said Carlyle, instinctively asking the wrong question.
‘The bloke in the newsagent’s,’ Dog said, as if that was obvious. ‘He said my money was no good.’
‘What money?’
Dog started rooting around in his pockets. ‘The money the man with the beard gave me.’
Carlyle watched as Dog pulled out various crumpled pieces of paper from different pockets, looking at each one carefully, before slowly returning it to its original hiding place.
The fourth or fifth scrap that Dog extracted looked a bit like an old one-pound note. He waved it at Carlyle. ‘This.’
‘I tell you what,’ Carlyle said, still holding out the tenner. ‘I’ll swap with you. My one here will work.’
‘It better had,’ said Dog, pulling himself to his feet and exchanging the notes. After carefully considering both sides of the ten-pound note, he reached a decision and quickly shuffled out of the alley, in search of suitable refreshment.
When the wino had gone, Carlyle stood there examining the piece of paper Dog had given him. It was a worn, thousand-peso note in a colour he could only describe as aquamarine, with the legend Banco Central de Chile printed on both sides. On one side was a picture of a statue, on the other a Victorian-looking military gentleman, with a battleship behind him. After much squinting, Carlyle made out the man’s name: Agustín Arturo Prat Chacón.
Smiling, Carlyle thrust the note into his trouser pocket. He had no idea how much a thousand pesos was worth, but he knew this was evidence that could prove priceless for his investigation.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Mayor took a cautious sip of his Auchentoshan 3 Wood, a malt whisky described by the advertising men as ‘best enjoyed on its own when in a ponderous and contemplative mood’. More to the point, it was 43 per cent alcohol. Christian Holyrod was not a man given to excessive contemplation but at the moment he definitely needed a drink – several drinks, in fact. Taking a second sip, he looked carefully at the man standing in front of him. ‘I don’t know what you are up to,’ he said quietly, ‘and I don’t want to know either. Just remember rule number one . . .’
The Mayor’s companion smiled weakly and half-pretended to be interested in what the harried politician was telling him. ‘And what is rule number one?’ he asked dutifully.
The Mayor leaned closer. ‘It’s simple: don’t get caught.’
‘Come, come now, Mr Mayor. What makes you think I am up to anything illicit?’
Holyrod, now enjoying the first flush of Auchentoshan-inspired warmth, said nothing.
‘We are both military men,’ his companion continued, ‘officer class.’
Not so you’d notice, Holyrod thought sourly. There are officers and there are officers.
‘We both know the importance of discretion,’ the other man went on, ‘and honour.’
We’ll see, the Mayor thought.
The man gazed into his glass of mineral water. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘Everything will go as planned. We will support the TEMPO conference as arranged. And, even more importantly for your friends at Pierrepoint Aerospace, the contract will be signed before the opening gala dinner.’
Holyrod took another swig of Scotch. He had eaten nothing all day and the whisky was going straight to his head, leaving him feeling tired and irritable. ‘That is good to hear. What you have to remember is that the deal should have been signed by now. If it isn’t done by the time the conference starts, Pierrepoint will look to sue LAHC.’
The other man stiffened. ‘We both know that will not be necessary.’
‘I hope you are right,’ the Mayor said. ‘The last thing we need is another example of an equipment-procurement project suffering from horrendous delays and going way over budget.’
‘Ah, yes.’ A broad smile broke out on the man’s face. ‘The Green Report – the one that your government tried to suppress.’
‘Without success,’ Holyrod said bitterly.
‘I’ve only seen what’s in the papers, but your Ministry of Defence does not come out of it looking too good. No one likes the idea of money being wasted while front-line soldiers go without the equipment they need.’
‘Well,’ Holyrod sighed, ‘managing money was never their strong point. But, having been on both sides of the fence, I can see the difficulties the civil servants in Whitehall face.’
‘I’m sure you can, but that’s a compelling reason for you to come to us.’
‘Assuming you can deliver what we need,’ Holyrod interjected.
‘We can. On time and on budget.’
‘Good.’
‘And you, in turn, will be able to supply the MoD with the equipment they need, almost on time and almost on budget.’
Holyrod chose to ignore the last barb. ‘I have told the Pierrepoint Board that I think that any form of legal action would be totally counter-productive, even as a last resort. Apart from anything else, it would incur the risk of considerable publicity. But I am just one voice among many. And, as things stand, they are not inclined to take my point of view.’
‘Ah, yes, the travails of the non-executive director. To be honest, I am surprised that you are able to combine such a job with your political office.’
Was that a threat? Holyrod wondered. Bloody foreigners, he should never have gotten into bed with them. Ah, well, there it was. Draining his glass, he signalled to a nearby waiter for another whisky. He knew that he really shouldn’t, but what the hell. ‘It’s all above board. I made it very clear before I ran for Mayor that I was in the process of building up a portfolio of business interests and that I would not – that I could not – give them up if I was elected.’
The other man nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘The voters like the idea that I can earn a living in the real world.’
The man looked bemused.
‘In the private sector,’ the Mayor explained.
‘Ah, yes.’
The empty glass was whisked from Holyrod’s hand and replaced by another large tumbler of Auchentoshan 3 Wood. He weighed the glass in his hand: it felt satisfyingly heavy. A couple more of these and I won’t need to bother about dinner, he thought. I might even get a go
od night’s sleep for once. ‘No one can doubt my commitment to public service,’ he continued, ‘but that does not put bread on the table.’
‘No, absolutely not.’
Holyrod started on his fresh drink. ‘I spent more than a decade in the service of Queen and country, stuck in many of those same hell-holes of which you have personal experience . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘. . . and I am still completely committed to public service, but not at the expense of keeping my family in penury.’
‘Of course not.’ His companion gave the Mayor a comforting pat on the shoulder. Presumably the £500,000 you are due to collect for closing our deal will help in that regard, he thought.
‘After all,’ Holyrod explained, ‘I don’t have the kind of family wealth behind me that you have.’
‘That is a very fair point.’ The other man stared into his glass of mineral water. ‘I am very fortunate.’
A deeper wave of warmth from the Scotch eased through the Mayor’s body and he realised that it was time to move the conversation on. ‘What does the Ambassador think of all this?’
‘Orb?’ The man made a face. ‘He is a bystander, nothing more than a passive observer. He has spent his whole life watching other people act, while making sure that he does nothing to get in the way. It is amazing that anyone can spend so long doing so little. At least that means he is nothing to worry about.’
‘And the policeman?’
The man placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Who?’
The Mayor thought about mentioning that this was a no-smoking building, but thought better of it. He hoped there weren’t any smoke-detectors nearby. ‘Carlyle,’ he said, ‘Inspector John Carlyle. That policeman who spoke with the Ambassador at the reception.’
The man lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Surely you don’t have to worry about a mere policeman?’ He looked around for somewhere to deposit the ash from his cigarette. Finding nothing suitable, he flicked it on to the floor.
Aghast, Holyrod looked around, hoping that no one had seen. A waitress caught his eye and started heading towards them, but he glared at her and she hurriedly turned away. ‘I have come across him before,’ he said, ‘and he is a professional nuisance.’
‘Okay.’ The man shrugged. ‘I hear you, Mr Mayor. I can take care of him.’
‘No, no, no,’ Holyrod said hastily. ‘You can’t do that.’
The man looked at him with an air of faint amusement.
‘Let me assure you,’ the Mayor continued, ‘you shouldn’t try to interfere with the workings of our police here. That would be very . . . unprofessional. It would jeopardise everything.’
An irritated look swept across the man’s face. ‘As you wish.’
‘These kinds of problems can be dealt with in other ways.’
The man made a small bow. ‘As you wish,’ he repeated, in an almost mocking tone.
The Mayor felt a ripple of unease spread through his stomach. Maybe he should go easy on the Scotch. ‘My country, my rules.’
‘Of course.’
Holyrod emptied his glass. ‘Things are still at a delicate stage. We need to stay under the radar.’
‘You have my word.’
TWENTY-SIX
Squat and brooding on the south bank of the Thames, St Thomas’s Hospital offered fine views of the Palace of Westminster. From the third floor, Carlyle looked out over the river towards the Parliament building. Darkness had fallen and lights shone brightly from almost every window. Doubtless the place was full of Members of Parliament fiddling their expenses, shagging their interns and preparing for their extended summer holidays, he thought. No wonder the country was run so poorly – the only apparent qualifications needed for the job of MP were ego and avarice.
For her part, Sandra Groves would not be contemplating this view for a while. Lying in a bed by the window in a room she shared with two other patients, she was drugged up to the eyeballs and fast asleep. Moved out of intensive care a few hours earlier, she was still in a very weak state. In addition to a smashed leg and a broken hip, she had suffered a couple of cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. Although she was out of immediate danger, the doctors were still worried about the concussion she had suffered, as well as the internal bleeding.
Standing in the corridor outside, Carlyle gazed at the sleeping woman. She certainly looked a mess, with tubes coming out of her nose and her left arm, as well as bandages on her head.
Sitting by her bedside, in front of an array of machines, Carlyle recognised Stuart Joyce, the boyfriend who had been involved in the confrontation on the number 55 bus. Holding the girl’s hand, Joyce had his back to Carlyle as the inspector now entered the room. A couple of the other patients, hoping that he had perhaps come to visit them, tried to catch the inspector’s eye as he stepped inside, but he studiously ignored them.
When he reached the end of the bed, the boy finally looked up. Carlyle was surprised to see him flinch.
‘You!’ Joyce hissed, eyeing the panic button by the bed. He half-rose out of his seat. ‘What are you doing here?’
Carlyle, aware of the Ward Sister hovering nearby, ready to throw him out at the first sign of any trouble, held up a hand. ‘A couple of quick things before we go any further,’ he said, quietly but firmly, staring the boy down. ‘First – I didn’t run your girlfriend over.’
The boy looked at him suspiciously but returned to his seat.
‘On the one hand,’ Carlyle explained, ‘I don’t drive. On the other hand, I have a perfectly good alibi, which the officers investigating the case have checked out.’ He knew this was true because of the ear-bashing he’d received from his wife, complaining about the disruption his ‘colleagues’ had caused to her working day. Helen had been very disgruntled indeed at having to help the police with their enquiries. Carlyle had been left in no doubt that he would need to provide a full explanation of exactly what the hell was going on, once he got home.
‘So,’ he continued, as soothingly as he could manage, ‘you have nothing to worry about from me.’
Still the boy said nothing. Behind him, a machine bleeped. Carlyle gave the machine a professional stare. As he was the wrong kind of professional, he didn’t know if the bleeping was anything important or not. If it was, a crack team of medical professionals would presumably come roaring in and take some action. The machine bleeped for a final time and then fell silent. The woman in the bed hadn’t stopped breathing, so Carlyle assumed that things were okay. He returned his attention to the boyfriend. However, with his train of thought interrupted, he struggled to recall the second thing he wanted to say. For a moment, his mind went blank, then he pulled it back. ‘Point number two,’ he said, eyeing Joyce carefully, ‘I’m here to help, if I can. I’m certainly not here to cause you any more trouble.’
‘Like on the bus?’ the boy whined.
Carlyle felt a twinge of embarrassment. ‘What happened on the bus has been and gone. This,’ he nodded at Sandra Groves, ‘is much more serious.’
The boy shrugged. ‘I told the other policemen all that I know.’
‘Which is basically nothing.’ Carlyle had read the preliminary report. Groves had been knocked down on Moreland Street, near City University, by a stolen Peugeot which had later been abandoned up past King’s Cross station. A taxi had almost collided with the Peugeot, but the cabbie had not witnessed Groves being run down, nor had he been able to provide any kind of meaningful description of the Peugeot’s driver. There were no other witnesses. The only available CCTV showed the car accelerating towards Groves, suggesting that it wasn’t an accident but, again, it didn’t get a clear view of the driver. The Peugeot had been taken to a nearby police depot and given the once-over by a team of technicians. They recovered traces of the injured woman’s blood on the grille. Inside the car were various sets of fingerprints – none of which had shown a match on the national database.
This boy, apparently ho
me alone at the time of the incident, had no alibi, but Carlyle couldn’t see him doing it – he seemed too much of a wimp. Anyway, domestics rarely involved stolen cars; it was so much easier just to smack the offending partner over the head with a frying pan.
‘What I’m wondering,’ Carlyle continued, ‘is why someone would want to do this to her.’
‘Why would you care?’
‘I didn’t say I cared.’ Carlyle smiled nastily, just to keep the boy on his toes. If the little do-gooder wanted to believe in the fascist bullyboy stereotype, that was fine by Carlyle. ‘It’s just that . . . well, it’s just that it’s come on to my radar.’ Thinking about it on his way over to the hospital, that was the best explanation he had been able to come up with.
‘What about the other policemen?’ Joyce asked.
‘This is still their case,’ Carlyle replied. ‘But I have another case currently under investigation and I’m wondering if there might be a connection.’
‘So what do you want from me?’ Joyce asked, clearly not convinced that he should be having this conversation.
‘Tell me about what you guys were involved in.’
‘We weren’t involved in anything,’ Joyce said defensively.
‘You’re political,’ Carlyle said evenly. ‘You were campaigning for – what?’ His mind went blank. ‘That advertising business on the side of the bus.’
‘Religious beliefs.’
What about the beliefs of atheists? Carlyle thought, but he bit his tongue. ‘That’s right, I remember. It’s kind of political, I suppose.’
‘That’s not a crime.’
‘I didn’t say that it was.’ Carlyle fought to keep his irritation in check. ‘Tell me about the things that are important to you guys. Tell about the campaigns you’ve supported.’
The boy looked at the woman in the bed. Then, realising he didn’t have much else to do, he launched into a monologue he had clearly delivered many times before: ‘We draw our inspiration from the Bible and from the social teachings of the Church . . .’