London Calling ic-1

by James Craig

  The German reporter didn’t notice the cloud pass over Carlton’s face as he turned towards the policeman. It passed in the brief moment that it took Edgar Carlton to set his jaw, but Carlyle caught it. Nice to be welcome, he thought, resisting the urge to get out his badge and start flashing it about.

  ‘The inspector is investigating the death of Ian Blake,’ Rosanna continued.

  ‘A terrible business.’ Carlton bowed his head slightly.

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a couple of minutes of your time,’ Carlyle said, smiling.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Carlton, smiling back.

  ‘I just wanted to ask-’

  Carlton held up his hand. ‘We will have to do this later, because I’m afraid now is just impossible. I’m already behind schedule and, as you can, imagine, we’ve got a lot to get through today.’

  ‘Just a few minutes would be much appreciated,’ insisted Carlyle gently.

  Carlton gestured to his flunky, who had by now ushered all the journalists out of the room. ‘Speak to Mr Murray here, and we will get something in the diary. Today is a desperately busy day, but I’m sure that William can arrange to get you a slot sometime this week.’

  ‘Well…’ Carlyle started to protest, but Carlton had broken eye contact and was already moving off. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, the policeman no longer existed.

  ‘Come on, Rosanna,’ Carlton said, taking her arm, ‘you can escort me to my next appointment.’

  ‘See you later, Inspector,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

  Once they were gone, Carlyle stood facing the flunky. He looked about twelve years old and wore an expression that suggested Carlyle was about as welcome as a piece of shit on his well-polished shoe.

  ‘William Murray.’ He held out a limp hand. ‘I’m one of Mr Carlton’s special advisers.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Murray looked confused.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I advise,’ the boy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘Advise on what?’

  ‘On whatever comes up.’

  Carlyle gritted his teeth, realising that he had to get out of there before he tried to strangle this little tosser. Focus on the matter in hand, he told himself. Keep breathing. Stay neutral. Don’t let this little shit wind you up.

  ‘So when can I have ten minutes with Mr Carlton?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Murray sniffed.

  ‘But he said…’

  ‘I will need to consult with the PA in charge of Edgar’s diary and then I’ll get back to you.’

  Carlyle handed Murray a card. ‘My boss told me that I would receive Mr Carlton’s full co-operation.’

  Murray briefly turned the card over in his hand, before dropping it into his pocket. ‘You can be assured of our full co-operation. We are the police’s biggest supporters.’

  Glad we cleared that up, thought Carlyle. ‘Let me know a time as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course. But, remember, there is an election going on.’

  He had expected a card from Murray in return, but none was forthcoming. ‘This is just a matter of routine,’ Carlyle said, ‘but it is nevertheless important. People have died, and this is a murder investigation. I have a job to do, just the same as you do. Just the same as Mr Carlton does. If you delay my enquiries any further, I will start making a considerable fuss.’

  ‘A considerable fuss?’ Murray smirked. ‘We wouldn’t want that, Inspector. Not at all.’

  ‘Good,’ was all Carlyle could think of saying.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Murray said, ‘we will be in touch.’ With that he skipped away, leaving Carlyle to find his own way out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  While Carlyle was getting the brush-off in London, Joe Szyszkowski was sitting down to a cup of tea with Paul Hawley, assistant lecturer in Medieval History at the University of Cambridge. They were sitting in Starbucks on Vimeiro Road, in the centre of the city. The place was fairly empty and they had managed to find a pair of very comfortable armchairs by the window. Across the road stood the imposing front gates of Wellesley College. They were closed for the summer holidays and as a result the place appeared devoid of life.

  Paul Hawley looked like a slightly more careworn but friendlier version of his forex-trading, drug-dealing brother Clement. His hair showed streaks of grey, with just the first signs of a receding hairline at the temples. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and looked as if he had not enjoyed any sleep for a month. Maybe it’s all the DIY, thought Joe. Or maybe it’s that Serbian girlfriend?

  Paul took a sip of his Chai tea. ‘So, Sergeant, how do you come to know Clement?’

  ‘We deal with him professionally,’ said Joe, ‘from time to time.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t worry, this is not about him.’ Joe sniffed at his own Zen tea – ‘an enlightening blend of the finest green teas infused with mint and lemongrass, to calm the mind’ – and wondered whether a mocha might not have hit the spot better. Along with a cinnamon swirl for that perfect caffeine-sugar rush.

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘He seems fine,’ Joe added, ‘but ultimately it’s a very tough business that he’s involved in, and there’s a lot to be said for getting out while you’re ahead.’

  ‘That’s a fair point,’ Hawley said evenly. ‘I’ll mention it to him. He’s coming up here this weekend.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘So,’ said Hawley, relaxing now that the preliminaries were over, and he felt reassured that his role in the policeman’s current investigation was just, well, academic, ‘how can I help you?’

  Joe leant forward. ‘We want to know about the Merrion Club.’

  ‘What’s to know? It’s just a bunch of rich kids who don’t have any brains or any manners – like clones of Lord Snooty who keep turning up year after year.’ Hawley sighed theatrically. It was the sound of a man who had spent the best part of two decades writing a thesis on medieval drinking habits. ‘It was ever thus.’

  ‘Do you actually know any of them?’

  ‘Well, technically, there isn’t any Merrion Club at the moment. The current crop of uber-alpha males have all left to join the army or make their squillions in the City. Those few that are left will take over when they come back from their summer in the Hamptons, or wherever, and they will then oversee a new intake.’

  ‘Have you ever taught any of them?’

  ‘As a research student, I ran a couple of introductory undergraduate courses for several years. There have been a few attending my classes, but only one or two. Medieval history isn’t the type of subject these boys generally go for.’ He thought about that for a second, then let out a harsh little laugh. ‘In fact, there isn’t any type of subject boys like that really go for.’

  Joe made a sympathetic face, but it was himself he was now feeling sorry for. He wondered if Paul Hawley could ever manage to just stick to the point. This man’s lectures must be a real draw.

  ‘The number of graduates that we, as a country, churn out every year has doubled over the last decade, but it’s amazing how academia still very much remains the preserve of thick rich people.’ Hawley was working himself up into a state of indignant anger. ‘People like me are just an irritation while we pass through the system.’

  Joe pointed out through the window at the college standing across the road. ‘Are they always based over there?’

  ‘Yes, the club is always housed in Wellesley. That way it is the most elitist club in the most elitist college. The senior members always come from there. They occasionally co-opt outsiders, but that’s quite rare, I think.’

  Joe wasn’t getting much yet for his thirty-five-pound train fare, but he ploughed on. ‘What kind of scandals has the club been involved in?’

  ‘They don’t really do scandal, Sergeant.’ Hawley shook his head. ‘That is the whole
point. What you or I or Mr and Mrs Smith from Acacia Avenue might consider “scandalous” is considered de rigueur for these people. That’s what the club is basically for. It is a way of showing us that they don’t have to play by the rules. Meaning the rules that the rest of us have to obey. If you can’t sufficiently annoy the little people, you’re not fit to become a member.’

  ‘Where would I be able to find out more information about the club down through the years?’

  ‘How far back do you want to go?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Joe warily, not wanting to give too much away. Even Mr Medieval Boozing must be aware of the current crop of ex-Merrion celebrities. If he started gossiping around town, the investigation could still find its way into the press. ‘Maybe thirty years or so.’

  ‘There’s a student newspaper called Grantebrycge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gran-te-bry-cge… it’s what Cambridge was called, back in the Middle Ages.’ Hawley spelt it out, letter by letter, so that Joe could scribble it into his notebook. ‘The paper has been going since just after the First World War. It comes out every two weeks during term time. How specific is the information you’re looking for?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘A fishing exercise?’ Hawley smiled. ‘Well, you might get lucky. Some American internet company started digitising the magazine archive as a PR stunt last year. Some of it might be online, but I don’t know how far they’ve got.’ He pointed along the street. ‘Their offices are just down the road. God knows if there’s anyone around at the moment, though.’

  ‘I’ll check it out, thanks.’ Joe took one last look at his Zen tea and decided to leave it. ‘Let me know if anything else comes to mind.’

  The offices of Grantebrycge were housed in what looked like a small shop on a side street running towards the station. In the window was a copy of what Joe presumed was the front page of the latest edition, which was by now more than a month old. There was a website address above a cover feature about undergraduate hookers, headlined ‘Students for Sale’. More than half the page was given over to an image of a statuesque blond, wearing little more than her underwear, climbing out of a Porsche. Both her face and the car’s number plate had been pixelated out. In the top left-hand corner of the illustration it said: ‘As posed by a model.’ Joe scribbled down the email address and made a mental note to check out the ‘special investigation’ that was promised on pages four and five, once he next got online. Standing with this nose up against the window, he peered further inside. The place looked empty. He tried the door, which was locked.

  Hovering outside the newspaper office, Joe watched a pretty blond girl walking up the road in his direction. From a distance, she looked similar to the model in the picture. However, there was no sign of any Porsche-driving punter on the mean streets of Cambridge that afternoon.

  For want of anything better to do, he called Carlyle, but the inspector’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. Joe didn’t want to leave a message admitting that he’d found out next to nothing. Hoping that Carlyle was having a better day than himself, he wondered how long he would have to wait for a train back to London.

  The blonde, meanwhile, had reached the Grantebrycge office. To Joe’s surprise, she stopped and smiled at him. In his experience that was not what pretty girls normally did.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  Unconsciously, Joe pulled in his gut and pushed back his shoulders. He gestured at the front page displayed in the window.

  ‘I was hoping to speak to someone at the magazine about back issues.’

  ‘You can find those online,’ the girl replied.

  ‘I need to go back a long way, maybe twenty-five or thirty years.’

  A look of understanding breezed across the girl’s face. ‘Ah, yes, back when you were a student?’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Joe, ‘do I really look that old?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the girl. ‘We get a lot of people wandering through here trying to dig up old stories to prove that the good old days actually happened.’

  ‘I didn’t go to university,’ said Joe, a tad defensively.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But, if I had, it wouldn’t have been much more than a decade ago.’

  ‘Sure,’ the girl said doubtfully.

  ‘Anyway…’ Joe then belatedly managed to explain who he was and, in broad terms, what he needed.

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ said the girl, after she’d taken a careful look at his warrant card. ‘I was just popping into the office now. This is probably the only time for the next two months that you’ll be able to get in.’

  After unlocking the door and inviting him inside, she turned and said: ‘I’m Sally McGurk, by the way. I’m a research student in Accounting and Finance, and also the deputy editor of Grantebrycge.’

  ‘An accountant and a journalist.’ Joe grinned. ‘How schizophrenic.’

  ‘No prizes for guessing which career path my parents are keener on me pursuing,’ Sally laughed.

  ‘No,’ Joe smiled. ‘I’d be delighted if my two kids became bean counters.’

  ‘And if they turn out to be journalists, instead?’

  ‘I might have to drown them in the Thames.’

  She pulled a memory stick out of her pocket and waved it at him. ‘Right now, I’m two weeks late with my MPhil dissertation.’

  ‘Is that a big deal?’

  ‘It sure is,’ she grimaced. ‘It’s thirty thousand words and it represents a third of my final mark. I need to get three copies on my professor’s desk by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, before he heads off to Umbria for the summer, or else I fail.’

  ‘Bummer.’

  ‘It’s no biggie. I need an hour or two on the computer here, and then I’ll be able to print them out in about ten minutes flat.’

  ‘Why not just go to the library?’

  ‘Too many distractions. Always someone wanting you to go for a coffee with them or chat about what a shit their latest boyfriend is.’

  ‘Ah.’ Joe tried his best to look knowing.

  ‘Here I get guaranteed peace and quiet.’ She tossed him another dazzling smile. ‘At least I did until you came along.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Joe.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She pointed towards a computer at the back of the room. ‘Park yourself over there and get it switched on. Then I’ll come and see if I can help you in the right direction. What years are you looking for?’

  ‘1981 to 1985,’ Joe replied. The Carlton brothers had been at Cambridge until 1984, but he thought he should allow himself a little extra room at the back end, in case they’d hung around after graduating.

  By now, Sally was already bashing away at the keyboard of another machine by the door. She paused to explain, ‘I don’t know if we’ve got that stuff on the system yet. Last I’d heard, they’d got as far back as 1988, but that was a few months ago, so you never know.’

  After a bit of random groping around, Joe located the on-switch for his machine. ‘I could always look at the hard copies, I suppose?’

  ‘You could,’ she called over, while scanning the words on her own screen, ‘but they’re not kept here. Some are in the library, but most are stored in a warehouse out of town somewhere. That could take a while.’

  In the end, accessing old copies of the newspaper proved much easier than he could have hoped. Not only had all the editions of Grantebrycge back to 1977 been put online, but an excellent search facility allowed him to compile lists of stories referencing both the Carltons and the Merrion Club. However, after more than an hour of scanning articles about binge drinking, trashing of restaurants, urinating in the street and other by now familiar types of student naughtiness, Joe was feeling quite fatigued, and fearful that he wasn’t really any further forward.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Sally asked. ‘I’m almost finished here.’

  ‘OK,’ said Joe, rubbing his eyes as he scanned a story from April 1985 headlined
‘Merrion legends a tough act to follow.’ He noted down the names of Edgar and Xavier’s successors without any great enthusiasm.

  ‘Got something?’

  ‘Not really. Joe pushed back his chair, rolled his shoulders and stretched. ‘I think I’m just about ready to wrap it up.’ He was hungry. Maybe he should offer Sally a bite to eat. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  Switching off her computer, Sally eyed him carefully. ‘Maybe a coffee.’

  ‘Great.’ Pulling his chair back towards the desk, he reached for the mouse and moved to hit the close button. Then he noticed the story next to the one that he had been reading.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘One minute.’

  He rubbed his jaw and stared at the photograph appearing at the top of the piece. Then he scratched his head and stared at it some more. ‘Well, fuck me.’

  ‘What?’ said Sally McGurk, startled.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The general buzz of activity was punctuated by the regular clink of metal on metal and the occasional grunt of effort throughout the gym in Jubilee Hall, an old warehouse on the south side of Covent Garden’s piazza. The atmosphere was thick, steadily heading towards fetid. Though all the windows were open, the heat of the day was slow to dissipate, and it was still easily above eighty degrees inside. The heat, however, was not going to put Carlyle off. The double espresso he’d downed ten minutes earlier was kicking in, as planned, and he was good to go. His T-shirt stuck to his chest and he felt a bead of sweat descend the length of his spine. He mounted a Life Fitness cross trainer standing in the middle of a row of eight identical machines, and fiddled around with his iPod shuffle. A Christmas present from his wife, it made his exercising easier and had belatedly dragged him into the world of digital music, allowing him to return to some of the music of his youth as well as try out the odd new tune. It didn’t really matter what the music was, as long as it got him going. He skipped through six or seven tracks until he found something from Stiff Little Fingers that was guaranteed to get his blood pumping and his legs moving. He turned the volume up close to maximum, cutting out as much of the background noise as possible. ‘Nobody’s Hero’ began blasting into his brain. Gritting his teeth, he stomped down on the machine and sought out a rhythm. It was time to leave all the stresses of the Blake case behind, if only for a short while. With as much violence as he could muster, he chased that endorphin rush that would surely clear his head and reinvigorate his mind.