London Calling ic-1

by James Craig

  Being given the brush-off by Edgar Carlton irritated him hugely. Worse, Carlton’s special adviser, William Murray, had still not come back to him with a time for their promised meeting. As Carlyle saw it, they were clearly playing for time. After the election was over, and they had their hands on all the levers of power, they could easily have the whole case buried.

  ‘Bastards!’ Carlyle grunted as he upped the pace on the cross trainer. ‘Fucking bastards!’ He hated being messed about by people who thought that they were somehow above the law. And, even more, he hated not being able to do anything about it.

  Showered and relaxed, Carlyle strolled out of the changing rooms, to find Joe Szyszkowski nursing a coffee in the gym’s cafe.

  ‘Helen told me you were here,’ explained Joe, by way of introduction. ‘I tried to ring your mobile earlier, but it went straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Do you want another drink?’ Carlyle asked, dropping his Adidas holdall on the floor next to a display for sports nutrition supplements with names such as Hurricane and Scorpion Extreme.

  ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’

  Pulling out a chair, Carlyle glanced up at a list of the day’s ‘specials’ chalked on a blackboard above the counter. He didn’t really need to look: they may still have been ‘special’ but he couldn’t remember the last time they had varied. Ordering an orange juice and a hummus wrap, he sat down at Joe’s table. The post-work rush hour was over by now, and the place was emptying quite quickly. Looking across the gym, Carlyle clocked a well-known actor hanging out by the free weights. He had appeared in a movie that Helen had brought home a few weeks ago, the details of which Carlyle had already forgotten before the final credits had finished running. The man was wearing a hooded top, baseball cap and sunglasses, which Carlyle thought was a bit over the top. Though he was not actually doing any lifting, he was making very sure that everyone noticed he was there.

  ‘Good session?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ Carlyle mumbled, in a way that he hoped said ‘Food first, talk later’.

  Plastered on the wall beside them were flyers announcing all different kinds of classes, from Kendo to Russian Military Fitness ( Train the Red Army way, with genuine Spetsnaz instructors!) to Hot Bikram Yoga. There were also adverts for a number of one-on-one personal training services. One ad fascinated and appalled him in equal measure. ‘You’re never too old for a six-pack’, it proclaimed, over a stunning black-and-white picture of a smiling guy in his sixties with a set of abs of such perfect definition that they defied belief. Not for the first time, he felt awestruck and oppressed at the same time.

  Tired, wired and not particularly impressed with his boss’s apparent lack of interest in communicating, Joe tried to rouse Carlyle from his thoughts. ‘Did you get to speak to Carlton?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Carlyle, feeling the post-exercise hunger kick in now, and hoping that his food would hurry up. ‘For about ten seconds. The Rt Hon Edgar Carlton MP, Leader of the Opposition, told me he would deign to see me later.’

  ‘When?’ Joe asked.

  Carlyle adopted what he hoped was his most philosophical demeanour. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  Joe frowned. ‘Does he actually realise just how serious this is?’

  ‘Does he care, more to the point?’ Carlyle asked. ‘These people all see this as our problem, not theirs. They have other priorities, and they’re certainly not working to our timetable.’

  Joe lowered his voice slightly. ‘But we are talking about multiple murders here.’

  Carlyle glanced around. The actor was still gossiping away with one of the weightlifters. ‘I don’t notice that the world has stopped turning.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Simpson about it?’

  ‘I’ve left her a message, but what’s she going to do?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Probably, the way she sees it is that she works for them, we work for her. Who’s the dog here and who’s the tail? This is one of those situations where we’re just supposed to sit tight and do what we’re bloody told.’ The endorphins were fast wearing off and he felt a whole new type of fatigue. A good I’ve-got-off-my-arse-and-done-something type of fatigue, but a fatigue nevertheless. ‘Anyway, how was Cambridge?’

  Finally receiving his cue, Joe took up two pieces of paper that had been resting on his lap and handed them over. One of them was a copy of the photo they had seen so early in the morning at Horseferry Road car park. Carlyle, in fact, had another copy of the same picture in his pocket, which had been emailed over by Matt Parkin, the sergeant handling the Nicholas Hogarth crime scene, just before Carlyle had left the station. The other item was a short newspaper article, consisting of a single column underneath a photograph. It was no more than maybe a hundred and fifty or two hundred words. Carlyle scanned it, glanced at Joe, and perused it again, more slowly.

  By the time Carlyle had finished reading it the second time, his order had arrived. Thanking the waitress, he drained half of the orange juice and took a bite from the hummus wrap.

  ‘It’s the same guy,’ said Joe.

  Carlyle chewed carefully and swallowed. ‘Certainly looks like it.’

  ‘Could even be a cropped version of the same photo?’

  Carlyle looked again. ‘Yes, it could,’ he agreed. The photo featured in the newspaper was a head-and-shoulders shot with a clear sky in the background. It wasn’t great quality, but it looked very much as if it had been copied from the same photo left behind the windscreen wiper of Nicholas Hogarth’s Range Rover.

  ‘The article comes from the Cambridge University newspaper,’ said Joe. ‘It was published in April 1985, almost a year after our friends sat their finals.’

  In order to appear suitably impressed, Carlyle read the story a third time:

  Student Suicide Tragedy

  Family and friends of Robert Ashton are struggling to come to terms with the popular third-year Law student’s tragic death. Ashton, 21, jumped from the balcony of his room on the top floor of Darwin Hall on 3 March. According to media reports, a suicide note was subsequently found. The police have said that they are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.

  University friends were shocked by the terrible news. Some have reportedly claimed that Ashton was behaving strangely in recent months, but he had a one hundred per cent class-attendance record and tutors described his work as ‘outstanding’. His parents have issued a short statement celebrating ‘a wonderful loving son with his whole life ahead of him’ and thanking people for their support at this difficult time.

  There will be a memorial service for Robert Ashton at St Mungo’s Church on Boot Street on 2 May at 4.30 p.m. The family has asked for no flowers, and anyone wishing to make a charitable donation is requested to support the NSPCC.

  Carlyle took another bite of his wrap, saw that there was not much of it left, so stuck it all in his mouth.

  ‘Not going to win a Pulitzer Prize, this piece, is it?’

  Joe ignored his boss’s sarcasm. ‘The police investigation was literally open and shut. The coroner’s verdict was “killed himself whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed”.’

  ‘That’s the standard verdict,’ Carlyle remarked. ‘What’s his connection to the Merrion Club?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Joe replied. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been a member, but Paul Hawley said that that they sometimes co-opted lesser mortals.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Hawley, you mean? He wasn’t much use really: a bit of a moaner always straying off the point. He did put me on to the university newspaper, though.’

  Carlyle thought about it all a bit more. ‘A suicidal would-be lawyer doesn’t seem much like proper Merrion material.’

  ‘No, not really,’ Joe agreed, ‘Of course, the whole thing could be a false trail.’

  ‘False or not, it’s the only one we’ve got. Is there anything else of interest about this guy Ashton that might be relevant?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘There was not
hing else I could find out today.’

  ‘Do we know if he had any previous problems?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He’d had no run-ins with the local police, at least.’

  ‘What about his academic record?’

  ‘Haven’t been able to check that out yet,’ said Joe. ‘But, if that article is anything to go by, it should have been fine.’

  Carlyle finished his orange juice, and took the empty glass and plate back to the counter. He was still hungry, so he ordered a double espresso and a slice of fruit cake, before heading back to their table.

  ‘He was an only child,’ Joe continued. ‘Seems that his parents never got over it.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘The mother had a stroke a year later and the father spent years fighting colon cancer. He died in 1997.’

  ‘The poor bastard,’ said Carlyle, as he eyed a very attractive redhead, cheeks flushed from her workout, sauntering towards the exit. ‘The poor fucking bastard.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The father.’ Carlyle paused to acknowledge the arrival of his coffee and cake. He took a mouthful of the latter, and continued: ‘Imagine losing your kid and your wife like that, so close together, and then getting fucking cancer.’

  ‘Maybe the stress brought it on.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Carlyle mused. He nibbled at the cake approvingly. It was dark, moist and heavy, just the way it should be. He dropped the rest of it back on the plate, just to stop himself scoffing the lot in one go. ‘What else did you find out in Cambridge?’

  ‘That’s about it.’ Watching Carlyle stuff his face was making Joe hungry, too. His wife had sent him a text earlier to say that she had made them a curry. He hoped that the kids had left him some, and wanted to get home to find out. ‘Everyone’s buggered off for the summer holidays. The “Come back in two months” signs are out.’

  ‘Well, hopefully, we’ve got what we need from up there already,’ said Carlyle, draining his coffee. ‘Well done, Joe. Not a bad day’s work.’ He stood up and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, searching for his wallet. ‘Now we think we know who this is about, maybe tomorrow we’ll find out why.’

  ‘Maybe the killer will send us a note explaining it all,’ Joe smiled.

  ‘His continued help would be very nice,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘After all, it’s just about the only way we’ve been able to make any progress in this fucking case, so far.’

  Carlyle was brushing his teeth when he heard an electronic yelp from the bedroom. Still brushing, he wandered out of the bathroom and picked up the mobile from the small table on his side of the bed. Without checking who it was, he hit the receive button.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘John? It’s Carole Simpson. Apologies for not returning your call earlier. I was caught up in a budget meeting that went on for more than six hours.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, as he headed back into the bathroom and dropped the toothbrush in the handbasin.

  ‘So where are we now on the investigation?’ Simpson asked.

  Carlyle spent the next couple of minutes filling her in on recent developments.

  After he was done, she said: ‘Progress at last. Well done. It sounds like Joe Szyszkowski has done a good job here.’

  Szyszkowski? Carlyle thought. That pseudo-Polish bastard? What about me? But he restricted himself to a clipped, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And where do we go from here?’

  Carlyle perched himself on the side of the bath. ‘As you can imagine, I really need to speak to the two Carltons and Christian Holyrod, now more than ever. I saw Edgar Carlton very briefly yesterday, but I still haven’t had a time arranged for a proper meeting. One of his advisers, a guy called Murray, is supposed to be getting back to me.’

  ‘I know William Murray,’ Simpson said, ‘or, rather, I’ve met him a couple of times. My husband says he’s one to watch – a potential rising star.’

  ‘Someone ready to cover up his boss’s dirty work?’ Carlyle suggested.

  ‘Someone who is very bright and has worked incredibly hard to get to the position where he is now,’ Simpson replied sharply. ‘Apparently he went to school at some troubled inner London comprehensive, but still got a first in Political History from Cambridge. He’s seen as a poster boy for the non-privileged wing of the party.’

  ‘Good for him,’ Carlyle sneered.

  ‘I will speak to Murray or someone in Edgar’s office, and get this moving,’ she said firmly, choosing to ignore the inspector’s petulance. ‘This has taken too long. I want to get it resolved as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Carlyle was surprised by the note of determination in her voice. Maybe she was feeling some pressure as well.

  ‘In the meantime,’ she added, ‘we have to keep an open mind. The Merrion Club may end up having nothing at all to do with this case. Once you’ve spoken to them, let me know how it went.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Carlyle ended the call and went back to brushing his teeth. He had barely finished that when his mobile went again.

  ‘Inspector Carlyle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is William Murray.’

  Jesus, that was quick, Carlyle thought. He assumed his most official tone. ‘Yes, Mr Murray, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Would eleven a.m. be possible for your meeting with Edgar Carlton?’

  ‘Eleven tomorrow, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be fine.’ Only two days before the election, Carlyle reflected. That is a turn-up.

  ‘Good,’ Murray purred. ‘The meeting will take place at the offices of Badajoz Consulting, 132 Half Moon Street, just off Piccadilly.’

  ‘Who are Badajoz Consulting?’

  ‘They are… advisers to the Carltons.’

  Carlyle snorted. ‘I thought that was your job.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Inspector, if you are preparing to run the country, you really do need the broadest range of top advisers.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Carlyle agreed.

  ‘132 Half Moon Street.’

  ‘Hold on a second.’ Carlyle went back into the bedroom, found a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Half…’

  ‘… Moon Street.’

  ‘Got it.’ He jotted the address down above a half-finished Sudoku puzzle that Helen had left beside the bed. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘It will be our pleasure, Inspector.’

  Sitting up in bed, a little later, Carlyle told his wife about his upcoming meeting with Edgar Carlton.

  ‘It will be interesting to see what you make of him,’ Helen said, peering over her glasses at the newspaper, seemingly more interested in her puzzle than in his work.

  ‘I think we know that already.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, jotting down some numbers before immediately scrubbing them out. ‘But how often do you get to see people like that close up in the flesh? Maybe you’ll see him in a different light, afterwards.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to keep an open mind?’ she sniffed, not lifting her eyes from the page in front of her. ‘Isn’t it your job not to prejudge things?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, non-committally.

  ‘Oh, by the way…’ Helen finally gave up on the Sudoku, letting the newspaper drop to the duvet and removing her spectacles. ‘… I forgot to mention it earlier but I spoke to Eva yesterday.’

  Eva as in Eva Hollander, otherwise Mrs Dominic Silver.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She suggested that we get our kids together during the school holidays. I think Alice will love it.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Carlyle. He knew how much Helen worried about her daughter having playmates during the holidays, being an only child.

  ‘Eva said that you’d already spoken to Dom about it,’ Helen added.

  ‘Not really,’ said Carlyle, rather defensively. ‘I saw him in Soho for a quick chat the ot
her day… mainly about business.’

  ‘What would he know about Carlton?’ Helen asked.

  ‘It’s what he can find out that I’m more interested in.’

  ‘Well, maybe he has found something out.’ Helen reached over to switch off her bedside lamp. ‘Eva says he’s been trying to get hold of you. You need to give him a call.’

  ‘I will.’

  She quickly dived under the duvet.

  Switching off his own light, Carlyle sat for a while in the darkness, reflecting.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Badajoz Consulting identified itself by a shiny brass nameplate alongside the nondescript door of 132 Half Moon Street, a thoroughfare which was home to a mix of offices housing companies that you had never heard of and stores housing luxury goods brands that you had. Offering ‘bespoke management solutions’, the firm occupied the upper three floors. On the very top floor, Edgar and Xavier Carlton and Christian Holyrod had been closeted in the company’s boardroom for over an hour. They eventually talked themselves to a standstill. Strewn across the Italian-designed, dark-oak boardroom table were used coffee cups, glasses and half-empty bottles of carbonated and still Highland Spring water. The shades had been partially drawn, while the air-conditioning kept the temperature at a steady sixty-five degrees.

  The trio had been reviewing the ‘overall situation’, and the mood was now tetchy. With just two days to go, the election campaign had still failed to catch fire, and the polls were continuing to narrow. As far as anyone could tell, the voters were not particularly minded to support anyone. For the first time, one or two newspaper articles had begun speculating that the Carltons could actually snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Meanwhile, the ongoing police investigation showed no signs of reaching a conclusion. The possibility loomed large of the whole thing exploding in their faces just before polling day.