London Calling ic-1

by James Craig

  At one end of the room, Christian Holyrod paced about in front of a monster, sixty-inch television screen, set up for video conferencing but currently blank. Feeling pale and bloated after a couple of years out of the army, the mayor was uncomfortable in his?3,000 suit and ?750 Italian loafers. He was also distinctly uncomfortable at being here in the Badajoz boardroom. Above all, he was annoyed at himself for getting dragged into this sorry mess. As far as he could see, the whole thing was nothing to do with him. It wasn’t his problem and he wasn’t going to take any flak for Edgar’s wretched brother.

  As far as Christian was concerned, Xavier had meant trouble ever since he’d known him. If he were to finally get his come-uppance, that would be no bad thing. Christian smiled to himself. He was a politician now. A professional politician, just as he had been a professional soldier, someone who could see the big picture. Holyrod was well aware that this situation could work out very nicely for him in the longer term. For anything that damaged Xavier could see Holyrod emerge as Edgar’s natural successor. Potentially, in less than a decade, he could be the country’s first soldier turned prime minister since Churchill. Winston bloody Churchill! There was a thought to put fire in the belly and stir the blood!

  Christian glanced around at his brothers in arms. ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ he said, gesturing towards the door. ‘We can’t leave them out there forever.’

  ‘Yes,’ Xavier agreed, ‘let’s do it. I have a lunch appointment in an hour’ – he rolled his eyes to the ceiling – ‘with the bloody Women’s Institute!’

  ‘Fine.’ Edgar gestured to William Murray, hovering nervously in the shadows. ‘Bring them in.’ As the special assistant headed out of the room, Edgar turned to the other two. ‘Leave this to me. I’ll do all the talking.’

  Two minutes later, Carlyle and Joe Szyszkowski were ushered into the room and offered the chairs closest to the door. Immediately to their left, Edgar took his seat at the head of the table. Murray slipped round to sit on Edgar’s right, pen and paper in front of him, ready to take notes. Xavier and Holyrod sat down a couple of places down, directly facing the two policemen.

  ‘Our apologies for keeping you waiting, Inspector,’ said Edgar as he poured himself a fresh glass of sparkling water. ‘I think that you will know everyone round the table, by reputation at least.’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Edgar smiled. ‘I also thought it would be useful to have our head of security present, too.’ He nodded at Murray, who again skipped out of the room, returning almost immediately with another man.

  Entering the room from directly behind Carlyle, the new arrival offered nothing by word of greeting, merely moved around the table and dropped heavily into the seat next to Edgar Carlton, depriving Miller of his place. For several seconds, time stood still. The new arrival eyed the two policemen, silently, only the slightest of smiles playing across his lips. It took Carlyle a moment to accept the reality of the situation. He hadn’t seen the man facing him for more than twenty-five years – and he wished he was not looking at him now.

  Carlyle bit down firmly on the inside of his cheek and took a deep breath.

  ‘Hello, Trevor.’

  Time had not been kind to his old adversary. His face looked worn, greyer; the hair was largely gone and he had gained a lot of weight. He could easily pass for a man ten or even fifteen years older. But, beneath the additional layers of fat, Carlyle could still make out the same petulant child. More than anything, it was the eyes. They were the same: dead, and sullen and dangerous.

  Looking uncomfortable in his suit and tie, Trevor Miller glanced at his boss and grunted.

  ‘Of course,’ Edgar smiled warmly, ‘you two already know each other.’

  ‘We go back a long way,’ Carlyle replied evenly.

  ‘That’s good,’ Edgar said cheerily. ‘Anyway, Inspector, you now have our full attention.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We only have a little time, so how can we be of help to you?’

  Carlyle looked him straight in the eye. ‘What can you tell me about Robert Ashton?’

  Edgar took another sip of water and prepared himself. ‘What happened to Robert was tragic, truly tragic. He always did appear to have a self-destructive streak, but no one thought that he would go that far. I will remember his suicide as long as I live.’

  It was a well-rehearsed opening. Bloody Simpson, Carlyle thought, she’s marked their card. This meeting is going to be a complete charade.

  ‘I attended the funeral,’ Edgar continued. ‘So did Christian here.’

  ‘It’s not something you are ever going to forget,’ added Holyrod.

  ‘What was his connection with the Merrion Club?’ Carlyle asked.

  Edgar looked slowly around the table before his gaze settled back on Carlyle. ‘We knew him… he was an acquaintance.’ He paused. ‘No, he was more than that; he was a friend. But he was not a member of the club.’

  ‘So why are former members of the Merrion Club being killed off now, after all this time?’ Joe asked. ‘And what has it got to do with Robert Ashton?’

  Carlyle looked at Miller, but the man’s eyes were focused on some imaginary spot in the middle distance and he refused to make eye contact.

  Edgar’s smile grew even wider. ‘That is what we are hoping the inspector here is going to tell us.’

  Carlyle slowly gazed around the room.

  Holyrod stared at a space above Carlyle’s head.

  Xavier fought to hide a smirk.

  Head down, Murray scribbled notes on his pad.

  ‘Tell us, Inspector,’ Edgar purred, ‘how is your investigation going?’

  ‘We are making progress,’ Carlyle replied evenly, ‘but what I need to know from you is whether someone out there could somehow hold your club responsible for Ashton’s death?’

  Edgar spread his hands out in front of him. ‘I don’t see how.’ He looked for confirmation to the others, who shook their heads on cue. ‘Robert committed suicide,’ he repeated. ‘That was the official verdict, wasn’t it?’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘We had all already left Cambridge by then,’ Edgar continued, ‘but, of course, it was no less shocking for that.’

  ‘Yet something happened there that is coming back to haunt you almost thirty years later,’ Carlyle said, almost casually. ‘Why don’t you tell me what it was?’

  ‘We are simply not aware that suggestion is correct,’ replied Edgar stiffly.

  Xavier lowered his gaze to the table.

  ‘What else can you tell me about Robert Ashton?’ Carlyle asked gently. ‘Was he ever… injured in some way by members of the Merrion Club.’

  ‘No.’ Edgar expressed no hesitation. ‘Never.’

  ‘I’m not sure that you are being totally open with me,’ said Carlyle, again without any edge to his tone.

  Miller, no longer distracted by something on the ceiling, eyed Carlyle angrily, but still said nothing. Edgar leant forward slightly across the desk, the slightest hint of irritation creasing his brow. ‘I’m sorry to hear you say that, Inspector.’ He spoke carefully and slowly. ‘I can assure you that we have offered you, and we will continue to offer you, any and every assistance possible. The very fact that we are here now confirms that.’

  The others nodded.

  It illustrates that you’re shitting yourselves, Carlyle thought. ‘That is indeed reassuring,’ he said, ‘but it appears that there is still a serious threat to each of you. My job is to try to ensure your safety.’

  ‘We have plenty of security of our own, thank you, Inspector,’ said Xavier. ‘Mr Miller here is very thorough.’

  ‘That is good to know,’ Carlyle replied, now looking directly at Xavier, ‘but it doesn’t change the nature of the job that Sergeant Szyszkowski and I are tasked with.’ He turned back to face Edgar. ‘We must always keep an open mind about the possibilities, but it seems that Robert Ashton is the key to all of this. There must be some connection here, and it is very difficult for me t
o believe that you gentlemen are not aware of what it is or, at least, what it might be.’

  Edgar thought for a minute. ‘We are straightforward men, Inspector. What are you suggesting here?’ Frowning, he forced himself to take a deep breath. ‘Do you think there’s been some kind of… conspiracy of silence?’

  ‘I don’t usually believe in conspiracies,’ Carlyle replied evenly, ‘but cock-ups, yes. You see them all the time. And cover-ups, too. Accidents happen. Things go wrong. People make bad choices.’ Carlyle paused for effect. ‘I know how extremely sensitive an issue this is, and how poor the timing. Therefore we are making strenuous efforts to avoid this business becoming public, as you know. No one wants a media circus.’

  ‘For which we are very grateful,’ Holyrod said.

  ‘But’ – Carlyle looked at each of them in turn – ‘I wouldn’t want to see anyone making any more bad choices here, not after all this time.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Xavier bridled.

  ‘No,’ replied Carlyle calmly, ‘absolutely not. I am simply doing my job. Unfortunately, I have seen a lot of difficult situations made worse by poor decision-making.’

  ‘Our decision making is excellent,’ Xavier snapped. Edgar gave him a dirty look, but he ignored it. ‘We don’t need any lessons on exercising our judgement from you.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ said Carlyle, letting the reproach slide off him. He was trying to sound as humble as possible while resisting the urge to reach across the table, grab that little wanker Xavier Carlton by the throat and squeeze the truth out of him.

  ‘Do you have an actual theory about what’s going on here, Inspector?’ Trevor Miller lent back in his chair. ‘Or, indeed, any proof?’

  Carlyle ignored the question and the questioner. He had rattled their cages enough for now, and decided to back off. He would play the dumb copper looking for leads. Turning back to Edgar, he asked, ‘Could this be about something else entirely?’ He waved his hands in the air in a vague fashion, ignoring Joe’s quizzical glance. ‘Those club members that have died, was there any other connection between them that we may be missing still?’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Edgar made a face. ‘We will meanwhile put our heads together and see if we can come up with anything.’ He stood up, which was a signal that the meeting was over. ‘In the meantime, thank you for coming to see us. If you need anything else, you can contact us through William’ – he nodded in the direction of Murray, sitting in the corner – ‘or Trevor, of course.’

  Before Carlyle could respond, Murray had jumped up and rushed to open the door. Within seconds, they were out of the boardroom and back in the lift heading towards the ground floor. Glancing at his watch, Carlyle saw that their whole session had lasted barely eight minutes.

  Back on the street, an extremely well-dressed but heartbreakingly ugly woman walked by, with a massive shopping bag in each hand. Shutting his eyes, Carlyle wondered if that meeting had taken place at all, or if he’d simply dreamt it.

  ‘What do you think?’ Joe asked.

  Hands on hips, Carlyle looked up and down the street. He hadn’t been expecting a blast from the past like Trevor Miller to drop into the middle of an already troublesome investigation, and therefore felt distracted and agitated. Calm down, he told himself, then you can think straight.

  He turned to Joe and smiled: ‘I think it’s time for an early lunch.’

  Having wandered back towards Piccadilly, Carlyle steered them into the excellent but normally largely empty News Cafe in the basement of the massive Seringapatam amp; Mysore bookstore on Lower Regent Street. Few of the people browsing the bookshelves upstairs even realised that the cafe existed. The food was a bit expensive, but you could borrow a magazine from the nearby racks for a free read while you ate. Carlyle particularly liked it because you could usually guarantee getting a table to yourself. He didn’t like being squeezed in between strangers while he was eating.

  A copy of France Football caught his eye. It promised an in-depth interview with the French national coach, who apparently used astrology and tarot to help him pick his team. It was a bizarre thought, but no one would have batted an eyelid if their results hadn’t been so crap. Given that the magazine was in French, Carlyle wouldn’t be able to read it properly, but he would still be able to get the gist and look at the pictures. Perfect.

  Magazine in hand, he was weighing up the relative merits of a Summer Bean amp; Herb Soup or a Chicken Avocado Salad, when his phone went. With a sigh, Carlyle pulled the handset from the breast pocket of his jacket and peered at the screen. It took him a second to realise that it was blank. It was Joe’s phone that had gone off, rather than his.

  The sergeant was no happier at being interrupted than his boss was, and he pondered for a couple of seconds before deciding to answer it.

  ‘Hello?… Yes… Hold on a second.’ He tapped Carlyle on the shoulder and held out the phone. ‘It’s for you.’

  Still pondering whether to go for the soup or the salad, Carlyle felt reluctant to take the call. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joe shrugged. ‘They didn’t say.’

  Carlyle sighed. Sometimes his sergeant’s lack of curiosity seemed quite baffling. He took the mobile and stepped away from the chilled cabinet. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Why don’t you ever answer your damn phone? Do you want me to solve this bloody case for you, or not?’

  Carlyle stepped further away from Joe. ‘I’m sorry, Dominic. We’ve been busy.’

  ‘Have you sorted this thing out yet?’ Dom asked, well aware what the answer would be.

  ‘No.’ Carlyle then remembered the message Dom had left on his voicemail. ‘How did you find out about the Merrion Club?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of something called Google?’ Dom grunted. ‘It’s really quite handy. I typed in the names you gave me, and it took me to the heart of this particular matter in about zero-point-zero bloody zero of a second.’

  ‘I see,’ said Carlyle, embarrassed.

  ‘You could have just laid it out for me and saved us a bit of time.’

  ‘About zero-point-zero bloody zero of a second,’ he couldn’t help echoing.

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse,’ Dom snapped. ‘I can’t be expected to help you if you go all Inspector fucking Clouseau on me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not like I’m going to blow your cover.’

  ‘No.’ Carlyle wasn’t in the mood for this conversation. He was hungry, and he didn’t want an argument.

  ‘Who am I going to tell?’ Dom continued. ‘I see even the papers are keeping a lid on this one.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Carlyle sighed. ‘So far, so good.’ He knew that the media blackout could only last for so long.

  ‘I couldn’t sell the story even if I wanted to,’ Dominic teased.

  ‘OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I could have been more forthcoming. I should have mentioned it at the time.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘So… what have you got?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Silver asked.

  Carlyle explained his location.

  ‘Meet me in St James’s Square in twenty minutes. You can bring us some lunch.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ Dom said cheerily. ‘I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a pomegranate juice. Maybe a banana, as well.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Trafalgar Square, London, March 1990

  The woman was clearly in shock. She stood less than ten feet away, staring at him or, rather, through him, oblivious to the background roar of the crowd. Still gripping her Socialist Worker ‘Break the Tory Poll Tax’ placard, she was caught in a small sliver of no-man’s land between her fellow protesters and a group of police in riot gear, who were holding small, round shields in one hand and batons in the other. Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, dripped off her chin and splashed on to the road. This being a very English type of riot, both sides
politely ignored her. Feeling like a voyeur, Sergeant John Carlyle looked away.

  He was on duty, but out of uniform. Over a Combat Rock sweatshirt, he wore a red body-warmer which had PRESS spelt out on the back in black marker pen. An expensive Nikon SLR camera hanging from his neck added to the effect. Working out of Paddington Green police station, Carlyle had been assigned to Counter Terrorism duties for two years now. He had turned up today at the anti-Poll Tax rally in Trafalgar Square to see if some of his charges – a ragbag collection of domestic terrorists, otherwise scumbags who had hitched their wagon to the Animal Liberation movement and the Class War anarchist group – had decided to join in the fun.

  Looking out for thirty or so ‘names’ in the midst of this crowd, perhaps as much as one hundred thousand strong, wasn’t the most sophisticated form of surveillance ever undertaken by the Metropolitan Police. But, despite the likelihood that it was wild-goose chase, Carlyle had been curious to see how the day would develop. Everyone knew that not enough overtime had been put on the table to cope with this one, and with too few police available to be deployed, serious trouble was always on the cards.

  And so it proved. By the time he had arrived, just before 6 p.m., the rally was well on the way to becoming one of the worst riots seen in the city for a century. Cars had been overturned and set alight; local shops and restaurants had their windows smashed and were forced to close; nearby tube stations were shut; and many streets had been cordoned off. People were milling around with nowhere to go and, since many had been drinking all day, violence was inevitable. The atmosphere was tense.

  Standing on a traffic island in the middle of Duncannon Street, Carlyle watched a half-brick come flying through the evening sky, catching one unfortunate constable on the back of the head. Been there, son, thought Carlyle, done that. He watched the dazed officer being helped into the back of the ambulance by his clearly agitated colleagues, already knowing what would come next. Once the ambulance was on its way, the sergeant in charge gave the nod, and police on either side of him waded into the motley collection of demonstrators, with batons flying.