by James Craig
‘Just quickly then,’ said Joe, as he stifled a yawn. ‘First, it looks like we’re gonna get nothing from the CCTV.’
‘Great.’
‘There’s no way we can get even a partial shot of the killer’s face.’
‘Was that luck? Or did he know what he was doing?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ Carlyle said. ‘What’s the second thing?’
‘Simpson wants to see you.’
‘Oh good.’ The inspector raised his eyes to the sky. ‘The day just keeps getting better and better.’
‘She would like you to get over to Paddington asap.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He gazed out of the window at the palace. It had started to rain. ‘I’m in Victoria anyway. I’ll finish up here, nip over and see her and then meet you back at the station in . . . let’s say a couple of hours.’
‘Fine.’
Ending the call, Carlyle tossed his phone on to the table.
‘Problem?’ Millington asked.
‘Just the usual. Tell me more about last night.’
‘It was very low key,’ she said. ‘I’d booked the tickets weeks ago. Duncan clearly wanted to watch the football instead, but he at least managed to turn up, which wasn’t always the case. When his phone went off, he mumbled something about a story and disappeared.’
‘Do you know what the story was?’ Carlyle asked.
‘No.’ Millington shook her head. ‘To be honest, I thought he was making it up.’
‘Oh?’
‘It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d got one of his mates to ring up and pretend to be a work call.’
‘So you were annoyed?’
She looked offended at such a stupid question. ‘I should say so. I was even more pissed off when he texted me ten minutes later saying he would have to go and see some guy.’
‘Some guy?’
‘I assume. Don’t know.’ Grabbing the BlackBerry from the table, she clicked a few keys and showed Carlyle the message on the screen: Sorry. Important meeting. C u back at urs.
And to think people worry about the future of the English language, Carlyle thought. ‘So you were expecting him to come back to your place?’
Millington nodded. ‘When he didn’t turn up, I tried his place a few times then I called the police.’
‘It was only a couple of hours.’
‘I know, but the thing about Duncan was that he was always contactable. It never took him more than five minutes to return a call or send an email. He was the ultimate multi-tasker.’ She tutted. ‘Once, he even tried to text a message to his Editor when we were shagging.’
Too much information. Carlyle felt himself blush slightly. ‘So you were worried?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Yes. I was pretty sure that something was up.’
‘Can you tell me anything else about the guy he went off to meet?’
Another pout. Another snooty expression. Carlyle was reminded just how much he didn’t like lawyers.
‘Or the story that he was working on?’
‘Like I said, no.’
What else should he ask? ‘Was Duncan depressed? Did he seem stressed?’
‘Inspector,’ Millington laughed, ‘everyone in this city is stressed, don’t you think?’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle conceded. ‘But being a tabloid journalist is particularly tough.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘Duncan was very insecure. You’re only as good as your next story and all that. He was on some rolling freelance contract. The whole thing was so wearisome – it was one of the reasons I was going to end the relationship.’
The smells coming from the kitchen were beginning to distract the inspector from the matter in hand. Sadly, however, it looked like his host wasn’t going to offer him lunch. Carlyle scooped up his scrap of paper and his empty biro. ‘Final question – did Duncan have any enemies?’
‘Professionally?’
‘Any kind at all.’
‘Not as far as I knew.’
‘None at all?’
‘Duncan was a likeable guy. And he had that great skill for a tabloid reporter – he could do someone over and they’d still ring him up the next day to thank him for the piece.’
‘On the other hand,’ Carlyle mused, ‘someone stabbed him multiple times in the chest.’
Gemma Millington stared out of the window for a few moments, clearly thinking something through. Finally, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘You might want to talk to this guy.’ She placed the card in front of Carlyle. Lene Bang, FMP LLP.
The inspector looked suitably confused.
‘That’s Duncan’s lawyer.’
‘Why did he need a lawyer?’
‘Rightly or wrongly,’ Millington explained, ‘Duncan was worried about getting caught up in the Witness phone-hacking scandal.’
Alarm bells started ringing in the back of the inspector’s head.
‘Some of his stories were under investigation,’ she went on.
The bells were getting louder. Why couldn’t he have a straightforward multiple stabbing, without any of this other crap?
‘He had already been questioned under caution.’
The bells, the bells . . .
‘I’m sure you know all this anyway.’
Yeah, Carlyle thought sarcastically, of course I did, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it in the last half an hour.
‘Lene will be able to give you more details.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle picked the card off the table and dropped it into his pocket. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet as his stomach started to rumble. ‘I need to get going. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
‘Fine.’ Already tapping away on her BlackBerry, Gemma Millington looked like she could not care less.
SIXTEEN
Wondering what to do with his Greggs plastic bag containing a cheese and pickle sandwich and a Belgian bun, Carlyle sat patiently in Simpson’s office in Paddington Green police station, waiting for the Commander to finish her phone call.
‘Mm.’ The furrows on the Commander’s brow deepened as she listened to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line. ‘I don’t think that’s necessarily possible.’
She’s what, Carlyle wondered, five years younger than me? Six? And already looking old! The stresses and strains of leadership are clearly taking their toll.
‘Are you sure that is the best use of resources?’ Simpson held up a finger to suggest to the inspector that she would only be another minute. ‘I’m not . . . No, of course. I understand.’ Ending the call, she shot Carlyle an apologetic look. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘No problem,’ he shrugged.
Simpson gestured at the blue and white plastic bag resting on Carlyle’s lap. ‘What’s that?’
‘Lunch.’
‘This won’t take long.’ She waited while he carefully placed the bag on the floor. ‘That was Simon Shelbourne on the phone.’
Carlyle made a Who’s that? gesture.
‘Shelbourne is the Met’s Director of Strategic Communications.’
‘Ah. It’s good to know that we’ve got one of those.’
‘The Commissioner’s spin doctor,’ she elaborated. ‘Sir Chester just took a pile of grief at a press conference to do with the Mosman boy, and now they want to know that you’re on top of things.’
Carlyle nodded.
‘And are you on top of things?’
‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’ Simpson echoed.
‘I had to pick up the Duncan Brown case this morning.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘The bloke stabbed to death whose body was dumped in the back of a rubbish truck.’
Simpson grunted. She didn’t want to hear about that.
‘I was only with the Mosman kid by accident,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘Anyway, surely it’s one for the Bomb Squad?’
‘They’re involved, obviously,’
Simpson replied, ‘but they haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory on this one.’
‘No, I can see that.’
‘And Sir Chester informed the assembled press that you’re the officer leading it.’
‘Me? But why?’ Carlyle listened to his stomach rumbling.
Because I dropped you in it and yours was the only name he could remember when some hack put him on the spot. ‘No idea.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Look, all Sir Chester wants is to get the media off his back as quickly as possible. So why not get the wheels in motion on the . . . other thing.’
‘Duncan Brown.’
Simpson nodded. ‘Get things started on the Brown case and then focus your attention on Mosman. We just have to display some momentum before he goes into hospital.’
Carlyle scowled. ‘Before who goes into hospital?’
‘Sir Chester. He needs an operation on his back, apparently. Once he disappears into his private suite, the pressure will be off.’
‘Unless someone else gets blown up.’
‘Quite.’ Simpson gave him a sharp look. ‘But that’s not going to happen, is it?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
Now it was the Commander’s turn to scowl. ‘That’s the great thing about you, John: you always manage to stay positive.’
‘Maybe I need a spin doctor of my own,’ Carlyle quipped.
Maybe you need a firm smack round the head, Simpson thought. ‘What else have you got on at the moment?’
‘Not a lot.’ The inspector scratched his head. ‘Joe’s been checking out a missing teenager, but that’s about it.’
‘Good. Focus on Mosman for the next couple of days, and then we’ll see where we are.’ Reaching across the desk, she pulled a sheaf of papers towards her, signalling that their meeting was over.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle got to his feet and turned towards the door.
‘Oh – and Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
Simpson pointed to the plastic bag sitting by the chair. ‘Don’t forget your lunch.’
SEVENTEEN
‘What did you expect? A half-empty bottle of scotch and twenty Benson & Hedges?’ Sylvain Bellamy fixed Joe Szyszkowski with a gimlet eye, as he finished off his green salad with a flourish.
‘I didn’t expect anything,’ replied the sergeant defensively.
‘The days of long boozy lunches are long gone.’ The Editor of the Sunday Witness tossed the remains of his takeaway box into a nearby wastebasket and took a slug of sparkling water from a small plastic bottle. ‘There’s no time for bad habits any longer and you don’t get anywhere in this game if you don’t look after yourself.’ He had the slightly emaciated, hollow-cheeked look of a man who believed in looking after himself, or at least ran regular marathons. He gestured towards a framed certificate hanging on the wall behind his head. ‘They sent me to Harvard last year, to do an MBA.’
‘Good for you,’ Joe mumbled.
‘Zenger Corporation takes the professional development of its employees very seriously,’ Bellamy smiled. ‘At least for those of us that make it off the news desk.’
Sitting back in his chair, Joe looked through the window that offered a view across the empty newsroom. The place looked like a DIY warehouse filled with row after row of desks and computers, their screens illuminated by the strip lighting suspended from the ceiling. The overall effect was profoundly depressing. It made Charing Cross police station look like a palace.
‘Before we start,’ Bellamy interrupted the sergeant’s musings, ‘I have to tell you that I won’t be able to deal with any detailed questions about Duncan Brown or his work or about the hacking inquiry.’
Joe turned back to face the Editor. ‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Both. You can, of course, ask me anything you like. However, if we stray into . . . difficult territory, one of our lawyers will have to be present.’
Joe nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘You have to realize that the amount of discretion I have here is severely limited. Indeed, if my boss knew you were here now, she would be very unhappy.’
‘Maybe I should speak to your boss.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Bellamy agreed. ‘But you won’t get anywhere near Sonia Claesens without an army of lawyers getting in your way. Not to mention Trevor Miller stomping all over you.’
Trevor Miller? Joe thought. Fucking hell, what’s he got to do with this? Play dumb, he told himself. In the inside pocket of his jacket his mobile started vibrating – for the third time in the past minute. For the third time in the past minute, he ignored it. ‘Who’s Trevor Miller?’
‘Hah!’ Bellamy thumped the table in amusement. ‘You don’t know much, Sergeant, do you?’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe smiled, careful not to rise to the bait. ‘So, what can you tell me about Duncan Brown?’ he asked. ‘Did he look after himself?’
‘I suppose so . . . as much as anyone here does, anyway.’ Bellamy carefully replaced the green cap on his bottle of water as he paused for a moment’s reflection on his dear departed colleague. ‘The important thing to realize is that Duncan was a good lad, a solid citizen.’
‘Why would anyone want to stab him to death, then?’
Bellamy ran a hand through his silver locks. ‘As you can imagine, Sergeant, I have given that some considerable thought.’
‘And?’
‘No idea,’ Bellamy laughed. ‘I genuinely don’t know.’
‘But—’ The phone started vibrating again. ‘Fuck.’ Joe pulled it from his pocket and saw Carlyle’s name on the screen. ‘Apologies. Excuse me a second, I need to take this.’
Bellamy gave a gracious nod and turned his attention to the screen of the computer standing on his desk.
‘Where are you?’ the inspector asked without preamble.
‘I’m in Docklands.’
Carlyle harrumphed. ‘What are you doing in fucking Docklands?’
‘It’s where Duncan Brown worked,’ said Joe, trying to hide his irritation. ‘I’m talking to his boss.’
‘Well get your arse back to Charing Cross, tonto pronto,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘But—’
‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘But—’
‘Simpson says we have to focus on Mosman.’
‘But—’
‘No more fucking buts. See you back at the ranch asap.’
Bloody Carlyle, Joe thought, irritated. Always swanning around in his own little world, acting like he was the only one trying to shovel shit. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
‘Good. See you soon.’ Without another word, the inspector ended the call.
Bellamy looked up from his screen and smiled. ‘Problem?’
‘We’ll have to talk later, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m always here.’
‘Good to know.’ Joe flicked through a mental checklist in his head. ‘In the meantime, I will send someone to check through Brown’s desk and computer. It would also be helpful to have a list of his contacts.’
Grinning, Bellamy waved a hand towards the newsroom. ‘We have a hot-desking system here. Everyone moves around all the time, so we won’t be able to show you a specific desk or computer terminal.’
‘Great.’
‘But I’m sure that the IT people will be able to sort something out – once our lawyers have okayed it.’
‘Fine. We’ll be in touch.’ Joe jumped to his feet. Having just been beaten up by his boss, he wasn’t going to let some mere hack take the piss. ‘Don’t bother getting up. I can see myself out.’
EIGHTEEN
Still holding the Greggs plastic bag containing his lunch, a now very hungry Carlyle skipped up the front steps of Charing Cross police station. Reaching the top, he felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. With some reluctance, he pulled it out.
‘Inspector, it’s Julian Richardson here.’
‘Who?’
‘Julian Richardson.’ The yo
ung man sounded pained at having to repeat his name. ‘From St John’s Wood.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the inspector irritably, belatedly recalling that Richardson was the sergeant placed in charge of logistical coordination for the Mosman case. ‘What do you want?’ If he didn’t get something to eat in the next five minutes, there was every chance that the inspector would go into total meltdown.
‘I have just spoken to Melvin Boduka, the lawyer acting for Horatio Mosman’s parents. He says his clients will be able to see you this afternoon.’ Richardson reeled off an address near Park Lane.
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Tell them I’m on my way.’ Ending the call, he stepped through the automatic doors. He would nip down to the canteen, scarf down his lunch, leave a list of things for Joe to be getting on with and then head back out.
‘Inspector!’ Half-turning, Carlyle tried to keep walking even as he smiled at the desk sergeant. ‘How’s it going, George?’
‘Could I have a minute?’
‘Er . . .’
George Patrick gestured in the direction of a thin, angry-looking, middle-aged woman who was standing in front of the desk. On first glance, Carlyle thought that she seemed vaguely familiar, but then so did lots of people. ‘This lady could do with some assistance,’ George explained.
‘Sorry,’ Carlyle tried to look sympathetic, ‘but I’ve got to go and—’
‘I’ve been waiting to speak to someone for almost an hour now,’ the woman said huffily, eyeing the bag containing the inspector’s lunch. She stepped towards him. ‘It’s a very serious matter.’
Burying his nose in some convenient paperwork, George Patrick tried not to laugh.
‘And anyway,’ continued the woman, ignoring the sniggering desk sergeant, ‘don’t you know who I am?’
‘You talk, I’ll eat.’ Ignoring the look of displeasure that flitted across Margaretha Zelle’s face, the inspector tore open the cellophane packaging, pulled out his sandwich and took a large bite.
Sitting back in her chair in the almost empty canteen, Zelle cradled a glass mug of jasmine tea. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who I am?’
Trying not to speak with his mouth full, the inspector made a non-committal gesture. The truth was that it had come to him on the way down to the basement. Margaretha Zelle was an over-exposed London celebrity. Not so long ago, he had read about her latest exploits in one of the trashy magazines that his wife brought home with alarming regularity.
