by James Craig
‘Maybe the killer is the common link.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe Miller is the killer?’
Carlyle thought back to the CCTV pictures. ‘Nah.’
‘But he could be connected to it somehow?’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s simple, then,’ Helen announced, reaching over and picking up her cup of tea. ‘All you have to do is find the killer.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Carlyle sarcastically. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
The door to the hotel room clicked open. With a deep sigh, Zoe Mosman dropped the key card into her Marc Jacobs leather satchel, pushed it open and stepped inside.
‘Come in. Help yourself to a drink.’
Zoe dropped the bag on to the floor and tried to wish away the monster headache that was building at the base of her skull. Scanning the hotel room, she forced herself to confront the scene before her; a flashback to a former life.
The man lying on the bed, his erection clearly visible through his underwear, kept his gaze on the football match playing on the muted TV.
For the briefest moment, the sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. It was like she was nineteen years old again.
Almost.
‘Get me another vodka, will you?’
Zoe reached into the minibar, pulling out a handful of 5cl bottles. Tossing a Grey Goose towards the bed, she slipped into the bathroom and dumped two miniatures of Hendrick’s gin into a glass standing by the washbasin. Throwing back her head, she downed them both in one. Her headache was getting worse. Turning on the tap, she splashed some cold water on her face and gazed into the mirror. A little girl lost.
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘I’m just coming.’ Burying her head in a towel, she fought back a sob. A small box of paracetamol sat by the basin; popping three, she washed them down with some water. ‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she hissed. ‘Pull yourself together.’
‘Zoe?’
Feeling sick to her stomach, she stepped back into the bedroom. He was naked now, sitting on the end of the bed, cradling himself with one hand while holding a scalpel in the other.
‘Come.’
Obediently she stepped in front of him, her eyes flicking from his erection to the blade. Her obvious discomfort seemed to excite him even more; she could see the pre-cum glistening on the tip of his penis, and she worried that he was about to ejaculate all over her Iro Svevalia leather skirt.
‘Do you remember the first time?’
Zoe nodded. It was the greatest misfortune of her life; probably the last thing she would remember on her deathbed.
He waved the scalpel airily. ‘That was what? Twenty-three years ago?’
‘Something like that.’ Her throat was dry and it came out like a whisper. The blade definitely had her full attention now.
‘You were the best thousand dollars that I ever spent. Ever. You know that, don’t you?’
She opened her mouth but no words came out.
‘Real value for money.’ The accent that she used to find so sexy now made her skin crawl.
‘You’ve told me before,’ she mumbled, determined not to start crying.
‘And you are still as beautiful as ever.’ He patted his soft belly. ‘Me? My cock might still be hard but I’m going to seed. For a man, that’s inevitable. But women, they fight it. And you . . .’
Blinking back a tear, she dropped to her knees.
‘No, no.’ He gestured for her to get back up. ‘Not yet.’
Slowly, Zoe did as she was told.
‘We’ve come a long way together.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am sorry that it has to end like this.’
As she nodded, great heaving sobs welled up inside her chest.
‘There, there,’ he said, making no effort to dry her tears. ‘At least we can part as friends.’
Stroking himself gently, he waited for the crying to stop. ‘Poor Horatio. Did you know he was addicted to pornography? Or maybe he was just an average teenage boy these days. You know, there have been times when I have wondered: maybe he was mine?’
‘Fuck you,’ Zoe hissed, lunging for the scalpel. But she was too slow. Pulling the blade away from her grasp, he caught her on the jaw with a sharp jab from his free hand, sending her sprawling backwards. Before she could get to her feet, he was dragging her by the hair towards the bed.
‘Come here.’ Breathing heavily, he pushed her on to the duvet, waving the blade in front of her face. If anything, her attempt to fight back had excited him even more. ‘There is no need for that. You have to be pragmatic.’
Pragmatic? That was the story of her life.
The sobs came again but no more tears. She was all cried out.
‘I am sorry about Horatio, truly I am. But you have to realize how serious this is. We have got ourselves into this situation – yes, “we”, because I include myself in that – and now we have to sort it out. If we are successful, no one else needs to get hurt.’ He smirked. ‘At least, no one else in your family.’
‘And if not?’
He looked at her with a mixture of lust and contempt. ‘I wouldn’t think like that, if I were you.’
‘I only ever did this for Ivor and the kids,’ she whimpered. Squirming on the bed, she suddenly felt a desperate need to pee.
‘Zoe, Zoe, Zoe . . . don’t lie to yourself. You did it because of who you are. You needed the excitement, the drama, the money and the drugs. Remember how it made you wet. Don’t lie to yourself about it now, because it isn’t worth it. You’ve got to be true to yourself.’ Leaning forward, he brought the scalpel down towards her abdomen, slitting the skirt so that it fell from her like the dead skin of a snake. With the tip of the blade tickling the inside of her thigh, he traced the outline of her Coco Blues briefs. ‘And you know what you are, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Zoe could barely hear her own voice over the furious beating of her heart.
‘It was clear that motherhood was always going to be the wrong choice for you.’ The big man let out a theatrical sigh. ‘And why you married that English loser will always be a complete mystery to me. God! You must have been bored out of your skull for years now!’
Saying nothing, she tried to struggle off the bed.
‘Not now,’ he warned her, grabbing her arm with his free hand.
‘But—’
‘But nothing!’ As he pulled her roughly towards him, she felt her bladder give way. The arc of golden urine spilling across the linen sheets only seemed to excite him more. ‘Do I scare you that much?’ His eyes sparkled with delight. ‘Surely not.’ He gestured to the side of the bed that was still dry. ‘Lie back.’
Engulfed in shame, Zoe did as she was told. Pushing her legs apart, he sliced open the sodden briefs. Carefully peeling the scraps of silk from her skin, he lifted them to his face and inhaled deeply. ‘Ahhh!’ Tossing the destroyed underwear and the scalpel on to the bed, he barely managed to force himself inside her before delivering a shuddering climax.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sliding off the wet bed, Zoe Mosman skulked into the bathroom. After cleaning herself up, she returned to inspect the tattered remains of her clothing. Her skirt was now unwearable, not to mention her panties. How the hell was she going to get home?
A loud fart came from the direction of the bed. ‘There are some jeans you can use.’
Zoe reached for the wardrobe door.
‘Not yet. When we’ve finished.’
‘But—’
‘Take off your shirt. And the bra.’
Descending into a fresh circle of hell, Zoe once again did as she was instructed.
He let out a low whistle. ‘God, you really are in great shape. You must starve yourself.’
Momentarily lost in thought, she ran a finger round her belly button.
‘It’s amazing how you can still excite me after all these years.’
In spite of everything, a small grin crept across Zoe�
��s face. Hands on hips, she stood at the end of the bed watching him try, and fail, to restore his erection. Finally, tiring of this losing battle, he propped himself up with a pillow. It was time to get down to business.
‘So,’ he began, trying to sound casual, ‘how are we going to solve this little problem of ours? Do you think you can handle the police?’
‘Maybe the police wouldn’t have gotten involved if you hadn’t—’
‘Don’t be silly. It was only a matter of time. Better to deal with it and move on.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I know that if you hadn’t been so determined to bury your head in the sand, I wouldn’t have had to take such . . . drastic action.’ He held her eye. ‘Now: can you deal with the police?’
Thinking about it, she scratched an itch between her legs. ‘They know nothing. I would be more worried about the CAG investigation. Harris Highman should be able to complete his audit in a matter of weeks. Then they will know what’s missing. It will come back to me eventually – probably sooner rather than later.’
‘But this guy Highman is just some tiresome old civil servant. We can handle him, don’t you think?’
Feeling tears rising up again, she said nothing.
‘Zoe?’
Wiping her nose on the back of her wrist, she nodded.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘That’s settled. Now come back over here.’
Slowly, slowly, slowly, Carlyle slid back into the here and now. The disconcerting noise that he could no longer ignore meant that either the mice were back or his mobile was dancing on the table next to the bed. Sticking a hand out from under the duvet, he answered it.
‘Hello?’ said a man’s voice. In the background he could hear traffic noises. ‘Were you asleep?’
‘No, no.’ Carlyle yawned. The clock by the bed said 10.02, so he must have slept in. How did that happen?
‘Why didn’t you give me a call?’
‘Well . . .’ He still wasn’t quite sure who he was speaking to.
‘Have you got anything for me yet? I can’t sit on this Hannah Gillespie thing forever, you know.’
One small mystery solved. Needing a piss, he rolled out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. ‘I know, Bernie, I know.’
‘Where are you now?’ Bernie Gilmore demanded.
‘Drury Lane.’ It was close enough.
There was a pause while the journalist scanned his mental A–Z. ‘Okay, do you know a place called Il Buffone?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle mumbled as he entered the bathroom, navigating his way around the piles of clothing that Helen had left on the floor.
‘Good. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.’
He was somewhat perturbed by the idea that one of his favourite haunts was known to a hack like Bernie, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Fine. See you there.’ Ending the call, he pushed up the toilet seat with his big toe and took aim at the porcelain.
In the event, Gilmore took almost half an hour to reach the café. By the time he arrived, the inspector was on his second macchiato and already buzzing nicely. Apart from the two of them and the café’s owner, Marcello, the place was empty.
‘What happened to you?’ Bernie asked, as he slipped into the back booth. Today, he was wearing a T-shirt featuring Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street, under a black leather biker’s jacket. His beard looked even more out of control than Carlyle remembered it. The overall effect was of someone who had spent the previous night in a hedge.
For his part, having been somewhat refreshed by his extended sleep, the inspector had almost managed to forget about his run-in with Trevor Miller the day before. His face still looked a mess, but Marcello, busy preparing for the lunchtime rush, had been too polite to mention it.
Carlyle gave a half-hearted grin. ‘You should see the other guy.’
‘Mm.’ Gilmore gave him a look suggesting that he didn’t think the inspector could give anyone a run for their money in the fisticuffs department, before turning his full attention to the menu. ‘It’s been a long day already,’ he mused. ‘I think I’ll go for the all-day breakfast.’
‘A heart attack on a plate,’ Carlyle observed, sotto voce so as not to offend Marcello.
‘All the best things in life come at a price.’
Wiping his hands on the tea-towel draped over his left shoulder, Marcello appeared from behind the counter to take Bernie’s order. ‘Another coffee?’ he asked the inspector.
Carlyle shook his head. Any more caffeine and his head might explode. ‘I’m fine, thanks, Marcello.’
‘Okay.’ Marcello disappeared into the back and almost immediately the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan could be heard.
Gilmore returned the menu to its holder. ‘So I’m guessing that you had a visit from Trevor Miller.’
How the hell did you know that? Carlyle wondered. Trying to hide his surprise behind his demitasse, he drained the last of the coffee from the cup.
Marcello reappeared from the kitchen with some slices of buttered white bread and a mug of milky tea.
‘Maybe I will have another, Marcello,’ Carlyle decided.
‘Sure.’ The café-owner scooped up the cup and saucer and disappeared again. At that moment, the door opened and a young woman came in. She took a long look at Carlyle before turning on her heel and walking out. Maybe I look worse than I thought, Carlyle guessed. He felt a small pang of guilt. It was hard enough for Marcello to make ends meet as it was, without the policeman scaring away potential customers.
Gilmore folded up one slice of bread and pushed it into his mouth, chewing it twice before swallowing. ‘What do you know about Wickford Associates?’ he asked, before washing the food down with a mouthful of tea.
‘Never heard of them,’ Carlyle said.
Marcello reappeared with Bernie’s breakfast and Carlyle’s coffee, placing each carefully on the table before retreating to a discreet distance behind the counter.
‘Wickford Associates’, Gilmore informed him, ‘was set up by Trevor Miller after he left the police force. It employs ex-police officers and also some Army types. They provide a range of services to private-sector clients. It’s quite a lucrative business.’
Sitting up straighter on the banquette, Carlyle blew on his coffee before taking a sip. The smell of the sausage and bacon was making him feel a bit sick. ‘So how did he end up working for Edgar Carlton?’
‘For such a dullard, old Trevor really has been quite successful.’ Gilmore unwrapped a serviette and pulled out a knife and fork. ‘And lucky, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Trevor was great mates with a man called Will Clay.’ Gilmore held the cutlery over his plate while looking for some flicker of recognition on the inspector’s face. Seeing none, he went on, ‘Clay was one of Edgar’s cronies, as Party Chairman and a major fundraiser. He was found dead in a toilet at the Glastonbury Festival a couple of years ago.’
‘Unusual.’
‘According to the coroner, he died of natural causes – heart disease, apparently. There was no sign of foul play, which is a shame.’
Carlyle frowned, not comprehending.
‘That would have made it a much bigger story,’ the journalist explained.
‘Ah.’
‘The poor bugger was only in his mid-fifties.’ Gilmore shook his head as he cut into a pork sausage. ‘Anyway, Clay had hired Miller’s company to work for the Party on various things – conferences, fundraisers and so on. Remember the row about private dinners being held in Downing Street?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Make a donation of two hundred and fifty grand to the Party and the PM’s wife will cook your tea.’ Popping the sausage into his mouth, he chewed happily.
‘Money well spent.’
‘No doubt. Anyway, Clay organized some of these, and he got Miller to handle the security. That’s how good old Trevor got to know Edgar Carlton so well.’
<
br /> ‘I don’t really know much about this,’ Carlyle admitted as he watched Gilmore work relentlessly through the food on his plate. ‘I know Trevor isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but why is he trying to interfere so crudely in a murder investigation?’
Gilmore waved his fork airily in front of his face. ‘Because,’ he said, having finally managed to swallow, ‘he’s playing both sides of this particular game.’
‘What particular game do you mean?’ Carlyle asked, feeling even more stupid than usual.
Gilmore speared a couple of chips with his fork. ‘Once he went to work for Carlton, Trevor had to stand back from Wickford. He was no longer running the company, but he was still the owner or, to be more precise, the largest shareholder. And his broadening list of political contacts proved very handy when it came to landing the Zenger Media contract.’
‘And you know all this stuff how, exactly?’ Carlyle was playing for time while he tried to work out where the story was leading.
‘It’s my job to know things,’ Gilmore smiled.
‘But you haven’t written about any of this?’
‘Lawyers, my friend, lawyers,’ Bernie sighed before the last of the bacon disappeared into his mouth.
‘Said you couldn’t publish?’
Bernie nodded. ‘Always worried about getting their arses sued off, even though what I write always stands up in a court of law.’
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
‘Well,’ Bernie chuckled, ‘almost always. Anyway, even if we were to come a cropper in front of the beak, there’s always the libel insurance to fall back on. The bloody lawyers just don’t want to make a claim, even though that’s what it’s there for.’
‘Worried about their premiums.’
‘Precisely! The useless buggers are just put on this earth to drive the rest of us mad.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle was finally beginning to understand what their conversation was all about. The journalist needed him to try and flush out Miller, so that he could publish his story. That was fine by the inspector. All he wanted was to nail the evil bastard any way he could. Whether that was in a court of law, or in the court of public opinion, didn’t really matter.
Dropping the cutlery onto his plate, Gilmore fished another paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and began clearing the detritus that had collected in his beard. When he was satisfied with the job achieved, he crumpled up the napkin in one meaty fist and dropped it on the table. ‘For years now, Wickford has been working with journalists like Duncan Brown, tapping people’s phones in order to get stories.’
