by James Craig
‘But there’s a clear conflict of interest.’
Frustrated by her underling’s enduring blockheadedness, Simpson pawed the ground impatiently with her left foot. ‘That is a very elastic term, as you well know, John. One man’s conflict of interest is simply another man’s synergy.’
For a moment he thought that she sounded like the old Carole Simpson: the over-ambitious officer still trying to climb the greasy pole and to cosy up to politicians; becoming a fellow-traveller on the Edgar Carlton bandwagon.
The old Carole Simpson that he had known and hated.
The same one that he thought had evaporated when her career had crashed and burned at the hands of her husband. He looked at her carefully. ‘That’s a very relaxed point of view.’
Simpson simply shrugged.
‘Bernie Gilmour reckons . . .’
Simpson raised an eyebrow.
‘According to his sources,’ Carlyle continued, ‘Wickford Associates does work for both the Zenger Corporation and the Metropolitan Police Service. They worked closely with Duncan Brown on the Sunday Witness; and Brown’s stories are being investigated by the phone-hacking inquiry.’
‘Hand it over to Operation Redhead, then.’
Carlyle made a face. ‘It’s a murder inquiry.’
Simpson lifted her gaze to the heavens and closed her eyes, thinking things through. ‘It’s a can of worms,’ she decided finally.
‘Aren’t they all?’ Carlyle laughed emptily.
‘Not like this one, John.’ Simpson opened her eyes and stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and compassion. ‘Not like this one.’
‘So?’
‘So – do what you have to do. Keep digging away like the grubby little dung beetle that you are, but don’t forget that your priority remains the Mosman case.’
Grubby little dung beetle? Was she trying to insult him? If so, it was water off a duck’s back to Carlyle; over the years he’d been called a lot worse. ‘For sure.’
‘You need to have another conversation with Mrs Mosman, and sooner rather than later.’
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Now, about Hannah Gillespie.’
Simpson stared at him blankly.
‘The missing schoolgirl with the dodgy boyfriend.’
But the Commander was already walking away. ‘John,’ she said firmly, ‘I don’t have time for any more right now. Use your discretion. Let’s talk again later.’
Fine by me, Carlyle thought. He watched her apologize to the headmistress before they wandered off in search of the refuge of the staffroom and a cup of tea.
Francis Clegg tossed the empty Coke can towards the bin in the corner of the room, missing by a considerable distance, and began fiddling with his ponytail. After a few moments, he abandoned that activity and began picking his nose.
On the other side of the glass viewing window, Joe Szyszkowski made a sound of disgust. ‘Nice.’
WPC Maude Hall watched as Clegg wiped a large bogey on his red T-shirt, which had narcissist printed on it backwards in white letters. ‘At least we found him.’
‘Yeah.’ Joe turned to the stocky man standing between them. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘It’s our pleasure.’ Sergeant Declan Formby of the Aviation Unit gestured towards the glass. ‘He was getting on to a flight to Ibiza but we managed to stop him at the gate.’
‘Nice one,’ Joe smiled. It was a lucky break. Hundreds of thousands of people passed through Heathrow Airport every day. If it hadn’t been for an exceptionally alert security officer, Mr Clegg would have been enjoying his first bottle of San Miguel in the sunshine by now.
‘Sorry about the room,’ said Formby, ‘but all the cells are full. A bunch of boozed-up chavs started a riot on a flight from Barcelona.’
‘Ah, the joys of modern travel,’ said Joe. ‘That’s why we stay at home for the holidays. Go to Devon.’
‘Wise man,’ Formby nodded. ‘What do you want him for, anyway?’
‘We’re looking for his girlfriend,’ Hall explained.
Formby looked puzzled. ‘Who would go out with a muppet like that?’
‘She’s fourteen,’ said Hall grimly.
‘Ah.’ The colour leached from Formby’s face as he thought about his own daughters of a similar age. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ he mumbled, as he headed for the door.
‘Can I have another Coke?’ Squinting under the strip lighting, Clegg looked up as they entered the room. His right index finger was still firmly ensconced in his right nostril, and he continued rooting around robustly while the officers each took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
‘For God’s sake!’ Joe gestured towards the finger. With some reluctance, Clegg removed it, shoving the offending hand into the pocket of his jeans instead.
‘I’m still thirsty.’ Thin and pasty-faced, he had twenty-four hours’ worth of stubble on his chin and dark rings under his eyes. The overall effect was of a man who had been partying hard for several days.
Joe placed his hands on the table. ‘I don’t want to waste any of your time, Francis.’
‘You already have,’ Clegg shot back. ‘I’ve missed my flight.’ ‘Where is Hannah?’
With a snort, Clegg sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Who?’
‘Hannah Gillespie,’ Hall said flatly. ‘Your girlfriend.’
‘Never heard of her,’ Clegg smirked. He made a show of looking Hall up and down. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, sweetheart?’
‘Let’s stick to the point,’ said Joe. ‘When did you last see Hannah?’
‘Like I said,’ Clegg replied, not taking his eyes off the WPC, ‘I don’t know her.’
Hall’s eyes narrowed. ‘One of Hannah’s friends named you. She says she’s seen the two of you together several times.’
‘I know a lot of people.’ The smirk got wider. ‘And I wanna drink.’
‘The girl is missing,’ Hall said slowly, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Her parents are extremely concerned.’ ‘Not my problem.’
‘In that case,’ Joe sighed, ‘we’ll have to take you back to the police station.’
‘Wrongful arrest, man. Police harassment.’
‘We’ll sort that out at the station.’ Pushing back his chair, Joe got to his feet. As he did so, Hall’s right arm shot across the table, grabbing Clegg’s T-shirt and dragging the paedophile out of his seat.
‘Hey!’ Joe stumbled backwards as he watched her drag Clegg across the table and throw him on to the floor, administering three quick kicks to his head and torso as he went down.
‘Maude . . .’
Ignoring the sergeant, Hall gave the prostrate man another swift kick. Groaning, Clegg adopted the foetal position. Crouching down, she grabbed him by the ears. ‘Look at me, fucker,’ she hissed. ‘Open your fucking eyes.’
Resisting the urge to laugh, Joe looked hurriedly around the room. No CCTV – thank fuck for that. The corridor outside was empty. Fingers crossed, therefore, no one had seen what had happened. ‘Maude!’ Jumping forward, he put a hand on her shoulder. Shrugging it off, she jabbed Clegg in the eye with a thumb.
‘Aawww!’ Clutching his face, Francis Clegg began rolling round on the floor like a footballer looking for a penalty.
Standing up, Hall wiped a loose strand of hair from her face. ‘Tell us where she is,’ she said quietly, ‘or you might not even make it back to Charing Cross.’
‘Tell her to stop,’ Clegg whimpered.
At a loss over what to do, Joe stepped backwards until he was leaning up against the window, blocking the view of anyone who might come wandering along the corridor outside. ‘I would advise you to tell the lady what she wants to know,’ he said smoothly. ‘Otherwise, you’re on your own.’
TWENTY-NINE
At least there was one person in Charing Cross police station who looked like they had taken more of a kicking than he had. After getting Francis Clegg to sign his statement, the inspector retreated back up to the third floor. Joe was sittin
g at his desk, drinking a mug of coffee, while WPC Hall was perched on the edge of a nearby desk, munching happily on a banana. Since returning from Heathrow, each of them had maintained an exaggerated air of innocence; just as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
Carlyle put the statement on his desk and eyed his sergeant carefully. ‘So he sold her?’
Hall quickly swallowed the last of her banana, dropping the skin into the cardboard box on the floor that served as a makeshift bin. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He just kind of passed her on to one of his mates.’
‘As one does,’ Joe said, looking sick.
‘Do we believe him?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I think so.’ Joe brightened. ‘Once Maude had a little word with him, he rather quickly decided to lose his attitude and tell us what was going on.’
Blushing, Hall looked at the floor.
‘The Krav Manga worked a treat,’ Joe smirked. ‘I’m thinking of taking a few classes myself.’
‘Krav Maga,’ Hall corrected him, still blushing. ‘It’s a fighting technique developed by the Israeli Defence Forces,’ she explained, seeing that Carlyle was at a loss. ‘It’s their official martial art – a form of hand-to-hand combat originally developed to defend Jews against Nazi attacks in the 1930s. I go to classes in Westminster twice a week. It’s good fun. You should give it a go.’
Not me, Carlyle thought, but it might be good for Alice. His daughter already did a weekly karate class at Jubilee Hall on the south side of the piazza; maybe this Krav Whatever would help her take her self-defence skills to the next level.
‘What d’ya reckon?’ Joe asked.
‘Nah,’ Carlyle said. ‘I’m too old, too slow.’ He waved an admonishing finger towards Hall. ‘Just make sure you keep it for outside, in future. You’re very lucky that Clegg didn’t make a complaint. The stupid bastard didn’t even ask for a lawyer.’
‘We got a result,’ Joe protested.
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘But at the very least, the pervert could have tied you up in disciplinary hearings for months.’ He gave his sergeant a disappointed look. ‘You should have known better.’
Staring into his coffee, Joe said nothing.
Turning to the WPC, Carlyle gave Hall a hard stare. ‘Don’t do it again.’
‘Okay,’ she said meekly.
‘Good.’ Carlyle dropped into his chair and placed his hands behind his head. ‘Now, the new guy we think Hannah Gillespie has ended up with. What do we know about him?’
Joe put his coffee cup down on the desk next to the sheet of A4 paper containing his notes. ‘Alexander Montague Laws. Known as Monty. No record. Some kind of freelance IT guy. He’s not at the address that Clegg gave us. So far, he’s in the wind.’
‘Okay. See if you can extract any more useful information from Clegg’ – Carlyle looked up at Hall – ‘without smacking him around. Just tell him he’s stuck in that cell until we find Mr Laws.’
‘And then?’ Joe asked.
Having no idea, Carlyle shrugged. ‘Let’s worry about that later. Meantime I’ve got to chase something else up. Keep me posted.’
‘What happened to you?’ Detective Inspector Vanessa Valette asked as she handed Carlyle back his warrant card.
‘Walked into a door.’
‘Mm.’ Valette, a slightly built brunette, rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Come into my office and we can talk there.’
Following her inside, Carlyle sat down and glanced around. The DI lived and worked in a glass cube, measuring about eight feet by twelve, in the corner of a large, open-plan industrial space. Rows of computer screens waited patiently for someone to start using them. Yet, apart from a group of five officers crowded round one desk about twenty feet away, the place was empty. In the background, he could make out the general hum of traffic on the Commercial Road, six floors below them.
‘A bit out of the way here, aren’t you?’
‘We wanted a bit of space well away from the Commissioner and his guys, for obvious reasons.’
‘Mm.’ It must be a really shit job working on Operation Redhead, Carlyle thought. A complete hospital pass. Sooner or later, someone will come along and nobble you. And in the meantime you’re stuck out here in the arse end of nowhere: glamorous East London, where the Luftwaffe was as near as things ever got to urban planning.
Barely five feet two, Valette disappeared behind a mound of files resting on her desk and sat down. Carlyle waited patiently while she cleared a channel through which they could re-establish eye-contact. ‘Sorry about that.’ Under the harsh lighting, she looked tired and frail.
‘No problem,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘So, what brings you here again?’
It took some considerable effort for Carlyle to suppress a grimace. He had already explained his involvement in the Duncan Brown murder case to four different lackeys, in order to get this meeting with Valette. Now it seemed that he would have to start all over again.
‘Duncan Brown.’
‘Sorry.’ Valette gestured to the paperwork surrounding her. ‘He’s not one of mine.’
‘Huh?’
The DI leaned forward between two piles of documents, each at least a foot high. ‘This investigation is so large – and growing all the time – that we have had to divide it up among half a dozen of us.’ She scratched her head. ‘I think Brown belongs to Inspector Walters but, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure.’ She gestured to the largely empty room beyond the window. ‘Anyway, I fear he’s not around right now.’
Christ, Carlyle thought, if the Commissioner really is worried about the possibility of this investigation causing him any grief, a quick look round here should put his mind at rest. Clearly, Operation Redhead was going nowhere. ‘But this is a murder investigation I’m talking about,’ he said, finally letting his exasperation show.
‘Yes, well.’ Valette disappeared behind one pile and switched on her computer, which began slowly wheezing into action. ‘Interesting thought. Do you think there’s any connection with what we’re doing here?’
Carlyle bit his lip in frustration. ‘I believe I have to work on that assumption.’
‘You do? Why?’
‘Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Somewhere behind all the paper, she began tapping on a keyboard. I should get going, Carlyle thought. This is a complete waste of time.
A few more taps.
He pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Sorry for wasting your time.’
‘Hold on.’ Valette reappeared with a pair of rimless spectacles now balanced on her nose. They made her look at least ten years older. She held up a finger. ‘One minute.’
Reluctantly, Carlyle sat back down. Retrieving a mobile from her jacket pocket, Valette made a call. Almost immediately, someone picked up at the other end.
‘Duncan Brown,’ said Valette by way of introduction, sounding very businesslike. ‘Yeah.’ She glanced at Carlyle. ‘Right, one minute.’ Ending the call, she got up and headed for the door. ‘Wait here.’ It was an instruction, rather than a request.
Despite himself, Carlyle nodded meekly.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ she added.
Just shy of twenty-five minutes later, Valette reappeared in the doorway. ‘You check out,’ she announced.
That’s good, Carlyle thought, not knowing what she meant.
Holding the door open, she signalled for him to stand up. ‘Come on.’
The inspector jumped to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see Meyer.’
Standing at a window, staring down at the slow-moving traffic, Russell Meyer looked round as Carlyle shuffled into the room. The chief inspector was a small man, maybe five foot four, with a light frame and greying bouffant hair. Carlyle was somewhat surprised to see him wearing a single-breasted suit in a Prince of Wales check, rather than a uniform. Then again, hardly anyone seemed to wear a uniform these days. That’s what happened when yo
u went from being a Police Force to becoming a Police Service.
A look passed between Valette and Meyer. The latter eyed Carlyle suspiciously, then waved towards the three chairs lined up in front of an oversized desk. ‘Please.’
Carlyle took the middle seat and Valette took the one on his left.
‘Vanessa here tells me that you are on the Brown investigation.’ Meyer stepped away from the window and sat down behind the desk. The desk itself was bare – not even a phone to be seen. Unlike Valette’s office downstairs, there were no papers at all, no computer even; nothing to suggest that anyone actually worked here. By comparison, it made Simpson’s office back in Paddington look positively homely.
‘That’s right,’ Carlyle replied.
Meyer clasped his hands together as if in prayer; as if the Good Lord Himself was going to provide the right words for him to utter.
Ever the atheist, Carlyle waited patiently.
‘I want you to lay off.’
Carlyle frowned. This was not what he had been expecting to hear.
Meyer glanced at Valette, who was staring determinedly out of the window. Slowly, he returned his gaze to Carlyle. ‘Well, perhaps not lay off exactly, but don’t push too hard.’
Holding Meyer’s gaze, Carlyle forced himself to say nothing for ten seconds. The Detective Inspector didn’t blink.
‘This,’ Carlyle said finally, ‘is a murder inquiry.’
Meyer shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I know that, Inspector, but your investigation into Duncan Brown cuts across Operation Redhead, and that, as you will appreciate, must be given priority.’
Knowing better than to protest, Carlyle sat back and folded his arms. ‘Explain that to me.’
‘Operation Redhead is not just about investigating a bunch of celebrities who’ve had their phones hacked. It’s much wider than that. It affects real people as well.’
‘And I am dealing with a murder inquiry,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘That profoundly affects a number of real people, too.’
‘This involves something’, said Meyer, ‘that goes beyond any single police case. It goes to the very heart of the way we do business in this country. It involves the way in which the press operates, yes, but also the media’s relationship with the government and even the Police Service. It involves our standards of behaviour.’
