The Circus ic-4

by James Craig

  Yes, yes, yes. ‘I’m going to speak to Mrs Mosman again tomorrow,’ he said evenly, glossing over the fact that he had done nothing of note regarding her since they had last spoken.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And,’ he added, belatedly remembering why he had come here in the first place, ‘I want to hold a presser about Hannah Gillespie.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The media have started running with the story. In particular, a journalist called Bernie Gilmore.’

  The Commander eyed him suspiciously. ‘I know Gilmore. I never return his calls.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The parents have got to him. He’s already put something online. The girl has been missing for days now, and some of her known associates give us cause for concern. We need to get on the front foot regarding this. We’ve played it by the book so far, but you know as well as I do that, until the kid turns up safe and sound, we will always be accused of not doing enough.’

  ‘Fine. Organize a presser. But you’ll have to handle it without me.’ Simpson’s days of mugging for the cameras were over. Until not so long ago, she would have run a mile to get in front of a microphone. Now she couldn’t keep far enough away. ‘Just keep it short and sweet.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you think the girl is still okay?’

  ‘Hopefully — but I’ve no idea, really. If nothing else, we’ll be covering our own backs.’ Everyone knew that covering one’s back was always a good reason for action. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laura reappear at the door and begin making her way towards their table. Carlyle drained his glass and gave his boss a big smile. ‘Lots to be getting on with,’ he said cheerily, and stood up. He could feel the effects of the alcohol as he swayed slightly on his feet. ‘I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Simpson replied tartly.

  He nodded at Laura. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s always fun to meet some of Carole’s more interesting colleagues.’

  Curiously disconcerted by his uncharacteristic show of politeness, Simpson watched her underling head for the door.

  Placing her iPhone and Marlboros on the table, Laura reached for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Seems like a nice guy.’

  ‘Mm,’ Simpson replied. ‘He has his moments.’

  Walking in Memphis. .’ Hoping to clear his head, Carlyle inhaled deeply as he walked down the Edgware Road, heading towards Marble Arch where he could get a bus home to Covent Garden. Passing a kebab shop, he felt a sharp pang of hunger just as one of his phones started vibrating in his pocket.

  ‘Carlyle,’ he announced.

  ‘Inspector, it’s Snowdon here.’

  Shit. Another job he hadn’t done. If it wasn’t for the drink, he would have had the wit to leave his phone unanswered. Grimacing, he cleared his throat. ‘Good evening, sir. How are you?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you had managed to speak to your colleagues in Fulham yet?’ Even with all the background noise, Carlyle could detect that the old man sounded drunker than he was himself. Looking up in the nick of time, he narrowly avoided walking into a lamppost.

  ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of them yet, but I’m hoping to go down there tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten,’ he lied. ‘And thank you for setting up the meeting with Mr. .’

  ‘Highman.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. That was very useful.’

  ‘Harris is a good chap.’

  ‘Indeed.’ His attention was distracted by a takeaway called Hell’s Pizza located, appropriately enough, on the corner of Church Street. His stomach rumbled insistently. ‘Look, my apologies but I have to go. I will give you a call with an update tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good,’ Sir Michael said wearily.

  Ending the call, the inspector switched off his phone and headed straight towards his culinary salvation.

  Sitting back in his chair, Harris Highman contemplated his gloomy, cluttered office. This was the nearest thing he’d had to a home for more than thirty years. Thirty years! Not for the first time, he reflected that he had spent almost half a lifetime sitting in one little room. Now that retirement was looming, he was at a loss as to what to do about it. Where had the time gone? It was such a banal lament.

  Through the window, he could make out the London Eye, lit up now as it carried its last tourists of the evening. A cleaner stuck her head round the door but Highman waved her away with a flick of his hand. Loosening his tie, he took a sip of his lemon and ginger tea before scanning the list of names on the sheet of paper resting on his lap.

  ‘Mm.’ Reaching across his desk, he put down his Book of the Dead souvenir mug and picked up a copy of UK in Germany, the glossy bi-annual newsletter published by the British Embassy in Berlin. The centre spread was given over to an interview with the Ambassador, Michael Murphy, which had been conducted by Zoe Mosman six months earlier. In it they had discussed works from the Government Art Collection which were then on display in the Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse and also in the Ambassador’s residence. Highman tut-tutted. ‘Iconic works by some of the greatest sculptors working in Britain today, indeed!’ he scoffed. Anish Kapoor and Tony Cragg were definitely not to his taste.

  On the next page was a series of a dozen or so photographs from a reception held to celebrate the CAG. Zoe Mosman appeared in three of these: one with the Ambassador and his boyfriend; another with two other women, one of whom was the ubiquitous Yulissa Vasconzuelo, the Prime Minister’s floozy, who seemed to attend every party known to man; and the third with a dark, unsmiling man with cold eyes who looked decidedly unhappy about having his picture taken. Dropping the newsletter on to his desk, Highman checked the list of guests attending the event for the tenth time. ‘Well, well,’ he mumbled to himself. There could be no doubt: he had the name. He even had the photo to prove it. ‘What a very interesting development.’

  Harris felt a delicious shiver of self-satisfaction slip through him. He had acquired knowledge. And knowledge — as Sir Francis Bacon had pointed out — is power.

  But what was he going to do with it?

  His first inclination was to call Zoe Mosman and confront her with what he had discovered. However, he quickly discounted that idea. Under the circumstances, that was not the best approach. Not when he had other options. Flicking through the Rolodex standing on his desk, he found the card that the policeman had handed him when they had met in Wardour Street. Picking up the phone, it took him three attempts to dial the number properly, only for it to immediately go to voicemail. Sighing, he waited for the beep.

  ‘Inspector, this is Harris Highman. We were introduced recently by Sir Michael Snowdon.’ Slowly and clearly he recited his mobile number and then repeated it. ‘I would be very grateful if you could give me a call at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Sit up.’

  Sniffling, Hannah Gillespie did as she was told. She no longer noticed the unpleasant smell or the buzzing in her head.

  ‘Can you stand up?’

  She shook her head. Her legs felt like jelly.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Please. .’ Her voice, barely audible over the traffic, sounded small and far away.

  ‘Just keep still. This won’t hurt.’

  ‘Mum,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  As usual, the Media Centre at Charing Cross was cold, harshly lit and filled with the smell of stale food from the canteen next door. With Joe Szyszkowski following behind, Carlyle entered the room from a side door, making a quick headcount as he marched towards the platform. To his relief, a handful of hacks had managed to make it out of bed: a news reporter from the Evening Standard, a guy from the Daily Mail, a local radio reporter, and local television in the shape of Independent Television’s London Tonight and BBC London. The small group sat waiting wi
th Impress me looks on their faces, idly scribbling on copies of the Hannah Gillespie press release or tapping away on their assorted mobile devices. Bernard Gilmore Esq was nowhere to be seen. That was not a surprise; Carlyle knew Bernie wouldn’t bother turning up just to gloat at rivals that he’d already scooped. He might be a hack, but he was a classy hack.

  Carlyle waited for a few extra minutes beyond the appointed start time, in the vain hope that someone else might turn up.

  ‘Let’s get on with it,’ Joe mumbled, as the clock on the far wall ticked on towards five past ten.

  ‘Okay.’ With a sigh, Carlyle switched on the microphone in front of him. ‘Good morning.’ Once he was sure he had their attention, or at least as much of their attention as he was ever going to get, he launched into a scripted introduction which explained the background to Hannah’s disappearance and concluded with an appeal for her to get in touch with her anxious parents as soon as possible.

  After he finished there was a pause before an emaciated-looking man in a red Berghaus jacket, sitting in the middle row, raised his hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Edgar Smith, the Mail.’ The skeleton looked up from the pad on which he had been scribbling furiously and pinned the inspector with a hostile gaze. ‘Why did you bother calling this press conference when you’d already leaked the story to Bernie Gilmore last night?’ A murmur of approval for the question spread among the other hacks.

  And why did you bother coming, if you weren’t interested in the bloody story? Carlyle thought sourly. ‘We didn’t leak anything.’

  Smith shook his head in mock disbelief.

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ said Joe firmly, ‘that it was Hannah’s parents who spoke to Mr Gilmore.’

  ‘Is that why they’re not here?’ asked another man at the back. ‘Because they’re not happy with the lack of action so far on the part of the police?’

  Conscious of TV cameras rolling at the back of the room, Carlyle bit his tongue. ‘There has been no lack of action on our part,’ he said finally. ‘Hannah’s parents are understandably concerned. .’ As he watched the hacks struggling to find enough enthusiasm to write down these words, he wondered about the wisdom of holding this presser at all. ‘What we are basically asking is. .’ Just then, he was distracted by a hand landing on his shoulder. Maude Hall had appeared at his side and handed him a note. Reading it quickly, he nodded and gave it back to her.

  ‘What we are saying is that all everyone wants is for Hannah to get in touch with her parents as soon as possible.’ He jumped to his feet, signalling for Joe to follow. ‘So, if there are no more questions, let’s leave it there. Thank you for your time. We will let you know of any further developments in due course.’

  Not waiting for any additional responses, he skipped off the platform and ducked through the door, heading for the lift.

  The inspector picked up the business card and made a show of reading it carefully. Charles W. Ross, Life President, Wickford Associates. What did the W stand for? Carlyle wondered. He let a somewhat uncharitable but appropriate word float through his brain as he considered the address underneath. An office on New Bond Street in the West End: the same address as on a similar card he’d taken from the envelope of goodies that Duncan Brown’s girlfriend, Gemma Millington, had recovered from her flat.

  Well, well, well.

  Sitting in a fourth-floor meeting room, Charlie Ross eyed the inspector carefully while sipping slowly from an outsized Starbucks beaker. Happy to have escaped the press conference, Carlyle could do with a coffee himself. He placed the card back on the table and looked up.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.

  Ross fixed him with a sharp gaze. Well into his eighties, his blue eyes were still clear and alert behind a pair of fashionable rimless glasses. ‘Aye, son, I remember you well.’

  Happy to go along with the fiction, Carlyle nodded.

  ‘At Cortonwood and Orgreave,’ the old man continued.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘That business with Trevor Miller.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Maybe the old sod genuinely did remember. Or maybe he’d done some homework before bowling up here.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Charlie chuckled. ‘That was something like thirty years ago now. I was still a young man back then — almost.’

  ‘Time is a bastard,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘You’re looking good though.’ It was true. On first inspection, apart from the fact that his hair was now pure white, Sergeant Charlie Ross didn’t appear that much older than when he was dodging half-bricks on the Yorkshire picket lines. Indeed, tanned, relaxed and carrying a few extra pounds, he looked considerably healthier than Carlyle remembered him back then. The expensive-looking suit he was wearing only added to an overall impression of well-being and prosperity.

  ‘Thanks.’ The old man grinned ruefully. ‘I wish I could say the same for you.’

  Carlyle smiled. This was still the same old Charlie: always in your face. Born in Burnbank, South Lancashire, Charlie Ross’s police career had been going nowhere until it was given a late lease of life by the 1980s miners’ strike. For John Carlyle, a young PC dumped out in the provinces to take on a paramilitary role on behalf of an extremist government only too keen to go to war against the ‘enemy within’, it was an uncomfortable education in more ways than one. For Charlie Ross, with almost twenty-five years’ service under his belt, it had instead been a memorable swansong.

  ‘We gave those bastards a right shoeing,’ Ross recalled happily, his harsh accent defiantly unaffected by more than fifty years of living in London.

  ‘Mm, what can I do for you, Charlie?’

  Placing his cup on the table, Ross sat back in his chair and folded his arms. The look on his face said Don’t fuck about with me, son. For someone who was an old man, he still managed to create an air of menace — especially when he smiled. ‘I thought I’d come and see you before you came to see me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t been over to see us already.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot on.’

  ‘I bet you have. And I thought I might be able to help you in that regard.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘My company has nothing to hide.’

  Your company, the inspector wondered. I thought it belonged to Trevor Miller? It was a detail that he let slide. ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘I’m assuming that you know all about our connection to Duncan Brown and the Zenger Corporation?’

  Carlyle nodded.

  ‘That is all in the public domain. Like I say, we have nothing to hide. If there has been any breach of our well-documented procedures and guidelines, then we will take all the appropriate steps to weed out the guilty parties and do everything necessary to beef up our systems and processes.’

  Spare me the corporate bullshit.

  ‘As you would expect, we are already cooperating fully with Operation Redhead and your friend Russell Meyer.’

  ‘He is not my friend,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of patience already used up.

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Ross held up his hands in supplication. ‘You have, however, compared notes, I take it?’

  ‘That is my business,’ said Carlyle huffily. He really needed some caffeine. ‘What exactly do you want?’

  Ross held his gaze for one, two, three seconds. ‘What I want, son,’ he said finally, ‘is to give you Trevor Miller’s head on a fucking plate.’

  Unsure what to make of his conversation with Charlie Ross, Carlyle watched the old man skip down the front steps of Charing Cross police station and slip into the back seat of a black Lexus sedan which had been ostentatiously idling in front of a No Parking sign.

  ‘Who was that?’ Maude Hall appeared at his shoulder, carrying a file stuffed with documents. Wearing jeans and a washed-out red T-shirt under a grey cardigan, she looked about sixteen.

  ‘His name is Charlie Ross,’ said Carlyle, watching the Lexus nose out i
nto the traffic. ‘He works with Trevor Miller.’

  ‘I met Miller yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’ Trying not to look concerned, the inspector took a half-step backwards.

  ‘Yeah. Simon Shelbourne introduced us.’

  ‘Mm.’ Maybe sending the girl to spy on the Commissioner’s PR man hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. ‘Let’s go to the canteen and get a coffee,’ he suggested. ‘Then you can tell me what happened.’

  Three small crumbs were all that remained of his chocolate doughnut. Feeling better and worse at the same time, Carlyle looked guiltily at his plate before finishing off his coffee. Munching on an apple, Hall said nothing.

  ‘So,’ he said, waiting for her to finish chewing, ‘how did it go with Shelbourne?’

  ‘What a creep!’ Dropping the apple core on her plate, Hall wiped her hands on a paper napkin. ‘He was obviously pissed and offered to give me the guided tour of his club. They have bedrooms on the top floor, and he thought. .’

  A couple of male officers at the next table began tuning into their conversation, so Carlyle signalled for Hall to lower her voice.

  ‘He thought,’ she whispered, ‘that I would go up there with him and — well, you know.’

  Gritting his teeth, Carlyle told himself, Sending Hall off to act as your spy was definitely not one of your better ideas. Apart from anything else, Simpson would have a fit if she ever found out.

  ‘Not that I was falling for that,’ she grinned. ‘I let him show me round quickly, and then legged it.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘My dad boxed for the Army. I can look after myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ Carlyle nodded, not sure what the connection there was.

  Her grin widened. ‘And then, of course, there is the Krav Maga.’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle smiled, remembering the unfortunate Francis Clegg. Hall’s obvious ability to look after herself made him feel a little better about having sent her to try and butter up the deeply unpleasant Simon Shelbourne. ‘What did you two talk about? Did he tell you anything useful?’

  Hall shook her head. ‘Not really. He moaned about Miller being on his case the whole time, clearly because of the phone-hacking business, but he didn’t go into any details. Oh, and apparently Sir Chester’s stay in a health farm is costing almost thirty grand.’