by James Craig
‘Exactly. I want — I need you to check the evidence that they collected and do a read-across from Hall.’
Staring at the sky, Phillips slowly let the implications of what he was asking for sink in. ‘That’s going to be very tricky.’
‘I know.’ Fighting his own excitement, Carlyle waited for her to resume eye-contact. ‘But speak to a sergeant there called Fiona Singleton. Tell her I suggested it. She’s solid.’
‘Mm.’ Phillips looked dubious.
Carlyle gave her his most earnest stare. ‘I’ve been chasing this bastard for a long time, Susan. I want to get him for everything.’
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Simpson’s phone was still going to voicemail. Without leaving another message, Carlyle put his phone away and scanned the bar of the Adam Tavern, just south of the Euston Road. It took him a few moments to locate Charlie Ross, sitting on his own in a booth at the back, nursing a pint of beer, and then the best part of ten minutes to get served at the bar. By the time he returned to Ross’s table with the drinks, the old sergeant’s previous glass was empty.
‘Thanks.’ Ross accepted the pint of Morse Ale and placed it on the table. Still holding his glass of Jameson’s, the inspector pulled up a stool.
‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle lied.
‘Your health,’ Ross mumbled, lifting the fresh glass to his lips for a modest sup.
‘So,’ Carlyle asked, keen to get down to business, ‘what did you want to talk about?’
Charlie tried — and failed — to do an impersonation of a guileless old man. ‘I just wanted to see where you are with your investigation.’
‘Don’t fuck me about, Charlie,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘I thought I was getting Trevor Miller’s head on a plate.’
‘Patience, patience. All in good time.’
Carlyle downed his whiskey in one. He wasn’t going to sit around and talk nonsense with this old bastard. ‘Trevor is living on borrowed time,’ he said, smacking the shot glass down on the table. ‘So, give him up — if you can give him up — and the better it’ll be for you.’
A shit-eating grin spread across Ross’s face. ‘I know about Anton Fox.’
‘Not that crap again.’
The grin ebbed away as Ross placed his glass on a beer mat advertising a gambling website.
‘We’ve been hearing all these stupid stories for years,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘That’s old news. Who cares who brained that stupid bugger?’
‘I also know who did Duncan Brown.’
‘Charlie, I know the whole story,’ Carlyle told him. ‘Not just Fox, not just Brown. . but the whole fucking thing.’
‘You can know what you like,’ the old man growled, ‘but you have fuck all when it comes to actual evidence.’
The inspector said nothing.
‘Otherwise you’d have a fucking warrant,’ Charlie’s eyes narrowed, ‘and I’d be behind bars by now. Am I right?’
Busted. All Carlyle could do was to try and brazen it out. There was no appealing to Ross’s better nature because the old sod didn’t have a better nature.
‘Please,’ he said finally, ‘don’t waste my fucking time. We are talking about multiple murders here — and by former police officers, for Christ’s sake. Trevor goes down, you go down too, along with anyone and everyone associated with Wickford Associates and God knows who else. Either you cooperate now or you will die in jail.’
Leaning forward, Ross jabbed a finger towards the inspector’s face, the anger clear in his eyes. ‘Don’t threaten me, sonny. You don’t know shit. Without me, you have nothing — and Miller will slip through your hands yet again.’
A voice inside the inspector’s head told him to stay calm. He would deal with Charlie Ross in due course. In the meantime, he had to stay focused. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, letting out a long breath. ‘What do you want?’
‘Me?’ Sitting back on the banquette, Ross folded his arms. ‘I don’t want anything. Why should I? At my age I’m untouchable.’
‘So why are you doing this?’
‘Because, given what has happened, I want to fuck Trevor up just as much as you do. This is supposed to be my retirement. Now I’m having to run about here, there and everywhere, trying to clear up all his shit while he ponces about like he’s God’s bloody gift.’
The inspector wanted to believe what Ross was saying, but maybe the old bugger was setting him up. Or maybe he was just a bored old man who wanted some attention and someone sitting with him in the pub. ‘So where is Trevor now?’
‘Somewhere safe.’ Ross took another mouthful of beer. ‘Waiting for me to tell him what to do next.’ He clocked the look of concern that flashed across Carlyle’s face and grinned malevolently. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still in the country — for now. He knows that things are going tits-up big time though. If we don’t move fast, he’ll try and do a runner for sure.’
‘So when do I get him?’ Carlyle asked, sounding way too eager.
‘When the time is right,’ Ross replied vaguely.
‘And when will that be?’
‘When I bloody say so.’ He nodded towards the bar. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you go and get me another pint.’
Licking his lips, Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker eyed the generous glass of Martell XO clutched in the Prime Minister’s hand. I’ve come all the way over to your club to tell you in person about this, he thought, so the least you could do is offer me a bloody drink.
Sadly for the Commissioner, hospitality was not high on Edgar Carlton’s current agenda. As a waiter approached, the PM shooed him away with an imperious wave of his free hand. ‘How many people know about this?’
With a look of dismay, the Commissioner watched the flunky retreat. ‘Not that many. The officer in charge was smart enough to bring it straight to me.’
‘Mm.’ Edgar knew that wouldn’t count for much: news like this would leak faster than the Titanic after it had hit the iceberg. Some bugger will have tweeted the news by the time I sit down for dinner, he thought grimly. If they haven’t already. ‘And there’s no doubt about all this? We’re sure Miller’s guilty?’
Still trying to catch the waiter’s eye, Sir Chester replied, ‘Yes. The evidence, from what I understand, is fairly compelling.’
‘Fine.’ Edgar lifted the heavy crystal glass to his lips and drank deeply. He should have known this day would come. That was the thing about politics: all of your people fall by the wayside sooner or later. Then, when you — the chief! — are the last man standing, someone steps up to take you out as well. The actual circumstances might come as a surprise, but the narrative was as inevitable as it was predictable.
In the PM’s book, Trevor Miller had always seemed solid, dependable. Obviously, the guy had flipped. Something must have short-circuited in his brain. This was what his spin doctors liked to call ‘a game changer’. Edgar had never known what exactly the term meant until now.
Out of the corner of his eye, the PM saw Sir Gavin O’Dowd slip into the room. Waiting until the Cabinet Secretary was within discreet earshot, he asked: ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes,’ Sir Gavin nodded. ‘Your new interim Head of Security has been appointed as of,’ he looked at his cheap-looking watch, ‘twelve minutes ago.’ He mentioned a name but Edgar swatted it away. At this moment, the precise details of Trevor Miller’s replacement were irrelevant.
‘Good. And what are you going to say about Mr Miller himself?’
‘When the calls start coming in, the Press Office has been told to adopt a strict “no comment” policy. We will hold to that for as long as possible.’
Sighing theatrically, Edgar looked under-impressed.
O’Dowd gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I know that it is less than satisfactory.’
‘Even by your exalted standards of insight,’ the Prime Minister said drily, ‘that is something of an understatement.’
‘It is far from satisfactory,’ Sir Gavin repeated, the rictus grin on his face look
ing like it was about to crack. ‘But we are where we are. The press team will hold to the line for as long as they can.’
Which will be about six seconds, Sir Chester estimated grimly.
‘Only if someone starts running a story about Miller being suspected of murder and on the run will we go to a line against inquiry saying that this is a police matter and that he has been relieved of his duties pending their enquiries.’
A look of extreme annoyance crossed Sir Chester’s face as he noticed the large G amp;T that had just been placed in the Cabinet Secretary’s hand. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘You?’ Sir Gavin shot the police chief a patronizing smile. ‘I think it’s probably best if you try to do nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Just do what you can to stop the information from leaking out. When it eventually does, get your guy to give the press something suitably bland that doesn’t make things even worse.’
‘You think you can manage that?’ Edgar demanded.
‘Of course,’ said the Commissioner stiffly. Privately, he wondered if even that much was achievable. The whereabouts of ‘his guy’ was currently a mystery. Much to his boss’s annoyance, Simon Shelbourne’s mobile had been switched off for the last hour. This was easily the biggest crisis of Sir Chester’s career and the stupid little bugger had gone incommunicado.
‘Good.’ Sir Gavin tasted his gin and gave a small grunt of approval. ‘How long do you think it will take to place the. . er. . suspect in custody?’
‘Impossible to say.’ Suffering from the chronic lack of alcohol in his bloodstream, Sir Chester wasn’t going to stand there and try to pretend that they had any clue as to Miller’s location. ‘We are trying to track him down at this very moment, but we have yet to pick up his trail.’
‘Pick up his trail?’ Edgar complained. ‘This is not a bloody fox hunt. He can’t have gone far, so get your officers off their arses and damn well find him!’
Sir Gavin shot his boss a look that said Calm down. ‘I am sure that the Commissioner is making this his number-one priority at the present time.’
‘That is absolutely the case,’ Sir Chester confirmed. ‘Yes.’
‘And, as this is a police matter,’ Sir Gavin continued, ‘we should be doing nothing more than assisting the police in dealing with this most serious and grave situation.’
‘Miller’s clearly gone totally crazy,’ Edgar mused. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll do the decent thing and top himself. Save us all a lot of time and trouble, as well as a bundle of taxpayers’ money.’
The Commissioner’s face brightened slightly. ‘Maybe that’s what’s happened. Maybe he’s lying face down in a pool of his own blood somewhere, which explains why he’s proving so difficult to find.’
The PM tried to shoot his underling a meaningful look. ‘That would be a result, as they say.’
Not responding, Sir Gavin stared into his drink.
‘Yes, well. .’ Uncomfortably aware of his latest orders, Sir Chester began retreating towards the door. ‘I will let you know of any developments.’
‘You do that,’ said Edgar sternly, signalling to the waiter that his glass needed refilling.
Once the Commissioner had slunk off into the night, the Cabinet Secretary pulled a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Edgar.
The PM took the envelope but didn’t open it. ‘What’s this?’
Sir Gavin O’Dowd cleared his throat. ‘I’ve decided that it is time for me to retire.’
Edgar angrily stomped on the carpet. ‘Bloody hell, Gavin, not tonight.’
Sir Gavin stood his ground. ‘The letter is undated. We can action it in due course, once this problem is out of the way.’
‘So you are bailing out on me, too?’
‘Not at all.’ Sir Gavin smiled. ‘It’s simply time for me to do some other things.’
‘Lucrative non-executive directorships,’ Edgar grumped.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of some travel and a bit of birdwatching.’
‘Mm.’
‘I’m planning a trip to the Mahananda Wildlife Sanctuary to try to spot the Lesser Adjutant stork.’
‘For God’s sake, Gavin.’
The Cabinet Secretary shrugged. ‘The bottom line is that my heart’s simply not in it any more. We all reach our sell-by date and I’ve now reached mine.’
Nodding sadly, Edgar held out his glass for the hovering waiter to add some more cognac. He was already feeling a little drunk, but now was most definitely not the time to stop drinking. Where the hell is the Mahananda Sanctuary? he wondered. Maybe I should consider a trip there myself.
Crawling on to his Jensen Ophelia Continental bed, Simon Shelbourne placed the cool glass of the Jack Daniel’s bottle against his fevered brow, in the hope that it could relieve his bastard migraine. He’d been suffering from raging headaches and nausea for hours now — ever since he’d clocked the story in the Standard about the dead policewoman.
A youthful Jenny Southerton had smiled up at him from the front page. Only her name wasn’t Jenny, it was. . somebody else. Simon almost dropped the newspaper in shock. He couldn’t believe it. He could feel his heart-rate accelerating as he read through the story of the woman’s violent death. Thinking back to their meeting in the Balmoral Club, he realized that everything the little tease had told him was a lie. She hadn’t worked on the Sunday Witness. She was a cop.
An undercover cop, who had been spying on him. And now she was dead. There was no doubt about it: he was totally fucked.
Dealing with this calamitous situation in time-honoured fashion, Shelbourne had decamped to Wade’s Wine Bar and promptly done three lines of charlie in the bog before settling in for an extended session of continuous drinking. Five (or was it six?) hours later, having somehow made it back to his Wapping flat, he bounced on the patented Hourglass Zoned Spring System — which, mercifully, provides consistent support to your ever-changing position and weight distribution — while trying to wriggle out of his Citizens of Humanity Adonis slim jeans.
‘Have you got any more coke?’ The bottle blonde he’d dragged home with him — Rebekah or Rachel or something — dropped her bag on the floor. Shrugging off her denim jacket, she jumped on to the bed, pulling her Mumford amp; Sons T-shirt over her head as she did so.
‘Fucking first,’ declared Shelbourne, ‘drugs second.’ Eyeing her sheer lime-green bra he was relieved to feel a comforting twitch in his groin. The stress of recent events had been impacting on his ability to perform of late, but hopefully tonight he would be okay. The girl reached behind her back to unclasp the bra but he gestured for her to stop. ‘Leave it on.’ The anticipation, he reckoned, was always better than the reality. Shrugging, she did as she was told. Kicking off his jeans, he pulled down his Spanx boxers with his free hand while unscrewing the top of the whiskey bottle with the other. ‘Suck me off.’
‘Gimme some Jack,’ said the girl, grabbing the bottle. Before he had time to react, she poured half the contents of the bottle over his crotch.
‘Hey!’ Shelbourne objected.
The girl gave him a sly grin. ‘If I’m gonna eat it, I want it to taste good.’ She took two long slugs.
Seems reasonable, Shelbourne thought, falling back on to the mattress.
He couldn’t have been asleep for long. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the room came into focus. Shelbourne found himself staring at the crown of the girl’s head as she vigorously worked on his whiskey-flavoured member. Her roots need doing, he thought. Gingerly, he reached out to grab her hair.
‘Fuck off,’ was the muffled reply as she slapped his hand away, digging her teeth ever so slightly into his skin as a gentle reminder of who was in charge.
‘Maybe we should just fuck,’ he grumbled.
Her response was to pitch forward on to his chest, before sliding off the bed.
‘Jesus,’ Shelbourne laughed, ‘you’re even more fucked than I am!’
‘Not
for long,’ interjected another voice. Standing in the doorway, Trevor Miller took in the sordid scene.
Simon Shelbourne sobered up in an instant once he registered the silenced gun in Miller’s left hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he could now see the two bloody holes in the girl’s back. He tried to scream, but only succeeded in vomiting into his own lap.
Trevor shook his head. ‘This isn’t going to look good when the police get here.’
‘Hold on,’ Shelbourne whimpered, trying to shuffle off the bed. ‘You can’t do this. I didn’t tell that girl anything.’
‘I can’t hold on any longer,’ Miller said grimly. Then he lifted the gun and fired four shots into the naked man’s chest.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Yawning, Carlyle stepped into the R6 newsagent on Drury Lane, nodding at Suraj behind the counter, who was patiently waiting for one of the local drunks to count out sufficient copper coins to pay for a can of Red Stripe.
Easy like Sunday morning. . Covent Garden style.
It’s 9:30 a.m., Carlyle thought groggily, a bit early to be hitting the booze. Sucking on a latte from the Ecco cafe up the road, he scanned the front covers of the newspapers laid out by the till. It was the usual mix of celebrities, sex, drugs and disaster. As he did every weekend, Carlyle wondered why his family bothered purchasing newspapers any more. In his book, they were just a waste of time and effort — a bloated mix of no news and the noxious opinions of ridiculous columnists that you would happily cross the road to avoid if they ever came walking down your street. It was Helen who insisted that they keep buying them; more out of habit than anything else. Somehow, he still managed to waste an hour or so of his free time restlessly flicking through pages brimming with bile and manufactured outrages in a vain search for something that might catch his interest.
Finally coming up with the right cash, the dosser grabbed his lager and shuffled towards the door, giving off a rather nasty niff as he did so.
‘The usual?’ Suraj pulled a Sunday Times and Sunday Mirror from their respective piles and set them in front of the inspector.
