by James Craig
‘No,’ said Holyrod firmly, ‘that is one thing you don’t need to do. There’s more than enough of that going on around here as it is. Everyone already thinks that you are far too-’ he was about to say ‘lazy’ but quickly corrected himself, ‘easygoing. You’re the Prime Minister, after all. If you’re not well on the way to a nervous breakdown, people will assume you can’t be taking the job seriously enough.’
‘These days, I can’t even go down the Cock and Bottle for a nice foaming pint of Spitfire Ale without a dozen snappers running around, trying to catch me out.’
‘Well,’ Holyrod grinned, ‘if you hadn’t abandoned your youngest child in the pub one Sunday morning, people might be a bit less interested in what you get up to at weekends.’
Edgar winced at the memory. Leaving a five year old in the boozer didn’t get you any Parent of the Year Award. It was front-page news and Anastasia had been furious. If they had been living on a council estate, he would have already had a knock on the door from Social Services. ‘It was an easy mistake to make,’ he mumbled. ‘I thought she was with her mother. Anyway, no damage was done.’
‘Mm.’
‘It could happen to anyone. People leave their kids in different places all the time — in supermarkets, DIY centres, lots of places.’
‘Not when they’ve got six bodyguards in tow.’ The Mayor knew that he shouldn’t be winding Edgar up like this, but he simply couldn’t resist.
‘Bloody Close Protection Officers,’ the PM wailed, ‘they’re totally useless. What would happen if my bloody life was actually in danger? Anyway, we sent the buggers packing and got a new lot in.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes.’ Edgar smiled malevolently. ‘The others have been demoted to traffic duty in the Orkneys or something. Teach them a damn good lesson.’ Suddenly energized, he waved an angry finger at the Mayor. ‘No one loses one of my kids.’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, we can’t allow any more of this nonsense. We need to get a grip.’
‘Quite,’ Holyrod nodded. ‘By the way, did you see the poll in The Times this morning? You’re trailing by twelve percentage points.’
‘Of course I bloody saw it!’ Edgar exclaimed. ‘But it’s just one bloody poll. We’ll be fine. Twelve points is nothing at this stage. However crap the voters think we are, they know the opposition is worse.’
‘It’s a point of view, I suppose,’
‘Stop being so negative, Christian.’
‘Just remember, the result is by no means in the bag,’ the Mayor said slyly. ‘If it was, I would have taken your job by now.’
‘Good to know that we’re all in it together.’
‘Just so you’re aware.’
Finishing his drink, Edgar looked around for somewhere to deposit the empty glass. ‘From what I hear, London’s more than enough for you to handle already. You can’t even run the bloody police properly.’
‘At least,’ Holyrod shot back, ‘my Head of Security isn’t a suspected killer on the run.’
‘Ex-Head of Security,’ Edgar corrected him. ‘And he wouldn’t still be at large if your people were capable of catching him.’
‘That’s all in hand.’
‘All in hand?’ Edgar let out a shrill laugh. ‘So where is he, then? And it’s not just that, is it? I hear that Operation Redhead itself is on the brink of collapse.’
Holyrod gave a shrug. ‘It appears that Chief Inspector Meyer couldn’t keep it in his trousers. In true provincial style, his wife caught him in flagrante in a Travelodge with one of his colleagues, a detective inspector called Valette. She didn’t take it at all well apparently; proceeded to beat up poor old Meyer quite badly.’
‘The wife, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Holyrod tittered. ‘Seems like she’s into kickboxing, or something like that. As far as I know, he’s still in hospital.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘The girlfriend wanted to have the wife charged with GBH, but was persuaded that would not be a good idea.’
‘Good God, no. The media would have a field day. On top of everything else, it would make the police look like complete idiots.’
‘Quite. Anyway, it seems as if that particular own goal has been avoided.’
‘And Meyer?’
‘As soon as he’s well enough to sign a letter of resignation, he will be standing down — for personal reasons.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Edgar shook his head. ‘And to think he was my appointment. I really have been so badly advised on these things.’
‘Never mind,’ said Holyrod. He gave the PM a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘You can hardly be blamed for the man’s irresponsible libido.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Edgar handed a passing waiter his empty glass, declining a fresh one as he did so.
‘And look on the bright side. By the time we get a replacement, and the whole inquiry thing gets going again, it will be after the General Election.’
Edgar’s expression lightened up somewhat. ‘Good point.’
‘Speaking of libidos,’ Holyrod grinned, ‘how is the lovely Yulissa?’
Edgar’s face darkened again. ‘She’s becoming a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. The latest thing is that she wants a seat in the House of Lords.’
Sipping his wine, Holyrod stared thoughtfully at his shoes. ‘Well, she’d certainly liven the place up a bit. And it would be very handy if you fancied a quick bunk-up in the Derby Room.’
‘Ha, ha,’ was the hollow response. Edgar glanced at his watch. ‘Enough of this chatter. I need to go and say a few carefully crafted words about GOD’s impending departure.’
THIRTY-NINE
By the time he looked up it was too late. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I was wondering when you would get here.’
Oh fuck.
‘John bloody Carlyle — God’s gift to the Metropolitan Police Service. Better late than never, I suppose. Come on in.’
Taking a step into the Snowdons’ living room, the inspector took a moment to compose himself. Sitting on the sofa, Veronica Snowdon looked even more pale and sickly now than he remembered. Barely acknowledging his arrival, her eyes remained firmly fixed on her other visitor. Resting his ample arse against the dining table, Trevor Miller stood, arms folded, with a smug grin on his face. In his right hand he held a Glock 19, silencer affixed to the short barrel, which was pointing towards the ceiling in a rather dissolute James Bond-type pose. He was wearing jeans and a brown Kappa hoodie; the overall effect was that of a monster five year old.
A monster five year old brandishing a loaded weapon.
So much for me being the bearer of good news, Carlyle thought glumly.
‘Sit,’ Miller commanded.
After a moment’s pause, Carlyle did as he was told, parking himself next to Lady Snowdon. By the sideboard, beneath Osmund Caine’s Bathing Beach, Sir Michael hovered next to the Bladnoch single malt. Ever the gracious host, the old man gestured towards the bottle. ‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’
Despite his situation, Carlyle smiled. ‘Under the circumstances, why not?’
Miller frowned. ‘On duty? I think not.’
‘As you wish,’ the inspector sighed. His desire for a drink was acute but not acute enough to risk getting shot. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’
‘I thought that would be obvious,’ Miller snorted.
‘Trevor,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘nothing you do is ever obvious — at least not to normal people.’
There was a flash of rage in Miller’s face. His arms dropped to his sides and it looked like he was going to spring forward and pistol-whip the insolent cop. But the moment passed and he restricted himself to a threatening movement with the gun. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on you, and now it’s time to get this thing sorted.’
‘Good idea.’ Carlyle gestured to Veronica and Sir Michael. ‘So, when were you going to tell the Snowdons here that you murdered their daughter?’ To his right th
ere was a whimper and for a second he was worried that Veronica Snowdon had collapsed. Then he felt her fingernails dig into his flesh, as she grabbed hold of his hand and held on for dear life.
Sir Michael took a half-step forward until a wave of the Glock warned him to come no further. ‘Is this true?’
It wasn’t clear who the question was directed at, but Carlyle decided to jump in. ‘Rosanna was investigating a case for her TV show: the murder of a private detective called Anton Fox. Fox worked for Trevor here, but when he started looking into police corruption someone stuck an axe in his head.’ He looked up at Miller. ‘Was that you, too?’
‘Anton was a complete berk,’ Miller grunted. ‘He never knew when to leave well alone. Neither did the girl, for that matter.’
That doesn’t sound like the Rosanna I knew, Carlyle thought. With the best will in the world, the girl had never been much of an investigative journalist. But now wasn’t really the time or the place to debate the point.
‘You bastard!’ Sir Michael shouted. Rushing at Miller, he was stopped in his tracks by a meaty fist which sent him to the floor, blood oozing from a gash above his right eyebrow.
‘Michael!’ Dropping Carlyle’s hand, Veronica Snowdon jumped up from the sofa and went to comfort her groaning husband.
Staying seated, Carlyle glared at Miller, who had retreated to the window, his Glock now pointing directly at the inspector’s head.
Miller ran his tongue across chapped lips. ‘He’s got a bit of bottle, for an old fella.’ His trigger finger was visibly shaking and the inspector sincerely hoped that the safety catch was still on. ‘Unlike some people here.’ He gestured at his ex-colleague with the gun. ‘You never did have any bottle, did you?’
He’s totally and utterly round the bend. Carlyle knew that he would have to try and rush the crazy bastard. But what were his chances of doing any better than the old man?
Miller read his thoughts. ‘Want to give it a go?’
The inspector said nothing.
‘Up you get, dear.’ Veronica Snowdon helped her husband from the carpet. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but Sir Michael still wore the glazed expression of someone who didn’t really know where he was. Shuffling sideways, the inspector made room for the two of them on the sofa.
‘Stay where you are,’ Miller barked.
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Relax, Trevor. I’m not going anywhere.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he registered a flicker of movement in the hallway. Miller caught it too. Keeping the pistol trained on the inspector, he edged his way across the room. Reaching the doorway, he stuck his head tentatively into the hallway. It’s now or never, Carlyle thought, moving to the edge of his seat. He tried to catch Sir Michael’s eye, but the old man was still in a daze. The gap between himself and Miller was about eight feet, so he’d just have to hurl himself forward and hope for the best.
Stop thinking about it, you stupid bastard, and just do it!
Rocking forward, he had just transferred his weight to the balls of his feet when a shabby-looking grey cat sauntered into the room.
‘Silvio,’ Veronica gasped, ‘what are you doing here?’ The cat prowled along in front of the sofa, eyeing the three of them suspiciously.
‘Silvio?’ Carlyle enquired, happy enough for any distraction which gave him a little more time to play with.
‘Next door’s cat,’ Veronica Snowdon explained, as if this was a normal conversation. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man but they don’t have the heart to give him the snip.’
‘Stupid bloody animal,’ Miller huffed. Taking a step forward, he aimed a kick at Silvio’s ribs, but the cat was too quick for him and darted under the table.
‘Still quite nimble,’ Veronica mused, ‘for his age.’
Carlyle grinned at Miller. ‘Maybe you should shoot it.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘No, fuck you.’
There was an audible click. ‘What the-’ Miller froze as he felt some cold steel nuzzle the back of his neck.
‘That was me releasing the safety on my Browning.’ Gideon Spanner, Dominic Silver’s lieutenant, stepped out from behind his target to get a better view of the trio lined up on the sofa.
Where the hell did you come from? Carlyle wondered. Not that I bloody care! With his heart thumping in his chest, he had to resist the urge to let out a hysterical laugh.
‘I don’t want to blow your head off,’ Gideon murmured quietly in Miller’s ear, ‘because apart from anything else, it would make a terrible mess, and I think you’ve caused these good people more than enough trouble for one night, don’t you?’
Miller’s mouth opened slightly but no sound came out.
‘So drop the gun, please,’ Gideon instructed, ‘and that’s one less problem for us to worry about.’
Miller did as instructed and the Glock hit the carpet with the gentlest of thuds. Intrigued, Silvio appeared from under the table to give it a sniff, before nonchalantly wandering back into the hall.
‘Good. Now kick it towards the inspector over there.’ Again, Miller obliged, carefully side-footing the pistol towards the sofa.
Carlyle, whose bemusement had rapidly turned to relief, made no effort to pick it up. He glanced at the Snowdons, who seemed to be taking it all in their stride.
‘Who are you?’ Miller demanded. It was less a question, more of a wail.
‘Never you mind,’ said Gideon sharply, giving him a prod on the back of the neck with the gun. ‘On your knees, hands behind your head.’ As Miller slowly lowered his bulky frame, Gideon glanced at the inspector. ‘Cuffs?’
Carlyle made a face. ‘Sorry, no.’ He had left them in the station — or maybe at home. A look of weary resignation passed over Gideon’s face.
‘There’s some washing-line cord in the kitchen, under the sink,’ Veronica Snowdon volunteered cheerily. ‘I’ll go and get it.’ She got to her feet. ‘And I’ll need to make sure that Silvio hasn’t done his business on the floor again.’
‘Get me some paracetamol while you’re at it, please,’ Sir Michael mumbled.
‘Yes, dear.’ As she headed for the door, Carlyle was mildly surprised that she didn’t offer to make everyone a cup of tea, on top of everything else. Stepping round both Miller and Spanner, she disappeared towards the rear of the house. Belatedly getting to his feet, the inspector gave Gideon a nod.
‘Thanks for your help on this.’
‘No problem.’ Gideon sounded detached bordering on uninterested.
‘Dom asked you to keep an eye on me?’
The merest of nods. ‘I’ve been on it for the last couple of days.’
‘I didn’t realize.’
Gideon shot him a look that said That was the idea. After a few moments, Veronica Snowdon returned from the kitchen and handed Gideon a length of green and white plastic cable. Sticking the Browning into the belt of his jeans, Gideon pulled Miller’s hands behind his back and expertly tied them together.
‘Nice to see that the old Army training still comes in handy,’ Carlyle observed.
Retrieving his Browning, Gideon said nothing.
‘Here you are, Michael.’ Moving over to the sofa, Veronica handed her husband a couple of tablets and a glass of water.
‘Thank you,’ Sir Michael grunted, dropping the tablets into his mouth and emptying the contents of the glass. ‘So,’ he said, turning to Carlyle, ‘explain to me, just who is this man?’
Where to begin? The inspector gestured towards the Bladnoch. ‘Mind if I have a drink first?’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ Veronica trilled. ‘How remiss of us. Please, help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ He glanced at Gideon, who shook his head.
‘I’ll have one,’ Miller croaked, but Carlyle ignored him. Reaching for the bottle, he realized that his hand was shaking, badly. Pouring himself an extremely large measure, he drank deeply. Then, after refilling the glass almost to the brim, he turned to face the Snowdons and explained to them how Trevor Miller had
killed their daughter.
Gideon patiently waited for him to finish before speaking up himself. ‘I need to leave,’ he said quietly.
Carlyle took another gulp of whisky. ‘Yes.’
‘And you need to get your story right.’
‘Of course.’
Gideon eyed him doubtfully. ‘Meaning I was never here.’
‘No.’ Carlyle stared at his almost empty glass. The Bladnoch was working a treat; his hands had almost stopped shaking and a warm glow had enveloped his insides. Under the circumstances, he had no embarrassment about reaching for the bottle for another refill.
‘You’re as bent as I am,’ Miller scoffed. ‘I’ll tell them what really happened.’
‘You’ll tell them nothing.’
Turning, Carlyle was surprised to see that Veronica Snowdon had picked up the Glock and was now pointing it at Miller’s chest. He shot Gideon a quizzical glance and both of them took a step away from the kneeling man.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed. With the gun in her hand, she suddenly looked thirty years younger. ‘Did you really kill my daughter?’
A nasty grin spread across Miller’s sweaty face. ‘Shit happens, love.’
‘You complete and utter bastard!’ she screamed, squeezing the trigger.
FORTY
Slowly letting out a breath, Carlyle contemplated the tableau in front of him. If anything, the look on Trevor Miller’s face was one of disappointment. Gideon Spanner remained inscrutable. Still holding the gun at arm’s length, Veronica Snowdon sobbed gently, her head bowed.
Struggling to his feet, Sir Michael put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘Come on, darling,’ he whispered, carefully taking the gun from her trembling hand. ‘This is not the way to do things. You can’t just shoot a man standing in your living room, like that. Even if, well. .’ His voice trailed away as he composed himself. ‘We’ve got what we wanted. Now that he’s finally been caught, we have to let the courts do their job.’ Planting a tender kiss on the crown of her head, he lowered her gently on to the sofa, before turning to Carlyle. ‘We can manage to overlook that little moment, Inspector, don’t you think?’
