by James Craig
‘That’s the thing about our great city,’ Carlyle said cheerily, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion about the changing composition of the faithful, ‘there’s a home here for everyone.’
Edna mumbled something that suggested she had a slightly different take on multi-culturalism. Choosing to ignore it, he rooted around in the pocket of his jeans for some change. ‘You wouldn’t have any bacon rolls left, would you?’
‘You’re out of luck,’ she replied, with just the merest hint of malice. ‘Young Proctor took the last three.’
Three? The fat bastard. Reluctantly settling for a couple of apples, he paid for breakfast and headed over to the waiting Ren. His guest looked nonplussed at the fare on offer.
‘Sorry, I’m afraid that’s all I could get.’ Carlyle cast an accusing glance at Edna, but she had disappeared into the kitchen to start on the goulash.
Ren picked up an apple, looked at it and then decided to give it a polish with one of the paper napkins Edna had tossed onto the tray. When he was satisfied with his efforts, he took a large bite. Once the first apple had gone, he repeated the process with the second.
Help yourself, Carlyle thought sourly. Sipping his coffee, he scrutinized the man on the other side of the table. He had spent a good twenty minutes trying to clean himself up, but still looked a terrible mess. The smell wasn’t getting any better either. Finishing his apple, the man took a sip of his coffee and winced.
‘I know,’ Carlyle said, ‘the coffee here is terrible. Do you want any milk? Or sugar?’
‘No.’ Ren shook his head as he placed the mug back on the table. ‘Black is fine.’ As Carlyle had suspected, there was nothing wrong with his grasp of the language. The accent, the inspector guessed, was somewhere between Seattle and Shanghai.
Ren belatedly pressed his face into a smile. ‘Thank you. I must apologize for last night.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything to apologize for, sir.’ For a reason he didn’t quite understand, Carlyle had slipped into full-on deferential mode. He recalled a phrase his late mother liked to use: ‘you get more with honey than vinegar’. The irony was that his mum, God rest her soul, liked to sprinkle the vinegar at every opportunity. This morning, however, something deep in his consciousness told him that a bit of sweetness would yield some as yet unspecified reward. ‘It is a most unfortunate situation.’
Murmuring his assent, Ren returned to his coffee.
‘And we will need to do a little bit of paperwork before you leave.’
‘My people will sort that out.’
My people. The first thing Ren had done on leaving the cells was to reclaim his mobile phone. Carlyle had stood by his side as he barked orders in Mandarin (or maybe it was Cantonese) to some minion before stalking off to the cloakroom. The inspector glanced at the clock on the wall, above the door. Presumably the minion would be here imminently.
‘How do you know Sonia?’
Ren shifted in his seat restlessly. ‘I know the agency. There has never been any problem of this sort before.’
‘I’m sure that Harry will be mortified.’
Ren said nothing. If he knew Harry Cummins, he wasn’t letting on.
Time to change tack. ‘Why are you in London?’
‘I’m a businessman,’ Ren replied casually, ‘I travel a lot.’
‘And do you like it? The travel? It must be very tiring.’
Ren gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It is necessary.’ In the doorway, Umar appeared, gesturing that Ren’s entourage had arrived upstairs. Carlyle nodded and got to his feet. Following suit, Ren turned and marched to the door. As he did so, an idea occurred to the inspector.
‘I was just wondering . . .’
Without showing the slightest interest, Ren kept walking. Heading out of the canteen, he took the stairs two at a time, rather than wait for the lift.
‘Doesn’t he like your hospitality?’ Umar quipped.
‘Ungrateful sod,’ Carlyle groused.
In reception, a very expensive-looking lawyer was berating the desk sergeant about the most horrendous infringement of his client’s human rights. Ignoring the brief, Carlyle’s eyes were drawn to the impressive Amazon standing next to him, deep in conversation with the unfortunate ‘businessman’. Tall, for a Chinese, she had the lean, hard look of an athlete. The most striking thing about her, however, were the dark, dead eyes staring out from under a fringe of black hair.
Carlyle elbowed Umar in the ribs. ‘Put your tongue back in,’ he whispered. ‘Who is she?’
‘No idea. His daughter? Some kind of PA, perhaps?’
‘PA my arse,’ Carlyle murmured. The word that came to mind was ninja.
Once the necessary paperwork was signed and the lawyer felt he had spouted enough dire threats to impress his client, the woman said something to Ren and they started towards the door.
Skipping in front of them, Carlyle made a performance of opening the door. ‘I was just wondering,’ he repeated, ignoring the woman’s glare. ‘A friend of mine does a lot of business in China. He’s got a company called Tallow Business Services. I wondered if you might have come across it at all?’
Ren shot an irritated glance at Xue Xi before giving the inspector a gentle shake of the head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, his English slowing to almost glacial speed. ‘I don’t think so. China, as you are aware, is a massive country. You can’t know everyone.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Stepping aside, Carlyle let them pass. ‘I just thought I’d ask – on the off-chance.’
When he made it back to his desk, Sonia was gone, although she had left him a message – see you later xx – in pink lipstick on the screen of his PC monitor. The passing Sergeant Elmhirst clocked the childish scrawl and gave him a big grin. ‘Got an admirer then, boss?’
‘How am I supposed to get that off?’ Carlyle said crossly.
Sitting at the inspector’s desk, the youthful figure of Harry Cummins looked up from his copy of The Economist. ‘A little bit of washing-up liquid should do the trick,’ he suggested.
‘Get out of my fucking chair,’ Carlyle growled.
‘Nice to see you, too,’ the posh pimp replied as he moved to a seat nearby.
Pulling open the top drawer, Carlyle half-heartedly looked for some paper napkins. ‘What do you want, anyway?’
Temporarily distracted by the sight of Elmhirst sashaying across the floor, Cummins said nothing.
‘Well?’ Carlyle demanded.
‘Blimey,’ Cummins blurted out, still staring at Elmhirst’s bottom, ‘where did you find her? She belongs on a catwalk.’
‘She was on a catwalk, I think, but decided to come here instead.’
Leaning back, Harry let out a laugh that sounded a bit like a hyena confronting a baby antelope. ‘Not right in the head, is that it?’
‘Not at all. Sharp as a tack.’
Harry scratched at the logo of his pink Lacoste polo shirt. ‘She could make a fortune working for me. An absolute bloody fortune.’
‘Harry, leave it out.’ Giving up on the napkins, Carlyle decided just to leave the lipstick where it was. Maybe the cleaners would sort it out.
‘I’m just saying.’
‘If you “just say” anything more,’ Carlyle retorted, ‘I’ve got a nice empty cell downstairs that has just been vacated by one of your clients. Smells a bit, mind.’
‘That’s what I’m here about.’
‘What?’
‘The guy who was downstairs.’
Carlyle fell back into his chair, almost parking his arse on the carpet in the process. ‘Mr Li Hang,’ he yawned. ‘Great name.’
‘That’s just the point,’ Harry said, tossing The Economist into the cardboard box that served as a bin. ‘It’s not his real name.’
Oh, really? Carlyle began to sit up and then resumed his slouch. There was no point in appearing too keen. He forced another yawn. ‘Why would he lie on his release form? He was the victim of an assault.’
Harry leaned f
orward. ‘How much do you know about Chinese politics?’
‘About as much as you know about morals,’ was Carlyle’s instant response.
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Harry protested.
‘OK, I apologize. Give me the short version. And keep it simple.’
‘Well, to start with, Mr Li Hang’s real name is Ren Qi.’
‘Hold on . . .’ Carlyle grabbed a Post-it note and a black biro that had been leaking out on his desk. ‘Spell it.’
Harry obliged, going on to give the inspector the helicopter view of Ren’s role at the centre of the current spate of Politburo infighting.
Carlyle gestured at the magazine peeking out of the top of the box. ‘All very interesting, Mr Economist, but what does any of this have to do with the price of beans?’
‘Because,’ Harry said excitedly, ‘the word is that Ren is building himself a little business empire over here. He wants to make London one of his primary bolt holes.’
None the wiser, Carlyle stuck out his lower lip and nodded.
‘A bit like a Chinese Abramovich,’ Harry explained, offering up the Russian tycoon as a point of reference.
‘What?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘He’s gonna buy Chelsea?’
‘You know what I mean, you berk. He needs an escape route. That’s what London is these days, or hadn’t you noticed? This place isn’t really for the likes of you and me, it’s just a refuge for the rich. Ren certainly has the cash to play in this market. He might be more of a politician than a businessman but in places like China the line is very blurred indeed.’
‘I suppose.’
‘They say all political careers end in failure,’ Harry continued, ‘but whereas over here that might mean retiring to the country with wife number three and a collection of directorships, there it can mean a bullet in the back of the head. Ren is just being prudent.’
‘He wasn’t prudent enough to avoid getting caught up in a nightclub brawl with a hooker on each arm,’ Carlyle observed.
‘He was just a bit unlucky, according to Sammy.’
‘So you know Sammy then?’ Carlyle was hardly surprised.
‘Yeah, ’course I do. He’s tried to get me to invest in the Racetrack a couple of times.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Business is that good?’
‘Sure. Pretty girls never go out of fashion.’
The inspector glanced at the lipstick on the computer screen. ‘Even poor old Sonia.’
‘She does fine. That guy who complained, Yates, he was just a total dick. Thanks for sorting that out, by the way.’
‘It was nothing.’ Carlyle shrugged it off.
‘No, seriously. Consider the heads-up on Ren a bit of quid pro quo.’
A bit of quid pro quo? Those educated pimps; you had to laugh.
‘He has a son over here – got him into Eton, God knows how. Must have pulled a lot of strings. The kid’s turned into a bit of a rascal by all accounts. The wife spends a lot of time in London too. There are rumours she’s playing away with a Brit.’
‘Doubt that bothers him too much,’ Carlyle interjected, ‘given his preference for your girls.’
‘You know what such men are like, Inspector.’
Not really.
‘They want to have their cake and eat it.’
‘I’m sure. By the way, the other girl, the one who isn’t Sonia. What happened to her?’
‘Morag? The silly cow’s gone home.’
‘To Scotland?’
‘No, no.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Studio flat in Putney.’ She claims it was a stomach bug, but that half bottle of vodka she downed before arriving at the Racetrack was doubtless a factor. I think a return to the land of the midges beckons for that young lady. She’s just not cut out for this.’
‘Make sure she’s looked after properly,’ Carlyle said, but it was less a command, more of a plea.
Harry made a face. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not social services.’
‘Fair enough.’ Carlyle scratched behind his ear. ‘By the way, who was the Chinese woman – the one who came to pick Ren up this morning? She seemed quite something.’
‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘Whenever I’ve met Ren, he’s always been on his own.’ Just then, Umar appeared with a coffee in each hand. Placing one on his own desk, he handed the other to Harry.
‘Thanks, pal.’
A look of dismay fell across the inspector’s face. ‘Where’s mine?’
‘Didn’t know you wanted one,’ Umar grinned as he sat down.
Not wishing to intrude on a domestic dispute, Harry got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going.’ He offered his free hand and the inspector gave it a firm shake.
‘Thanks for coming in,’ Carlyle said mechanically. ‘Let me know if you come across this guy . . .’ he glanced down at the Post-it ‘. . . Ren, again.’
‘Will do.’
Umar gave Harry a wave as he headed for the stairs. ‘Nice bloke.’
‘For a pimp,’ Carlyle grumped, still put out that he hadn’t been offered a coffee.
‘By the way,’ Umar said airily, ‘Commander Simpson wants to see you.’
‘Great,’ the inspector complained. ‘It’s not like I haven’t got enough to do without schlepping over to her office.’
‘She’s not at Paddington Green,’ Umar corrected him. ‘She’s got a fitting.’
‘A fitting?’
‘That’s what she said.’ The sergeant mentioned an address just off Regent Street. ‘Wants to see you there. Said she’d be there for the next hour or so. You’d better get your skates on.’
TWENTY-THREE
Stepping off the street and into Nixon de Brunner’s Bespoke Headwear Emporium was like stepping back in time. Assistants dressed like Edwardian servants scuttled about under dim lighting, fetching boxes from wall-to-ceiling shelves at the behest of invisible customers. Catching the attention of one of them, a flustered-looking woman with a red face, Carlyle asked for the Commander and was directed to the fitting rooms on the second floor.
Climbing the stairs, he found Carole Simpson in a tiny room at the end of a long, dusty corridor. Standing in front of a full-length mirror, she was adjusting her headpiece, a black number that looked a bit like a bowler hat that had been squashed into an oblong, with a white flower sticking out of the top. To Carlyle’s untrained eye, it looked like something left over from the French Revolution.
‘What the hell’s that? It looks like—’
‘It’s a Napoleon-style bicorn hat with a black and white feathered plume.’ The flustered assistant appeared at his shoulder. ‘We’ve been making them using the same craft skills for more than two hundred years.’ She turned her attention to his boss. ‘How does it look, Commander?’
‘I think we’re there,’ Simpson smiled. ‘It feels fine.’
‘Not too tight?’ the woman enquired anxiously.
‘No, just right.’ Removing the hat, Simpson handed it to the assistant. ‘If you could put it in a box for me, I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘Of course.’ The woman took the hat and hurried away.
‘Thank you.’ Listening to her stomp down the stairs, the Commander turned to her charge. ‘Why do you have to be so snide about everything?’
‘Me?’ Carlyle lifted a hand to his breast, signalling the wound he had suffered. ‘What did I do? I didn’t say anything.’
‘It’s just a bloody hat,’ Simpson snapped back. ‘Couldn’t you say something nice for once? Or, better still, just keep your mouth shut?’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Ceremonial.’
‘Aha.’ None the wiser, Carlyle waited for her to explain.
‘The Met needs a relatively senior officer to take part in Trooping the Colour, in order to help secure the event. One of the Assistant Deputy Commissioners was going to do it but she fell off her horse a couple of weeks ago at a point-to-point meeting and broke her back. So it looks like I’ve got the nod.’
‘I didn’t
know you rode,’ Carlyle replied.
Simpson gave him a cold stare. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’
‘How very true. For example, I didn’t know that we had to provide someone to dress up in a funny hat and ponce around on a horse behind Her Maj.’
‘See what I mean?’ Simpson shook her head. ‘Snide.’
‘It’s a nice hat,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘Kind of.’
‘When it comes to ceremonial riding hats,’ Simpson continued, ‘you’ve got to have a fitting. It has to be fitted because there’s no chin strap.’
Carlyle barely stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry, I should have realized. Ceremonial duties are not something I’ve ever been called on to do.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘How much does it cost, by the way?’
‘The hat’s not cheap. About £800, plus VAT.’
£800. That might be a story worth punting to Bernie Gilmore. Filing the globule of information away for a later date, Carlyle couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘Good to know the police force can still afford such essentials while frontline services are getting the chop right, left and centre.’
‘John.’
Time to move the conversation on. ‘At least you’re back in favour with the powers that be.’ Simpson’s career had been in the toilet for several years, but she had stuck at it and was gradually rehabilitating herself. ‘Don’t fall off Dobbin and maybe you’ll get a promotion yet.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ Simpson said grimly.
Leaning against the frame of the door, he folded his arms. ‘So, what did you want to talk about? Other than the hat, of course.’
‘Ah, yes.’ On the floor, by the mirror, was a large red shoulder bag. Bending forward, Simpson unzipped it and began rummaging around inside. After a few moments, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Carlyle. ‘Here.’
Opening up the paper, Carlyle squinted at the image. ‘Which way up is this supposed to go?’
‘Whichever way you like,’ Simpson said tartly.
Carlyle flipped the sheet of A4 round. ‘I see what you mean.’ The man in the picture, naked from the waist down, was in a state of some excitement. His face wasn’t visible but Carlyle knew well enough who it was. Refolding the picture, he handed it back to the Commander.
