London Calling

by James Craig

  ‘What kind of meeting?’

  Simpson shrugged. ‘It looks like we shall never know that. Carlton decided to send Miller. He arrived here about 6.30 and found the door was open.’

  ‘Miller? Carlton’s head of security? On Election Day?’

  Simpson paused there, eyes shining, saying nothing further. The rain had now stopped and the air suddenly felt fresher than it had for weeks.

  ‘Was there anything suspicious about the death?’ Carlyle asked, trying and failing to keep a hint of desperation from his voice.

  Simpson executed a small hop on the spot, like a small child desperate to go to the toilet. ‘Not as far as I could see.’ She lowered the umbrella, giving it vigorous shake before closing it. ‘When Miller went in, he found her hanging from the banister, so he rang 999, and then he rang me.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  She let her gaze fall to the pavement. ‘Yes, I’d say so.’

  Carlyle clamped his jaw tight and fixed his gaze on a point in the middle distance, before nodding at her carefully rehearsed answer.

  ‘Why wasn’t I called?’

  ‘I tried your mobile,’ Simpson said gently, ‘but I couldn’t get through. The network was busy. I rang the station, and they said you were on your way.’

  He tried to work it through in his head, to see if that timing made sense. It was difficult to say.

  Simpson radiated calm. She glanced towards Joe, still standing on the pavement outside Susy Ahl’s house. ‘You must pass on my congratulations to your sergeant, as well, John. It’s excellent work that we’ve managed to clear this thing up without too much … fuss. Good for our performance stats as well. You know that it all comes under SCD in the end, but I will make sure that you both get the proper recognition you deserve.’

  Carlyle shivered. As far as he was concerned, the Specialist Crime Directorate could take whatever credit they wanted. He sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ said Simpson, reaching down to open the car door. ‘I know that you’ll have some more questions, but don’t hang around here any longer than is necessary. The officer in charge of the scene is a Sergeant Longmead, and she seems very efficient.’ Simpson gestured towards the house. ‘She’s inside right now. Go and speak to her, and let me have your final report first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Final’ meaning final. Meaning: Kindly fuck off back to the day job, the muggers and the drunks, and try to stay off my radar for a while. A long while.

  ‘Any loose ends?’ he asked, giving it one last push, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Not really.’ Simpson had already lowered herself into the car and seemed keen to close the door. ‘Not really. There was an empty vodka bottle on the floor. The provisional time of death is around five p.m.’

  Carlyle thought about his missed call. His brain was now slowly getting into gear. ‘What about a suicide note?’

  ‘No note,’ said Simpson, with just the slightest hint of levity in her tone, as if she might have just taken a stiff drink herself. ‘But that’s not unusual. After all, she knew that we were closing in.’

  ‘I should have arrested her yesterday.’ He said it to himself more than to Simpson, but he saw the first sign of irritation flash across her face.

  She looked up at him sharply. ‘People hang themselves in jail, too, as you well know. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing inside? Look at it this way, you’ve saved the taxpayer the cost of a trial. That could mean hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of pounds. Not to mention the thirty thousand or more a year necessary to keep Ms Ahl in prison for the rest of her life.’ Simpson did the mental arithmetic in her head. ‘Let’s say a couple of million pounds – one and a half minimum. That more than pays your way.’ She grabbed the inside door handle firmly. ‘Not a bad night’s work, I’d say. Once again, well done. I’ll call you once I’ve read your report.’ With that, she finally pulled the door shut and allowed herself to be driven off into the night.

  Carlyle didn’t bother talking to Longmead or even taking a final look round Ahl’s house. Instead, he led Joe to the Eight Bells pub round the corner, on Woodlawn Road. As befitted his designated driver status, Joe was carefully sipping a half pint of London Pride bitter. Damp and dismayed, Carlyle had ordered a double measure of Jameson whiskey. After knocking that back in one, he was now nursing a second.

  Did I get that woman killed? he wondered grimly. Is this one on me?

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Joe, trying to break his boss free of his dark mood.

  Carlyle sneezed again. ‘I think I’m going down with the flu.’

  Joe was not in the mood for handing out any faux sympathy. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ Carlyle said gloomily. ‘Not in the slightest.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘What do you think?’ He sucked down the remaining whiskey. ‘You drive me back, and then I write my report.’

  ‘OK.’

  Carlyle looked down at his glass. ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a better idea. You go and write the report, and I’ll sign it in the morning. I feel like one for the road.’

  Joe shrugged, not caring one way or the other. It was the hanging around picking over the bones of failure that he hated. Now, it was time to move on, find some other bastards to get worked up about. ‘Sure.’ He pulled the car keys from his pocket and weighed them in his hand. ‘See you in the morning, boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe.’

  Carlyle ordered another double at the bar and took it back to his seat. For the next few minutes he wanted nothing more than to enjoy his drink, stare vacantly into space, and hope that all the frustrations of recent weeks would fade as he began to get increasingly pissed.

  Behind the bar was a television with the sound turned right down. Carlyle looked up to see Edgar Carlton, on the steps of party HQ, making an ‘impromptu’ speech to his cheering campaign workers. Edgar was surrounded by faces that had become all too familiar in recent days, all of them busy nodding and clapping as if their very lives depended on it, waiting for the polls to close so that the celebrations could begin in earnest.

  ‘Almost there now, aren’t you, you tossers,’ Carlyle slurred to himself. ‘Got what you wanted, your bloody birthright.’

  He took another mouthful of whiskey and decided that tonight would be an excellent night to get totally shitfaced.

  ‘Tossers!’

  The barman stopped pouring a pint and gave him a dirty look.

  ‘But they are,’ Carlyle grumbled under his breath.

  Maybe he should just go to bed.

  On the screen, the picture zoomed in on one bright, shining face hovering behind Edgar’s left shoulder. With the shot glass poised at his lips, Carlyle froze.

  ‘Holy fucking shit!’

  This time, the barman looked ready to come over and sort him out.

  Ignoring him, Carlyle jumped to his feet and bolted for the door.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘Come on, come on!’

  Hopping from foot to foot, Xavier Carlton sipped his beer nervously and glanced at the second hand skipping round the face of his TAG Heuer Carrera. It was 9.59 plus ten … eleven … twelve seconds.

  His heart was beating so fast, Xavier thought it might burst out of his chest at any moment. This waiting was killing him. The final hour before the polls closed had dragged interminably, going on for what seemed like days. But now, finally, in less than a minute, they would know the outcome of the election.

  … twenty-three … twenty-four … twenty-five …

  The excited hubbub died down as everyone gathered round the television monitors placed all around the room, waiting for the news. The final opinion polls still had them in front, if only by five per cent or so. That should still be enough to give them a small but workable majority in the House of Commons, assuming that the polls were right.

  … forty-eight … forty-nine … fifty …

  Letting
his eyes slip away from the massive cinema screen at the far end of the hotel ballroom, Xavier glanced at his brother. With his head bowed, Edgar looked gaunt and exhausted. They’d had it in the bag for so long now, all they really wanted was the relief of knowing it was all over.

  In the distance, Xavier thought he could just make out the faint chimes of Big Ben, half a mile down the road, as it struck ten o’clock. For a second, all of the screens within the room went blank.

  Heart pounding, Xavier held his breath.

  Suddenly, finally, Egar’s face appeared on the screen.

  There was a split second’s delay, then a massive cheer went up. All around, people were shouting and screaming, hugging each other and punching the air in celebration. One of the girls close by burst into tears.

  Xavier stepped over and hugged his brother.

  ‘Thank God!’ Edgar closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.

  ‘Amen,’ said Xavier, feeling his knees buckle slightly. Regaining his composure, he grabbed Edgar by the arm and quickly led him past a couple of Trevor Miller’s security guys and down a hallway leading away from the noise. Round a corner, he swiped a key card that gave them access to the sanctuary of their own private hotel suite. Strict instructions had been given that absolutely no one, other than a handful of their closest circle, was to be allowed access. Even friends and family had been parked in rooms on the floor below, the brothers having insisted on a space which was for them alone. Those years of having, literally, their every move watched, exposed, dissected, debated and criticised were over. The campaign to claw back some of their privacy started here.

  Grabbing a fresh beer, Xavier dropped on to the sofa in the middle of the large sitting room. On a TV mounted on the wall the presenter proclaimed: ‘The polls have now closed in today’s General Election. And tonight it looks as though Britain has a new government. We are predicting that Edgar Carlton will become the next prime minister, with a majority of twenty seats in the House of Commons.’

  In the ballroom outside, the music started up as the victory party proper finally got under way. Xavier felt his brother’s hand rest on his shoulder as he gulped down his beer. Neither man said anything, their elation drowned in sheer relief.

  They were still lost in their thoughts when the door swung open and William Murray fell into the room, eyes gleaming.

  ‘Congratulations!’ shouted the special adviser. ‘You’ve done it!’ In each hand, Murray held up a magnum of chilled Krug 1995, beads of condensation quickly forming on the dark green glass. An unlit Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill was wedged between his lips. Standing unsteadily on one leg, he kicked the door shut behind him with the other.

  The little sod’s drunk, thought Xavier. But why not? I will be, too, soon enough. Everyone should get blasted on a night like this. The night of a lifetime.

  ‘Thank you, William.’ Edgar stepped forward, smiling broadly. The emotion of the moment had subsided, and he was regaining his composure. ‘And thank you for all your work on our behalf over the last few years.’

  Tears in his eyes, the young man bowed his head. ‘It has been an honour …’

  ‘You have been a vital member of the team,’ Edgar burbled, ‘and, as I have always said, this is simply the beginning of our adventure.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Please let everyone know that Xavier and I will be coming out right away. Let’s get the party started. Tonight we want everyone here to have a great time. Goodness knows, they deserve it. Can you tell them that we’ll be with them in a few minutes.’

  Murray stared at him blankly. ‘No, I really don’t think so.’ Tossing one of the bottles on to the sofa, he skipped straight towards Edgar. Grabbing it by the neck with both hands, he lifted the remaining bottle high above his head. The two politicians appeared mesmerised. For a millisecond, as he struggled to keep his balance, it looked as if Murray might tip over backwards. Then, grunting with the effort, he brought the Krug bottle smashing down right on to Edgar’s head with a dull clunk.

  ‘What the …?’ Xavier watched in disbelief as his brother crumpled under the heavy blow. He tried to stand up, but Murray was upon him before he could force himself out of his seat. The first blow glanced off his arms, raised in defence, but the second caught him full in the face, sending him spiralling into darkness.

  Xavier registered the smell of burning flesh before he heard the scream.

  ‘No-ooo!’

  Reluctantly opening his eyes, it took Xavier another second or two to realise that he was lying face-down on the carpet, his hands tied behind his back and his feet taped together. Worse still, he was totally naked. The worst headache he had ever known was scouring at the inside of his skull, and he badly wanted to puke. Slowly, he turned his head in the direction of Edgar’s cries.

  Lying about six feet away, his brother was also bound hand and foot, naked from the waist down. Edgar’s right buttock sported a nasty red burn about the size of a fifty-pence piece, clearly the result of William Murray’s casual deployment of the now lit cigar.

  ‘Help! Help! HELP!’ Edgar’s face turned crimson as he screamed with all his might. However, against the sound of Kylie Minogue thudding through the intervening wall from the party outside, it amounted to barely a squeak in his brother’s ears.

  Xavier struggled to lift his head far enough from the floor to see Murray’s face. When his gaze reached the jagged neck of the bottle still clutched in Murray’s right hand, he felt his bladder spasm and a fearful warmth spread through the carpet beneath his groin. Scanning the boy’s face, he tried to make meaningful eye contact, while praying that someone else would finally wonder where they were and come to their aid.

  ‘What do you want?’ he gasped.

  Murray stood between the two brothers, flushed, exultant, not flinching from Xavier’s gaze, but saying nothing. For a moment, the two men eyeballed each other, both ignoring the steady, heaving sobs of the soon-to-be prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Xavier realised that he had never really looked Murray up and down before. Now, on closer inspection, he realised that there really was nothing to the boy at all. Although he had been one of their inner circle, and a senior trusty, he was but one of dozens, if not hundreds, of similar helpers. If he were to leave tomorrow – and now, after this comical breakdown, he would be leaving tomorrow, if not sooner – there were plenty of others queuing up to take his place. All of them were young, bright, fiercely ambitious, and utterly disposable.

  Utterly disposable.

  Like a cheap razor. Or a tampon.

  Xavier started laughing.

  Maybe Murray had flipped simply because he was worried that he had already passed his sell-by date.

  Maybe he’d just started partying too hard, too quickly. Maybe he had taken too much ecstasy and had suffered a brain meltdown. If that was the case, he certainly wouldn’t have been the first.

  Maybe …

  ‘Oh my God!’ Looking deep into the boy’s eyes, Xavier suddenly realised what was going on. Struggling to breathe, his eyes misted up as he was transported back half a lifetime – to the true night of a lifetime.

  Murray gave him a crooked smile.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Xavier repeated.

  Murray took a contented puff on his cigar.

  ‘You!’ Xavier pulled ineffectually against his restraints. ‘It was you all along.’

  Murray nodded.

  Xavier let his forehead sink back to the floor: ‘Icarus, the boy who flew too close to the sun …’

  ‘Not a very original choice of name.’ Murray spoke quietly, flicking some ash on to the carpet, his words almost getting lost against the music. ‘Not his name, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Xavier nodded subconsciously.

  Murray flicked some cigar ash towards Edgar, who had fallen silent. The shock had finally kicked in, and it looked as if he had passed out. Probably just as well, Xavier thought. Where the fuck was that useless fat bastard Trevor Miller? Probably out
in the ballroom getting drunk and trying to grope one of the secretaries.

  ‘His name was Robert.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The name of the man you killed was Robert Ashton.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He was my father.’

  Murray dropped to his knees and pulled Xavier’s head up by his hair, bringing the broken bottle neck close to his neck. For a few moments, the noise outside died down as Kylie’s singing gave way to another thumping dance track.

  Out of nowhere, Xavier summoned some new reserves of spirit. ‘You’ll never get away with it!’ he hissed.

  ‘I don’t want to get away with it,’ Murray snarled. ‘I want everyone to know what you people did.’

  ‘It wasn’t me. I wasn’t even there,’ a voice snivelled. Edgar had obviously reawakened.

  ‘Yes, you were!’ Xavier retorted angrily. He wasn’t going to let this lunatic have the pleasure of watching either of the brothers grovel.

  ‘Only at the end,’ Edgar protested. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘You didn’t fuck him,’ Xavier hissed. ‘Big deal, so what? You still got your rocks off. We all did.’ Craning his neck, he turned back to face Murray who had dropped the neck of the broken bottle on to the carpet and was now fumbling with a mobile phone.

  Edgar grew even more agitated as Murray started filming the grotesque scene that he had staged.

  Laughing, Murray gave him a sharp kick. ‘Keep it up,’ he jeered. ‘This will make for better viewing. You’ll be an internet sensation.’

  Screaming like a stuck pig, Edgar obliged the crazed auteur. It struck Xavier that his brother looked like the victim in a splatter movie, which, in a sense, he was.

  ‘You don’t like it so much when the tables are turned, do you?’ Murray grinned, dancing about in front of them, as if he was in a trance.

  To hell with it, Xavier thought. If I ever live through this, a bloody video will be the least of my worries. Waiting until the camera was focused straight on him, he let rip. ‘You murdering bastard, I’m not ashamed of having buggered your old man.’ With a monumental effort, he adopted a leering grin. ‘We both enjoyed it at the time. And I have to say, William, your dad was a rather good shag.’