Looking up, Carlyle frowned. ‘Cheerful?’
‘I don’t know why, really, but ever since I spoke to the GP and got the letter, I’ve felt – I dunno – calm.’ Alexander took a sip of his lager. ‘It’s like the game’s almost over. We’re in injury time. You don’t have to worry about the result any more.’
Carlyle reached for a slice of garlic bread. Good for you, he thought grumpily. I just hope I don’t have to be terminally ill before I can feel relaxed.
‘I’m just going to enjoy my farewell tour. When it ends, it ends.’
I suppose when you’re staring death in the face you can mix your metaphors too. Carlyle made a mental note to get a couple of season tickets for Fulham. If nothing else, it would be a decent gesture. As the conversation lapsed, a procession of waiters appeared with their pizzas and began distributing them around the table. Keen to be distracted by the food, everyone assaulted their plates and began happily munching.
‘One bit of good news,’ said Helen, between slices of Padana, ‘is that Wilf has finally turned up.’
‘Wilf’s a cat who lived in our block,’ Alice explained to her granddad, who was busy wiping a globule of tomato sauce from his chin with a napkin. ‘He ran away from home and the owners put up Missing posters everywhere.’
‘Cats do that sometimes,’ Alexander observed. ‘They like to roam.’
‘He turned up somewhere in Camden,’ Alice continued.
‘Lucky he made it across the Euston Road then,’ Carlyle said through a mouthful of Fiorentina, ‘without being run over.’
‘Da-ad.’
‘His owner is an alternative comedian.’ Helen mentioned the name of a guy Carlyle assumed had died years ago. ‘I didn’t even know that he lived in our building.’
‘Obviously not making much money,’ Carlyle observed.
‘What’s an alternative comedian?’ Alice asked.
‘One who isn’t funny,’ both parents chirped in unison.
Once they had demolished the pizzas and a selection of desserts, Alice dragged Alexander off to Foyles bookstore on Charing Cross Road so that her grandfather could have the honour of buying her the latest L.J. Smith novel. On the TV, Trooping the Colour was still in full swing.
Helen turned to her husband as he stirred his double macchiato. ‘It was a nice thing that you did for Naomi Taylor.’
‘It won’t bring her husband back,’ he said, taking a sip of his coffee. Feeling more than a little full, he signalled to a waitress for the bill.
‘No, but still, it was a good idea, to get Chase Race to give her that cash. It will help tide them over for a bit.’
‘It’s money out of your pocket though,’ Carlyle said.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ But the frustration in his wife’s face told another story.
‘I’m sure Avalon could have put it to good use.’
‘Oh, hell, yes.’ Lifting her cup to her lips, Helen blew on her tea and took a cautious sip. ‘But the Board were never going to accept his money. They thought it was tainted.’
‘All money is tainted.’
Helen grinned. ‘Maybe I should have got you to come and talk to them. Make them see sense.’
‘Ha.’ Reaching over, he gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘As if that would have done any good.’
‘Anyway,’ Helen sighed, ‘the papers will lap it up. Chase probably gets better PR this way than if he had given the cash to Avalon.’
‘It’s a nice picture story,’ Carlyle agreed, ‘rapper with the grieving widow. Charity begins at home and all that. Once Bernie Gilmore starts weaving his magic, we’ll probably discover that Marvin was a big Chase Race fan on the quiet and that Chase is big on law and order.’
‘Don’t believe the hype.’
‘You gotta fight the power.’
‘Seriously though, well done. The money has been put to a good use – even if it wasn’t my good use.’
‘Thank you.’ Finishing his coffee, he took the bill from the approaching waitress and glanced at the total, trying not to wince.
Helen reached into her bag and pulled out her purse. ‘Let me.’
‘OK,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s all from the same pot, anyway.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Helen said, checking the total before dropping her Visa card onto the plate, ‘is what Sammy Baldwin-Lee gets out of all this. I mean, Naomi gets the cash, Chase gets some good PR, but his club still needs some investors.’
‘He’s getting a good deal. Chase is going to improve his standards of behaviour and stop lowering the tone at the Racetrack.’
The waitress appeared with the card reader and Helen typed in her PIN. ‘That simply means his champagne sales will take a hit. It doesn’t seem like such a good deal to me.’
‘I also said that I’d introduce him to Dom.’ Dominic Silver was a former copper turned drug dealer. He was also a mate, a family friend for more than thirty years. ‘He always has cash burning a hole in his pocket that he can use for suitable investments.’
Retrieving her card, Helen waited for the waitress to retreat to the till before commenting. ‘Yeah,’ she said finally, ‘I can see how that would be the case. Cash generation is pretty good in the drugs business. And you don’t have to pay any taxes.’
‘Pur-lease,’ Carlyle protested. ‘Dom’s straight these days.’
Helen shot him a doubtful look.
‘I spoke to him not so long ago. His art gallery is doing really well. He’s thinking about opening another one, in Shoreditch.’
‘Shoreditch?’ Helen raised an eyebrow. ‘Handy for the hipster trade, I suppose.’
‘Art is his thing now,’ Carlyle insisted, ‘but he’s looking for other opportunities as well.’
Still looking less than convinced, Helen put the card back in her purse and stuffed the purse back in her bag.
‘It’s just an introduction,’ he pointed out. ‘All I’m doing is bringing the two of them together. It will be up to them whether they want to take it any further.’
‘John Carlyle,’ his wife grinned, ‘mover and shaker.’
THIRTY-NINE
His foot had started hurting again. Carlyle grimaced as he hobbled down the road. Turning off Northington Street, his phone began vibrating in his jacket pocket. Checking the number on the screen, he let out a heavy sigh.
‘How’s it going, Bernie?’
‘Not bad, Inspector – how about you?’
‘Fine, fine,’ Carlyle muttered. Ignoring the pain in his foot, he quickened his pace.
‘Did your boss enjoy Trooping the Colour?’ Bernie Gilmore asked.
‘Dunno. Haven’t spoken to her about it.’
‘At least she managed to keep her hat on.’
That’s £800 of taxpayers’ money well spent, then. ‘You’re not thinking about running the story, are you?’
‘No, no, no,’ the journalist reassured him. ‘That’s been and gone. The public only have the attention span of a dying gnat. We must move on.’
‘Good.’ Feel free to get to the point.
‘I hear,’ said Bernie, ‘that your friend and mine, Seymour Erikssen, has returned to his natural habitat.’
‘Eh?’
‘The silly old bugger is back behind bars.’
‘Oh, right. Yes, he is.’
‘What has he done this time?’
‘The usual.’ Carlyle explained the background to the master criminal’s latest arrest. ‘He confessed to a dozen or so burglaries in Bloomsbury.’
‘The legend continues,’ Bernie opined. ‘Virginia Woolf will be turning in her grave.’
‘Ach. Who’s afraid of her?’ Carlyle replied, pleased with his speedy quip.
‘Yes, yes. Very good. But getting back to the matter in hand, I just need a nice quote for my story, from sources close to the investigation. You know the kind of thing.’
The inspector thought about it for a moment. ‘What did you have in mind?’ Dodging an old man walking his dog, he listened to the journalist outline a few frothy soundbites.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘Sure,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘That sounds fine. No problem at all. You go for it.’