Taking a half-step away from the guy, she glanced down at the scribble in her notebook. ‘So, sir, you estimate that there was approximately nine thousand pounds in cash in the safe?’
‘Nine thousand, six hundred,’ Jerome corrected her. The remains of the twelve grand he’d got from Elma minus the money for the girls. The latter were the most likely suspects. All he knew about them, beyond a certain lack of inhibition, was that they had answered to the names Hannah and Jocelyn. Unless the hotel management managed to identify them from the CCTV, there was next to zero chance of tracking them down.
Looking up, Mason frowned. ‘Wasn’t that rather a lot of cash to be keeping in your hotel room?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jerome said cheerily. ‘Is it?’ His initial dismay at losing the cash had been replaced by a certain philosophical detachment. After all, he told himself, the Lord works in mysterious ways. More importantly, he was fairly sure that his insurance would pick up the tab. ‘Money isn’t really my thing.’
What a load of old bollocks, Mason thought. Money is everybody’s thing.
‘In my line of work . . .’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘I’m a consultant.’
‘Okay.’ Who cared what the guy did for a living? They were all going through the motions here. This wasn’t an investigation, just a bureaucratic procedure. Mason tore a blank page from her notebook and scribbled an address on it. ‘You’ll need to come down to the station,’ she said, handing him the piece of paper, ‘and speak to the desk sergeant. He’ll give you a crime number. You’ll need that if you are intending to make a claim on your insurance policy.’
A pained expression slipped across Jerome’s face. ‘But I have a plane to catch,’ he whined.
Mason gave him an unconcerned smile. ‘It’s not far from here, it shouldn’t take you long.’ The door opened and she turned to see PC Lucas finally reappear, a paper cup in each hand. Stepping forward, she reached out to relieve him of one of them. ‘Thanks, Joe.’
‘No problem,’ Lucas mumbled, avoiding eye-contact.
He fancies me, Mason thought, taking a sip of her latte. Shame he’s not my type. It was always good, however, to have a few tame admirers around. ‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘Maybe you could take Mr . . .’ she suddenly realized she had forgotten the guy’s name.
‘Mears,’ Jerome reminded her.
‘Maybe you could take Mr Mears down to the station and sort him out with a reference number for his insurance claim while I go and talk to the management.’ Without waiting for a reply, she sidled past her colleague and out into the corridor. Heading for the lifts, she took a succession of deep breaths, clearing the stale air from her nostrils as quickly as possible.
SIXTEEN
It was an outrage. Looking up at the TV screen hanging from his ceiling, the inspector shook his head. The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ was playing over an airline advert. What would Joe Strummer have made of it? One of Carlyle’s pet hates was advertisers using songs that he liked. It just seemed so . . . invidious, something that it was impossible to escape. He regularly started singing snippets of ‘London Calling’ to himself as he walked down the road, but he didn’t want to be reminded of a bloody travel company while he did so. He remembered reading not so long ago how one of the Beastie Boys had written into his will that advertisers could not use his music. Good for him.
As the advert finished, he watched his sergeant slowly make his way across the third floor towards his desk and said, ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘I went home to get a few hours’ kip.’ Unshaven and rather dishevelled, Umar looked like he’d slept on the streets. ‘In the end, it was more like a couple of hours’ babysitting.’
Carlyle grunted unsympathetically. ‘Christina not very supportive then, was she?’
Umar’s look said it all.
‘I remember that. Helen was just the same.’
‘It’s like she thinks I just sit around the station all day, having a rest,’ he yawned, ‘so that when I get home-’
‘Tell me about it.’ Contemplating their fate, the inspector felt a familiar pang of self-pity. As far as he was aware, his father, Alexander, had never changed a single nappy when he was a nipper. In terms of looking after the baby and running the house, his mother had done it all. Nowadays, ‘new men’ – or whatever the hell they were called – couldn’t get away with simply putting bread on the table. Social expectations had changed. Carlyle and Umar were definitely on the wrong end of history when it came to doling out the chores. Now that Alice was older, he could be more philosophical about it, but there were times when it still rankled.
‘I’m completely shagged . . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Carlyle, jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve got plenty to take your mind off things.’
At the conference. Where r u? Oh God. Lover Boy was sending her messages. How did he get the number? Carole Simpson deleted the text message from her BlackBerry and sat up straight.
‘Carole?’
Looking up, the Commander tried to smile. ‘Yes?’
Dudley Whitehead leaned forward, his oversized belly spilling across the desk. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Simpson snapped, letting her irritation show. A couple of paracetamol, washed down with a triple espresso had effectively suppressed her hangover. Even so, she avoided staring at the Deputy Assistant Commissioner’s fuchsia-pink polo shirt. It looked as if Dudley had been diverted to New Scotland Yard on his way to the golf course and wasn’t too happy about it.
‘How’s the conference going?’ he asked.
‘Very interesting.’ Simpson felt the BlackBerry vibrate in her hand. This time she ignored the message. ‘It is nice to be able to get the chance to . . . engage with colleagues.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. These things cost a bloody fortune. And I sometimes worry that you just don’t spend enough time bonding with your peers.’
Simpson looked at him curiously but said nothing.
‘Right, anyway . . .’ Whitehead picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and waved it in front of his face. ‘I need an update on this Belsky situation.’
Simpson nodded sagely. What Belsky situation?
‘The Commissioner is worried that it could go all over the place.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘He needs to know that it will be dealt with as quickly and as quietly as possible, with the needs of all stakeholders given full consideration.’
Stakeholders? What the hell was he talking about? Simpson vaguely recalled the Met had sent Whitehead on an MBA course the previous year. He must have picked up this jargon at business school. ‘Of course.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think we can manage it.’
The Deputy Assistant Commissioner looked at her, unconvinced. On the other hand, his tee time was in little more than an hour. His driver would be pushed to get him out of London in time. ‘Have you got the right people on it?’
‘I am happy for now,’ Simpson replied, ‘but we will be keeping it under close review.’
‘The Commissioner mentioned your man . . .’ he looked down at his sheet of paper ‘. . . Carlyle.’
Simpson’s heart sank. The one bloody inspector in the whole of London known – by name – to the Commissioner and she was responsible for him. ‘What about him?’
Whitehead wiped his porcine brow. ‘He’s . . . controversial.’
‘He’s effective,’ Simpson shot back. This was not the first time she’d had this type of conversation and the Commander knew her lines off by heart.
‘Are you keeping him on a tight leash?’
As if. ‘Of course.’