‘If you hadn’t stepped in, I would have been driven out of this place.’
The inspector shrugged. It hadn’t even been his operation. But he had been the liaison officer for Angus Muirhead and the old guy had been hugely grateful. Since then, they had stayed in regular contact. Carlyle had always been more interested in Muirhead’s stories about the old days, rather than his tips about current bad boys. Stories like the time Kenneth Ashton had threatened to turn Angus into a Roman Candle if he didn’t sign over the lease to his most lucrative Central London property.
Matter in hand, he told himself. Matter in hand. ‘Ashton’s name has come up in something I was looking at. His lawyer dropped down dead on Waterloo Bridge a few nights back.’
Muirhead carefully balanced the smouldering cigar atop the remains of its predecessors in the ashtray. ‘What was his name – this lawyer?’
‘Brian Winters.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was a partner of Chris Brennan.’
‘Ah.’ The old fella rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. If your man was hanging out with that little runt, he must have been as bent as a nine-bob note.’
‘That was my general thinking.’
‘Was the death suspicious?’
‘No, I don’t think so – looks like it was a heart attack.’
‘So this is not a murder investigation?’
‘No, I’m just curious. The suggestion is that Ashton was Winters’ biggest client, but Brennan wasn’t happy about it. Brennan wanted Ashton off the books before he sold the business.’
‘In which case, the heart attack was perfectly timed.’
‘Most definitely.’
Sitting back in his chair, the old man contemplated the ceiling. Outside, the techno music abruptly ended, to be replaced by some indistinct sound that blended into the background traffic noise. ‘Like I said, Ken is more or less straight these days. But the key phrase is more or less. I can only think of one thing that he’s up to at the moment that would be so dodgy that even someone like Brennan, who has the morals of a syphilitic rent boy, would want to steer clear of.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Ignoring the dangers of passive smoking, Carlyle leaned forward in his chair. ‘And what would that be, then?’
Muirhead retrieved his cigar. ‘That would be the sale of my old property.’
Fumbling with his BlackBerry, Carlyle wished he’d brought something to write on. ‘Let me understand I’ve got this right. Ken Ashton wants to sell the freehold to 749 Harley Street, but you’ve still got the papers?’
‘I’ve still got some papers.’ Angus Muirhead stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. ‘I’ve still got the original deeds. What Ken has is a “contract” ’ – he waved his hands in the air, to signify the quotation marks – ‘where I signed the property over to him.’ He let out a guffaw. ‘It probably still stinks of petrol.’
‘Could you get it back?’
‘Perhaps.’ Muirhead made a face. ‘The lawyers can argue the toss forever. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a bit too late.’
‘But Ken doesn’t know that?’
‘No.’ The old man smiled menacingly. ‘As far as Ken’s concerned, we’re going to fight him all the way. You know what they say about the best revenge being a dish served cold? Well, this is about as cold as it gets.’
‘Aren’t you worried he might come back with his petrol can?’
‘Why bother? The tobacco industry has beaten him to it.’ He coughed, as if to prove the point. ‘My life is done. Anyway, he’s an old man, too. You lose your edge.’
Tell me about it, Carlyle thought.
‘I would have thought,’ Muirhead continued, ‘that the guy who had the heart attack was probably getting a lot of grief from Ken. He can see legal proceedings dragging on for years and wants it wrapped up quickly. Apart from anything else, the fees will be mounting up.’ He grunted. ‘God knows, mine are.’
‘Expensive game,’ Carlyle mused.
‘Yes, it is. Meanwhile, Ken’s lawyer . . .’
‘Brian Winters.’
‘Winters will be reluctant to push things along. As far as he’s concerned, the taxi meter is ticking over nicely. Aside from that, he doesn’t want to go in front of a judge to discuss the detail of how his client came to acquire such a prime piece of property in the first place.’
‘Interesting.’ Carlyle wasn’t sure whether this information added up to much, but his instinct told him that it was worth knowing. ‘Presumably, it’s not the kind of thing that Brennan would want to have to explain to his new American partners, either.’
‘In my experience,’ Muirhead agreed, ‘the Americans are rather funny about that kind of thing. They tend to see the world in very black and white terms.’
‘With them being the good guys at all times.’
‘Quite. I remember once . . .’ In the distance, a siren wailed. Catching the rather glazed look on the inspector’s face, Muirhead turned back to the subject under discussion. ‘Anyway,’ he asked, ‘how do you know our Mr Brennan?’
‘That,’ Carlyle said, ‘is a long story.’
Muirhead settled back into his chair. The look on his face said: Entertain me. ‘I’m an old man, Inspector. I’ve nothing better to do.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Yawning, Umar neatly stacked the pile of papers on his desk, weighing them down with a roll of Sellotape that he’d nicked from the stationery cupboard. He had gone through the photocopies twice and nothing had jumped out at him. The overall impression was of a man in the throes of a post-mid-life crisis. Brian Winters’ life – and his finances – appeared to be in complete disarray. It looked extremely doubtful whether Giselle would be able to keep the house in St John’s Wood once everything was sorted out.
That would be a shame.
His thoughts of the widow lying naked on the bed were interrupted by the sound of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle’. Lifting his mobile from the desk, he looked at the screen – Christina.
‘Hi.’
‘When are you coming home?’ She sounded tense and irritable. At least, for once, there wasn’t any crying in the background. ‘I won’t be long.’ He tried to sound soothing. ‘I’ve got to check a couple of things for the inspector and then I’ll be on my way.’
‘But it’s almost six.’
Umar looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Bloody hell.’ Where had the day gone? He knew only too well the answer to that question. ‘Okay, sorry. I didn’t realize that it was so late.’
A suspicious grunt came from the other end of the line.
‘I won’t be long,’ he persisted. ‘How’s Ella doing?’
‘Just hurry up,’ she hissed, ending the call. With a sigh, Umar tossed the phone on to the desk and sat back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he counted slowly to fifty, breathing deeply as he did so. When he had finished, he jumped to his feet, switched off his PC and headed for the stairs.
Standing at the edge of the outside pool, he caught the eye of a skinny Asian guy with a great six-pack, wearing bright red Speedos. The guy smiled and Umar quickly looked away. The last thing he needed was for someone to try and pick him up at the Oasis. Scanning the swimmers in the water, he decided that the outside lane looked the best bet. Pulling on his goggles, he took a couple of steps to his left. Fifty lengths, he told himself as he dived in, and then it’s home.
Annoyingly, all of the lanes were too crowded for him to be able to establish any kind of rhythm. Every time he managed to get up a bit of speed, Umar would find himself stuck behind some pensioner doing the doggy paddle. Frustrated, he jumped out after only twenty lengths and headed for the showers.