Ten minutes later, he was ready to finally head for home. Pushing through the turnstiles, Umar smiled at Moira, the pretty brunette from Stirling, who worked late shifts on the front desk while studying at UCL. Outside, stepping into the stream of pedestrians making for Shaftesbury Avenue, he was just about to turn right to the tube station when it hit him.
‘Shit.’ Why hadn’t he seen it before? For a moment he hesitated. Then, dodging a couple of Australian tourists with their heads stuck in a map, he did a 180-degree turn and began jogging back to the station.
THIRTY-SIX
‘Ha.’ Angus Muirhead stood up creakily from behind his desk. ‘That really is quite a story. Most amusing.’
Carlyle gave a small bow.
The old man ushered him towards the door. ‘I can understand why you don’t have any time for Mr Brennan, but I’m not sure you’ll be able to get to him through this. You might be able to arrest him for . . . something . . . but pressing charges will be another matter altogether.’
There speaks the voice of experience, Carlyle acknowledged. Muirhead knew his way around the law far better than your average copper.
‘Maybe not,’ the inspector shrugged, ‘but I just hope that I’m around to watch the spectacle when he crashes and burns.’
‘That seems perfectly reasonable to me.’
Pulling open the door, the inspector hovered on the threshold. ‘Good to see you, Angus.’
‘I’m always here.’ The old man offered his hand. But when they shook, his grip was weaker than a child’s.
Bloody hell, Carlyle thought. He really is on the way out.
‘Let me know how you get on with Ken Ashton.’
‘I will.’
‘Thanks. I wouldn’t want to miss being around to see him come unstuck.’ Muirhead followed the inspector on to the dingy landing. ‘And just before you go, there’s one other thing . . .’
‘Yes?’ Carlyle started down the stairs.
‘Seymour Erikssen.’
His heart sinking, Carlyle stopped in his tracks and turned to look back up at Muirhead.
‘I thought I’d read in the paper that you’d nicked him?’
‘That’s another long story.’
‘Anyway, he’s been seen here in the club a few times recently. And a couple of people have had their pockets picked. Coincidence?’ The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No.’
‘It’s a hassle I can do without.’
‘Of course.’
‘The thing about Seymour is that he’s not as hopeless as you like to think. Sometimes he can be a bit too successful for his own good. Maybe you could have a word. Sort him out.’ Muirhead spread his arms wide. ‘Otherwise . . .’
He didn’t have to spell it out. ‘No problem,’ Carlyle said. ‘Will do. Seymour was on my To Do list anyway. I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to him.’
‘Good.’ Muirhead slowly retreated into the gloom. ‘We’ll speak soon.’
Carlyle listened to the office door closing. ‘Bloody Seymour,’ he grumbled to himself, ‘why can’t he just fuck off to someone else’s patch?’ For a few moments he stood on the stairs, wondering how best to track down the burglar. When nothing immediately sprang to mind, he continued on his way.
By the time he had finished with Muirhead, it was too late to drop in on Janice Anderson, Taimur Rage’s shrink, at the Doppio Clinic. Reaching Charing Cross Road, he hovered on the kerbside, opposite what used to be Blackwell’s bookstore, toying with the idea of heading home until his conscience got the better of him. Turning left, he went south, towards the station.
Back on the third floor, he was surprised to see Umar still at his desk.
‘What are you doing here? Hiding from Christina again?’
‘I’ve found something.’
‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle asked, always willing to be pleasantly surprised.
‘Look at this.’ Umar handed him a sheet of paper from the top of the pile on his desk.
Carlyle scanned the rows of figures that filled the page. ‘What am I looking at?’
‘Here.’ Getting to his feet, Umar pointed to a small box at the top, underneath the WBK logo. ‘This is a print-out of a timesheet at Winters Brennan amp; King. The client is Hanway 58 Associates.’
‘Ok-ay.’
‘Hanway 58,’ Umar explained, ‘is Ken Ashton’s company. I should have realized earlier – I remember reading about it somewhere.’
‘Funny name.’
‘He set up shop in Hanway Street in 1958. Anyway, the point is, this shows the number of hours that Brian Winters was billing Ashton.’ Umar pointed to the sterling figure at the bottom of the page. ‘That is just for a single month. Before VAT.’
‘Jesus. This has got to be almost all of his working hours.’ Carlyle looked again at the numbers. It didn’t seem likely that Winters could be spending so much time on the sale of a property on Harley Street, however controversial that might be. ‘What the hell was he doing for the guy?’
Umar shrugged. ‘I guess that’s what we’ve got to find out.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sitting in a humid, windowless room off Tottenham Court Road, Chris Brennan pondered the wisdom of his earlier wardrobe choices. If he had known that he was going to end the day with a beating, he would have left the Brioni pinstripe in the wardrobe. Looking around the dirty room, his thoughts turned to the late Brian Winters, and he was filled with a mixture of rage and self-pity.
‘Brian, you tosser,’ he muttered to himself, ‘this should be you.’
As he was fuming at the injustice of it all, he heard the door click open. Looking up, Brennan watched the two goons who had earlier ‘escorted’ him from his office step inside. They were followed by an old man, small and sprightly, wearing a double-breasted suit that was almost as wide as he was tall. In his left hand was a wooden Derby cane.
The old man pointed at Brennan with his walking stick. ‘Do you know who I am?’
The lawyer signalled that he did.
‘Good. Do you know why you are here?’
‘My colleague-’
‘Your ex-colleague,’ Kenneth Ashton corrected him with a flourish of his cane.
‘Yes.’
‘Who billed me an enormous sum on behalf of your company,’ Ashton pointed out.
‘Imagine my dismay,’ Ashton continued, ‘when I find out that my long-time adviser, Mr Winters, and his junior colleagues had been ripping me off, over-billing month after month, while failing to properly progress the sale of my Harley Street property – a transaction which is very important to me at the present time.’ Lowering the cane, he demanded somewhere to sit. One of the goons darted outside and quickly reappeared with a chair, which he placed behind his boss. Slowly, Ashton lowered himself onto it, his face a study in concentration.
What Harley Street property? Brennan wondered. He had a raging thirst and a powerful need to pee at the same time. In his head, he went through a list of nearby pubs, settling on one just off Charlotte Street. If he ever managed to get out of here, it would be straight down to the Bearded Lady for a slash and a very large G amp;T.
‘To put not too fine a point on it, Mr Brennan, I want to get my hands on the cash from the sale of the building before I die.’ Placing his hands on his knees, Ashton leaned forward. ‘Look at me.’
Reluctantly, Brennan did as he was told.
‘These guys’ – he invited the goons to take their bow – ‘are really rather unfortunate. Forty or fifty years ago, their job would have been a lot more fun. Some of the things that they would have got to do . . .’ Ashton smiled at the happy memories. ‘But now? Now, the world is different. Standards are different. They have to release their tensions in the gym. It is no world for a proper man.’
Brennan tried to speak but all that came out was a squeak.
‘Which happens to be good news for a weakling like you. The people who stole directly from me will pay . . . one way or another. You, on the other hand, get the chance to put things right.’ Pulling a small square of paper from his jacket pocket, he offered it to Brennan. ‘Take it.’