Pulling up a stool, she sat down. ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’
‘Yes.’ The sergeant knew that Brennan’s appearance on the scene meant that he should really call Carlyle. For the moment, however, he didn’t dare. Maybe he would have something to drink, after all. Stepping over to the fridge, he helped himself to a Diet Coke. ‘Why did he hit you?’ he asked, cracking open the can and drinking deeply.
‘He says Brian owes him five hundred thousand pounds.’ Giselle wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper and for the first time he felt a stab of sympathy. ‘And that means I owe him five hundred thousand pounds.’
Waiting for her to explain, Umar tipped back the can and emptied the remaining contents down his throat.
‘Chris says that Brian was stealing from a client. The client has found out and now Chris has to pay it back. If he doesn’t get the money by the end of the week, he’s in deep shit.’
Placing the empty can on the island, Umar raised an eyebrow. Carlyle will like that. ‘How deep?’
Giselle made a face. ‘I don’t really know. I think the client was threatening him. And he’s worried about this derailing his merger with the Americans – the Austerlitz guys. Anyway, whatever mess he lands in, he says that he’s going to drag me down into it too.’ Now the sobs came and didn’t stop.
With a heavy sigh, Umar stepped over and placed an arm lightly around the woman’s shoulder. ‘Let me guess,’ he said gently, ‘this client . . .’
‘Yes,’ she gulped through the tears, ‘it’s Ken Ashton.’
The voice on the line made no effort at any pleasantries. ‘What have you got for me, Inspector?’
Standing by the kerb on Tower Street, by the stage door of the Ambassadors Theatre, Carlyle gazed at a poster advertising Little Charley Bear and His Christmas Adventure – Live on Stage. ‘I thought that you didn’t like using mobile phones,’ he said sullenly.
Ken Ashton chuckled down the line. ‘Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.’
‘You heard about Muirhead?’ Carlyle asked, scratching his head as he watched a gleaming Porsche lumber past. A familiar stab of envy pricked at his guts. The car easily cost more than he earned in a year.
‘A stroke.’
‘Yeah.’ Behind the wheel of the Cayenne, some identikit Sloane bird was yakking away on her mobile. Overwhelmed by a sense of irritation, he dragged himself back to the matter in hand. ‘He died up at UCH early this morning.’
‘Better late than never,’ Ashton grunted. ‘I won’t be sending flowers.’
‘Very generous of you,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘I think of it as being honest, Inspector. Why should I buy in to this everybody loves you when you’re dead crap?’
‘Fair enough.’
‘I hated the man when he was alive and I still hate him now.’
‘I get the message.’ For want of anything better to do, Carlyle dangled a foot over the kerb as he waited for a reply.
‘So, now that he’s dead, where does that leave us?’
Pretty much up shit creek without a paddle, Carlyle reflected. He hoped that this phone conversation wasn’t being recorded. Then again, he knew that he could probably rest easy on that score; phone hacking had rather fallen out of fashion recently.
‘Did you make any progress on the Harley Street issue?’ Ashton asked.
‘Not really.’ There was no point in bullshitting the crime boss. ‘I tried to speak to Angus’s daughter this morning,’ the inspector explained, ‘but she wasn’t interested. Everything’s getting kicked back to his lawyers.’
There was a pause then Ashton let out a low curse. ‘That’s just brilliant,’ he snarled.
‘Sorry, Ken, but that’s just the way it is.’
Another pause. ‘I should have known,’ Ashton said finally. ‘Not much use, are you, copper?’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Carlyle snapped.
‘I guess I won’t be handing you Brennan, after all.’ Conversation over, Ashton ended the call.
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Carlyle watched as another 4x4 bounced down the road towards him, hitting a puddle and sending a spray over his shoes and up his leg. Rooted to the spot, he looked down disbelievingly as the dirty water seeped through the fabric of his trousers. Then, raising his gaze to the heavens, he caught sight of Little Charley Bear looking down on him with a mocking smile on his face. ‘Fuck you, you little furry bastard,’ Carlyle muttered as he stomped off in the direction of the police station.
SIXTY-ONE
Recognizing the couple in the green North Face ski jackets, Carlyle upped the pace as he passed the front desk of Charing Cross police station, trying not to smirk as he eavesdropped on the conversation.
‘What do you mean,’ the man complained, waving an arm in the air, ‘all you can do is give me a crime reference number? What good is that?’
‘You’ll be able to use it with your insurance company,’ the desk sergeant explained patiently, ‘to claim for the loss of your wallet. Have you spoken to your credit card company, to cancel the cards?’ He had dispensed the same advice so many times before, it sounded like he was reading from a script.
‘Of course,’ the man huffed.
‘Well then, I think we are good to go,’ the sergeant continued.
‘But aren’t you going to investigate the theft?’ the woman demanded. ‘We’ve been waiting here for almost two hours . . .’
Bloody Seymour, Carlyle thought. He didn’t know for sure that Erikssen had stolen the guy’s wallet, but the thief had been standing less than three feet from the hapless pair at around the time that the theft took place. Put two and two together and you usually got four. In his book, that was one of the first rules of policing.
Not waiting to hear any more, the inspector headed for the third floor. There he found Umar at his desk, hiding behind a copy of that morning’s Metro. Looking over his shoulder, Carlyle could see that his sergeant was reading a story about a Jimi Hendrix guitar that had been sold at auction for a quarter of a million pounds. Presumably Jimi didn’t really care that much.
Flopping into his chair, Carlyle switched on his computer. ‘How’s the arm?’
Not looking up from his paper, Umar grunted. In a pair of tattered jeans and a grubby T-shirt bearing the legend TIME LORD next to a picture of Dr Who’s Tardis spinning through space, he looked less like a copper and more like a student who had just managed to roll out of bed.
‘Have you spoken to your rep yet?’
‘Yeah.’ From behind the newspaper Umar tried to sound laid-back. ‘She seems quite good.’
‘Cute?’
The sergeant glared at him. ‘I said “good”. As in “someone who’s going to do a good job to get me off the hook with regard to this bullshit complaint by Calvin Safi, which you got me caught up in”.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes,’ Umar said with feeling, ‘you. The bloke who wanted to play with the bloody tasers.’
Carlyle shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Hardly.’
‘Anyway,’ Umar continued, ‘I gave Miranda my statement yesterday afternoon. She reckons I’ll be fine.’
‘When’s the hearing?’
‘Didn’t you see the email?’ Frowning, Umar dropped the paper on his desk and reached for his mouse. With a couple of clicks he pulled up his Outlook and opened a message. ‘It’s . . . next Thursday at three.’
‘Here?’
‘Nah. Liverpool Street. You’ll have to go too.’ He gave his boss a sour look. ‘Even though it’s not your neck on the block.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle said limply. ‘We’ll both get a rap on the knuckles and that’ll be the end of it.’
Umar looked at him doubtfully. ‘Did Simpson tell you that?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle lied cheerily. ‘Simpson’s okay. She won’t let the IPCC make a meal of it. The whole thing is a storm in a teacup.’