‘John,’ she instructed him. ‘Make an effort.’
‘I will,’ he protested. ‘Of course I will.’
‘I will be keeping an eye on the pair of you.’
‘Fine,’ said Carlyle, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’
After many years of working together, Simpson understood Carlyle’s idiosyncrasies better than anyone else on the Force. Giving him a quizzical look, she decided to quit while she thought she was ahead. ‘Good,’ she said primly. ‘He’ll be with you tomorrow.’
Roche sounded more than a little pissed. ‘I can’t believe we’ve lost Costello again,’ she wailed.
Carlyle’s heart sank. He didn’t like these type of conversations and wished he’d let the call go to voicemail. Taking a deep breath, he tried to sound supportive. ‘Under the circumstances, it doesn’t sound like you could have done much differently. And now we know for sure that he’s still in the country.’
‘The bloody granny had a heart attack!’
‘At least you didn’t shoot her,’ Carlyle laughed.
Roche mumbled something incomprehensible.
‘Look,’ Carlyle said firmly, ‘get some sleep. I’ll go back to my guy and see if he can give us another lead.’
‘Okay,’ she said, starting to sound tearful.
‘Get some rest,’ Carlyle repeated. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’ Ending the call, he phoned William Wallace. The Yardie answered almost immediately.
‘Mr Wallace?’
‘Mr Carlyle!’ Wallace too sounded somewhat inebriated. There was a party going on in the background. ‘Hold on a sec.’
Carlyle waited while Wallace moved somewhere quieter.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘The address you gave me was good.’
‘I told you,’ Wallace said, sounding pleased.
‘But the guy has done a runner.’ Carlyle didn’t go into details.
Wallace let out a low whistle. ‘You mean you lost him again?’
Carlyle chose not to rise to the bait. ‘I was wondering if you might have any thoughts about where he might be now?’
‘The guy he was staying with,’ Wallace lowered his voice a notch, ‘is called Salvatore Razzi. Nice enough bloke, but a bit of a slob. I happen to know that he also owns a place out west.’ Wallace gave Carlyle an address in Notting Hill.
‘Hold on, hold on. I need to write it down.’ After some considerable fumbling, Carlyle found a sandwich receipt and a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘Give me that again.’
Wallace repeated the address.
‘Thanks, William.’
‘No problem.’
Carlyle ended the call and dropped his phone into his pocket. Hopefully, it would be a case of third time lucky.
SIXTEEN
The Garden Hotel was located on St Martin’s Lane, a five-minute walk from the restaurant, just to the north of Trafalgar Square. It was the kind of high-end Central London location that attracted A-listers and all the hangers-on and ‘support-service’ providers that, inevitably, came with them. The girls had hung out at the Garden and its famous Light Bar many times before; they were both known to the chief concierge, Alex Miles, who had a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ with their agency.
As they walked in, Miles was not at the desk. Sandy recognized one of his sidekicks, a thin, sour-faced woman named Jenny Thompson, who caught her eye, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement as the girls headed for the bank of three lifts at the back of the lobby.
The place was heaving and all of the lifts were busy, stopping at every floor as they slowly made their way down to ground level. ‘Where are we going?’ Sandy whispered as they waited.
Kelly didn’t look up as she tapped away at the screen of her iPhone. ‘Top floor, penthouse suite.’
Finally, a lift arrived. The doors pinged open and a procession of guests streamed out, all of them dressed up ready to hit the West End on a Saturday night. Getting into the lift, the girls were joined by an Arab man in his thirties, along with two women, covered from head to toe in black burkas.
‘Not a great look,’ Kelly giggled as the doors closed.
‘They wear the sexiest lingerie under those things,’ Sandy breathed, scowling at the man as he shamelessly ogled her chest.
The Arabs got out on the third floor and the girls rode the rest of the way to the top in silence. When the lift opened, they found themselves in a short corridor with only one door. After taking a moment to compose herself, Kelly knocked loudly on the door and took a half-step backwards. Sticking back her shoulders, she looked her friend up and down. ‘Just follow my lead,’ she whispered. ‘Let me do the talking.’
Sandy nodded meekly.
‘Don’t worry,’ Kelly grinned. ‘If past experience is anything to go by, this is only going to take ten minutes. Fifteen tops. Then we’ll go and have a few drinks.’
At least they should have some decent vodka in the mini-bar, Sandy thought.
After a few moments, they heard the lock disengage and the door was jerked open. Giggling, they stepped inside.
Susie McCarthy gripped her mug so tightly it looked as though it might be crushed between her fingers. ‘You should think about contacting your family.’
‘Mm.’ Adrian Gasparino looked past the earnest young social worker and out across the River Thames. Sitting in the canteen of New Belvedere House, a hostel for homeless ex-servicemen in Limehouse, East London, his mind wandered back to the image of Justine on her knees on the living-room carpet. Shaking the memory from his head, he smiled sadly. ‘It’s nice here. I was lucky to find it.’
‘Yes, you were,’ Susie agreed brightly.
How old are you? Gasparino wondered. Older than me? What skills and experience do you have that you can use to help me with my problems?
‘The great thing about the New Belvedere,’ Susie continued, dropping into what sounded like an oft-repeated spiel, ‘is that it’s a safe environment. We are only small compared to something like the Royal British Legion, but our aim is to become the most dynamic driver when it comes to repaying the debt of honour that we owe our troops.’
‘Ah yes,’ Gasparino nodded. Suddenly the room felt very stuffy. He had an overwhelming desire to step outside and feel the wind blast his face. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ Susie asked as he slipped his rucksack over his shoulder.
‘I just fancy a walk.’
She gestured at his bag with her mug. ‘With all your stuff?’
Gasparino shrugged. ‘I travel light.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Not far. Maybe we could have another talk tomorrow.’
She shook her head. ‘I have a day off tomorrow.’
‘I see,’ Gasparino smiled. ‘Maybe later then.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Have a nice day off.’
‘I will,’ she said happily. ‘Thank you.’
Helen handed Carlyle a cup of green tea and then began rummaging in her bag. ‘There’s something you should see,’ she said, pulling out a copy of The Times.
‘Yeah?’ Sipping his tea, Carlyle waited patiently while she found the relevant page and folded the paper in half.
‘Here.’
Scanning the article, he frowned. ‘What makes parents pack their sons off to Eton?’
‘No.’ Retrieving the paper from her idiot husband, Helen pointed him to the story below the fold: MY TEENAGER HELL. Thrusting the paper back at him, she hissed: ‘The bitch has written about Alice in her column.’
Carlyle quickly scanned the article. Helen had underlined a paragraph that said: Jemima came for a sleepover last week. The girls just lock themselves in the bedroom and smoke dope all night. Somewhere round about two in the morning comes the not unfamiliar sound of retching from the bathroom. He looked at the by-line. ‘Who is Lucy Pulse?’