The thought really pissed Carlyle off. It bounced around his brain like a migraine while he told himself that, one way or another, he would nail the stupid little fucker.
As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, he called Phillips again on her mobile. The call went to voicemail and he hesitated before deciding not to leave another message. Arriving at his desk, he tried to work out what to do next, but his mind was blank. Switching on his PC, he remembered that a call to Simpson was long overdue, even by his standards. The thought of having to talk to the Commander filled him with something approaching physical pain. Picking up the handset on his desk, he began dialling the number for Simpson’s office in Paddington Green before changing his mind and calling her mobile instead. Holding his breath for a moment, he punched the air when the call went to voicemail.
‘Result!’ A passing WPC gave him a funny look. After the beep, he left a desultory message and promised to call back later. Hanging up, he headed for the canteen, just in case Simpson called straight back.
Twenty minutes and a double espresso later, he was back at his desk, sifting through his emails. The Police Federation had sent him a draft letter to send to his MP complaining about attempts to reduce police pensions. ‘Good luck with that,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he deleted it.
Next up was a children’s ticket offer from Fulham FC. Carlyle was tempted but he knew that trying to convince Alice to go to a football match with him was a lost cause. Her mother’s virulent hostility towards the sport had infected their daughter at an early age and she had always refused his attempts to drag her along to Craven Cottage. Sadly, that too went into the cyber bin. Moving on to the BBC website, he checked out upcoming fixtures. Carlyle knew that if he didn’t start going to more games, Helen would start to complain about the cost of his season ticket.
According to the BBC, there were six games being played that evening. Sadly, Fulham were playing in Manchester, which was pretty much another guaranteed defeat. Glancing down the list, he noted two other games in London.
‘Interesting . . .’ As the germ of an idea formed in his head, a call came in on his mobile. Seeing Simpson’s number on the screen, he ignored it and went back to cleaning out his inbox.
Five minutes later, Angie Middleton puffed up the stairs and staggered in his direction. Reaching his desk, she took a moment to catch her breath. ‘Simpson’s looking for you . . . again,’ she wheezed.
Don’t have a heart attack, Carlyle thought. ‘I’ll get back to her straight away,’ he lied.
Middleton looked doubtful. ‘She’s not very happy.’
‘She never is,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘We seem to be having this conversation a lot recently.’
‘Yeah, like a couple of losers in a Samuel Beckett play.’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind.’ Switching off his computer, Carlyle got to his feet.
‘So, are you going to call her?’
‘Angie,’ Carlyle said patiently, ‘I can walk and talk at the same time.’
Middleton looked doubtful.
‘I need to check something out,’ Carlyle improvised. ‘I’ll call her on the way.’ Then, seeing her expression, he grinned, crossing his heart with his index finger. ‘I promise.’
Susan Phillips gestured with her fork for Carlyle to sit down in the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.
‘Nice of you to come and see me,’ she smiled, spearing a tomato and popping it into her mouth.
The owner of Tutti’s café on Lambs Conduit Street, up the road from Holborn police station, gave him an enquiring look. Having had more than enough coffee already, Carlyle ordered a green tea.
Phillips picked through the remains of her salad before letting the fork fall on the plate. ‘Don’t you want anything to eat?’ She lifted a small glass bottle of peach and mango juice to her lips and took a swig.
Carlyle shook his head. ‘I just thought I’d try and catch you before I head home.’
Phillips nodded. ‘How are the family?’
‘Good,’ Carlyle replied enthusiastically. ‘All good. You?’ He wasn’t sure what Phillips’ domestic arrangements were but he wanted to show willing.
‘Good,’ Phillips parroted.
His reserves of small talk exhausted, Carlyle turned to the matter in hand. ‘About Sandy Carroll . . .’
‘Didn’t you read my report?’
‘Haven’t had a chance yet.’
The café-owner arrived with Carlyle’s tea. Sweeping up Phillips’ plate, he retreated behind the counter. Shaking her head, the pathologist glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go in five minutes.’
‘Just give me the highlights.’
She gave him a sly smile. ‘Well, one of them killed her, but we can’t be sure which one. We have nothing which corroborates Groom’s story and, of course, we haven’t been able to process Swann – yet.’
Ignoring the barb, Carlyle took a sip of his tea. ‘What are the odds?’
Phillips finished her juice. ‘Based on what we know?’ She screwed the cap back on to the empty bottle. ‘Fifty-fifty. Assuming it wasn’t a joint effort, of course.’
‘So we have nothing.’
Phillips pulled a small red leather notebook from her bag. ‘That’s the way it goes. We might have had more if I could have seen Mr Swann.’
Okay, okay, Carlyle thought, give it a rest.
‘But, anyway,’ she said, taking a crisp twenty-pound note from her purse, ‘I hear that you, or rather your dishy new sergeant, have already got a confession.’
Fucking Umar. Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Good news travels fast.’
‘It sure does,’ Phillips agreed. ‘That’s because there’s so little of it about.’ Getting to her feet, she walked over to the counter and paid for her lunch and for Carlyle’s tea.
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Phillips, putting away her change. Leaving the café, they walked to the corner of Theobald’s Road. ‘Surely,’ said Phillips, ‘the confession solves your problem?’
Carlyle sighed. ‘It depends what you think the problem is.’
‘You don’t reckon Groom did it?’ Phillips asked, dangling a toe over the edge of the kerb.
Carlyle smiled mirthlessly. ‘I think it’s fifty-fifty.’
Alex Miles ushered Kelly Kellaway towards the table at the back of the Light Bar occupied by Clifford Blitz. Recognizing Gavin Swann’s agent, Kelly gave her best smile as she dropped her designer leather hobo bag on the floor and slipped off her Juicy Couture faux fur jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.
‘Sit.’ Blitz nodded at the chair.
‘Thank you,’ said Kelly, primly lowering her rump into the seat.
Blitz glowered at the concierge. ‘Leave us.’ Kelly tried and failed to suppress a smirk.
‘If you need anything . . .’ Miles said, the exasperation clear in his voice.
‘Sure, sure.’ Blitz waved him away with a dismissive hand. ‘For now, what I need is to be able to have a private conversation with the young lady here.’ Kelly’s smirk got wider. Tut-tutting to himself, Miles trotted off.
Turning to the girl, Blitz looked her up and down. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she was wearing minimal make-up, making her look even younger than her twenty-two years. He spent several moments contemplating her décolletage – a black bra clearly visible beneath her expensive silk blouse – before dragging his gaze back up to eye-level. Not a bad-looking girl, if you liked that kind of thing. Definitely pretty. Her face, however, was disfigured by a blandness that suggested laziness and a lack of imagination.
Kelly caught him looking at her chest. That was the great thing about men, they were all the same, totally predictable. Emboldened, she grabbed the litre bottle of Evian on the table and filled one of the two glasses that had been left beside it. She pointed the bottle at Blitz. ‘Want some?’