Carlyle found himself distracted by a pair of pretty blondes who were laughing and joking with a couple of much older men. ‘One is almost sorted.’
‘Almost?’ Simpson queried. ‘You have a confession?’
‘It’s sorted,’ Carlyle said stiffly.
Simpson took possession of a new glass of Chardonnay. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Dino wants the whole thing dealt with quickly and cleanly.’
‘Cleanly?’
‘He’s very upset.’
Carlyle gazed morosely into his orange juice. ‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Carlyle looked round to see Edward Hopkins standing at his shoulder.
‘I brought this for you to wear,’ the doorman said, thrusting a grubby green tartan tie towards the inspector. MacLeod tartan, Carlyle guessed. He looked at the thing in horror, his disgust deepening when he realized it was a fake with an elastic neckband that you slipped over your head.
Simpson quickly lifted her wine glass to her mouth to hide a giggle.
‘As you can see,’ said Carlyle, tugging at the fabric of his Fred Perry polo, ‘I’m not wearing a proper shirt.’
‘You can still wear it,’ Hopkins insisted, trying to pull the elastic over the inspector’s head.
Simpson made a noise as if she were choking on her drink. She was laughing so hard there were tears in her eyes.
Carlyle pushed the doorman roughly away. ‘If you don’t fuck off – right now,’ he murmured, ‘I will have you arrested and in a cell before kick-off.’
Hesitating, the elderly doorman weighed up his options. After a brief moment, he threw the tie at Carlyle in one final act of defiance before stalking off. Letting the thing fall to the floor, Carlyle kicked it under a nearby table.
Struggling to regain her composure, Simpson dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. ‘Oh, John . . .’
‘How could I wear that?’ he huffed. ‘It’s not my clan colours.’
‘I think we’ll have to take another look at your anger-management training.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said irritably. ‘I’m still seeing that bloody shrink.’
‘Dr Wolf.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Giving up on the wretched orange juice, he placed his glass back on the bar. ‘In fact, I’m due to be seeing him again next week.’
‘Doesn’t seem to be doing much good,’ Simpson observed, still laughing.
‘I’m sure it’s doing the doctor the power of good,’ Carlyle shot back. ‘He’s seeing so many bloody coppers that he must be raking it in from the Met.’ Looking up, he saw Dino Mottram enter the room and head towards them. Mottram had Christian Holyrod in tow. Arm-in-arm with the Mayor was Abigail Slater who, to Carlyle’s amazement, was wearing a replica team shirt under her very expensive-looking brown leather jacket.
Simpson’s expression darkened at the sight of Slater.
‘Nice ensemble,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘Dino told me that Holyrod likes to shag her while she’s wearing the shirt.’
I can see where he’s coming from, Carlyle thought. He straightened his face. ‘Doesn’t seem the type, does he?’
Simpson lowered her voice as the trio approached. ‘That’s the thing,’ she said. ‘What people get up to behind closed doors never ceases to amaze me.’
‘Prurience is a wonderful thing,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘He’s certainly not shy about prancing around town with his fancy woman. Doesn’t he ever go out anywhere with his wife?’
‘From what I hear, she’s too busy shagging her Close Protection Officer,’ Simpson replied. ‘By all accounts, SO1 has put the smile back on her face after quite a considerable drought.’
Carlyle blew out a breath. ‘Those guys really are on a roll.’ Scotland Yard’s Protection Command had been embroiled in a series of high-profile cases where officers had been found to be ‘identifying’ too closely with the principals that they were detailed to guard. ‘Who is the officer?’
Simpson mentioned a name that meant nothing to Carlyle.
‘He’s got quite a reputation,’ the Commander smirked, ‘amongst those in the know. As big as a baby’s arm, apparently.’
Carlyle coughed uncomfortably. ‘Naughty boy.’
‘It happens,’ Simpson shrugged. ‘He has to hope it doesn’t get in the papers or he’ll be reassigned to traffic duty in somewhere like Middlesbrough.’ Putting down her wine glass, she stepped forward and kissed Dino on the cheek.
After kissing her back, Mottram nodded at Carlyle. ‘It would help if you tried not to annoy the staff,’ he said, by way of introduction.
‘That’s Inspector Carlyle in a single word,’ Holyrod laughed nastily. ‘Annoying.’
‘Nice to see you again, Mr Mayor.’ Carlyle flashed his most insincere smile.
Neither man offered a handshake.
‘I was wondering,’ Carlyle grinned innocently. ‘How is your wife? No one ever seems to see her these days.’ Glaring at the impudent policeman, Holyrod clamped his jaw tight shut. Carlyle felt Simpson’s boot kick him right on the ankle. Refusing to wince, he pushed his smile as far across his face as it would go. ‘I hear that SO1 are doing a great job taking care of her.’ Eyes blazing, Holyrod looked like he wanted to throttle him, but still the Mayor kept his counsel.
Resisting the temptation to wring Carlyle’s neck, Simpson put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘John,’ she said, her voice infinitely weary, like a disappointed teacher with a terminally wayward pupil, ‘I thought that you wanted to speak to Dino?’
‘That’s correct,’ Carlyle nodded, still eyeballing Holyrod.
‘Now is not the time,’ Dino grumbled. ‘The game is starting soon; there’s not that long till kick-off.’
‘Dino,’ Simpson commanded, ‘I suggest you give the inspector ten minutes, in your office.’
THIRTY-TWO
Deep in the bowels of the stadium, Carlyle glanced around Dino’s surprisingly small and rather cramped office. Bizarrely, the walls were crammed with framed photographs of cricketers, rugby players and golfers, with not a footballer in sight.
Gratifyingly, Dino made a beeline for the booze. ‘Drink?’
‘Yes, please.’ Carlyle scanned the bottles on top of the sideboard, which stood by the far wall. In the absence of any whiskey, he went for a glass of twelve-year-old Glenkinchie, known as ‘the Edinburgh Malt’.
‘You are very good at annoying people,’ Dino said gruffly, as he poured the inspector a less than generous measure.
‘It’s good to have a talent at something,’ Carlyle said smoothly. Taking the glass, he took a sniff and then a sip. Very nice. Very nice indeed. Shame his glass was almost empty already. He watched in dismay as Dino poured himself a much larger measure before slumping into a nearby leather sofa.
‘What do you want?’
‘I am very sorry about what happened to your step-daughter.’ Ignoring the armchair beside him, the inspector stayed on his feet.
Dino stuck his face as far into the glass as possible, sucking out the whisky with a loud slurp. ‘Bah!’
Finishing his drink, Carlyle placed the empty glass on the sideboard, resisting the temptation to pour himself another. ‘Car-Commander Simpson said you were very upset about it.’
‘Carole is just trying to make me seem nicer than I am.’ Dino threw the rest of the whisky down his throat. ‘The reality was I couldn’t stand her. Sandy was always a greedy little pain in the arse. To tell you the truth, I’m not surprised that something like this happened to her.’
Enjoying the warmth of the whisky in his gut, Carlyle rocked gently on the balls of his feet. ‘No one deserves what happened in that hotel room.’
‘No, no. Of course not.’ Dino pushed himself off the sofa. ‘All I’m saying is that it was very predictable – just like the girl herself.’ Stepping in front of Carlyle, he looked him in the eye. ‘Anyway, you got the lout who did it, so justice has been done.’