But how exactly?
For a long while, the inspector simply stared out of the window at the sullen sky, letting his thoughts slowly come into focus. When he finally came to a conclusion, he grabbed his jacket and headed back out of the door.
It was his first time and, clearly, he hadn’t done it right. Christian Holyrod looked down at the massive erection threatening to burst out of his trousers and winced. Had he done too much? Had he taken it too early? One thing was for certain: the Viagra Professional that Dino had given him had done the job all right; to the extent that he dared not get up from behind his desk for fear of provoking much hilarity amongst the underlings and perhaps also a sexual harassment suit.
The Mayor glanced at his expensive watch and groaned – he wasn’t supposed to see Abigail for another three hours. How could he subdue his ridiculous boner? He wondered if a quick hand job might relieve the situation; maybe he should call Dino and ask.
‘You realize what time it is?’ Clara Hay, his hot new assistant, stuck her head round the door of his office.
Go away, woman! Holyrod pulled his chair in as far as he could, lest she catch a glimpse of his problem. ‘I do,’ he nodded, trying to smile.
‘Are you okay?’ Clara stepped into the room and, despite everything, he was compelled to gaze into the possibilities that lay beneath her ruffle blouse.
‘I’m fine.’
Standing in front of the desk, hands on hips, she gave him a funny look. ‘We have to get going.’
‘Mm.’ He caught a whiff of her perfume – Blossom Bomb – mixed with just the merest hint of perspiration.
‘The reception for the Women’s Institute,’ Clara persisted. She waved the papers she had been holding in front of his nose. ‘You’re giving a speech on City Hall’s commitment to sexual equality in the twenty-first century. It’s called Smashing the Glass Ceiling for Good.’
‘I can’t,’ Holyrod moaned. Then a thought crept very slowly across his addled brain. He gestured at the speech. ‘Is it any good?’
‘Very,’ Clara beamed, ‘I wrote it myself. We are a best practice thought leader, striving for three hundred and sixty-degree transparency and continuous improvement.’
‘Good, good,’ the Mayor nodded, not having the remotest clue what she was talking about. ‘In that case, I want you to give the speech.’ He smiled slyly. ‘It will be a definitive proof point of our good intentions.’
‘But-’
‘Yes,’ Holyrod continued, on a roll now, ‘you are a role model for those who want to smash the, er, glass ceiling and ensure that London is a beacon in the ongoing fight for gender equality.’ It was amazing how easy it was to churn out this verbiage once you got started. He gestured at the door. ‘Send my apologies to the ladies for being unable to make it. And tell the girls outside that I am not to be disturbed. I need to get on with some very pressing work.’
Undecided, Clara stood for a moment before turning and heading out of the room. As the door clicked behind her, Holyrod pushed his chair back from the desk and unbuttoned his trousers. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Readers Wives and gave it an appreciative sniff. Now it really was time to deal with the matter in hand.
Behind the bar at Zatoichi, Michela was in good form. She was still in the black vest Carlyle remembered from last time, but her orange hair was now platinum blonde. Chatting up a couple of awestruck boys while pouring bourbon into outsized shot glasses, she seemed in her element. As he headed for the stairs, Carlyle tried unsuccessfully to catch her eye. He fancied a drink; hell, he fancied several drinks, but doubtless he could get them upstairs.
When the inspector burst into his office, Dom tried to look surprised, failing miserably. Lounging on the sofa under the screen print of The Island was Gideon Spanner. Carlyle nodded at Gideon and threw himself into the armchair between the two men.
‘We’ve got a few things to talk about.’
‘Want a drink?’
Carlyle nodded. ‘Maybe you could see if Lisbeth Salander could bring up a bottle of Jameson’s.’
‘He means Michela,’ Dom explained.
Gideon almost laughed. ‘I see her more as Charly Baltimore.’ Sliding off the sofa, he headed for the door.
Carlyle was so shocked by Gideon’s reaction – the man rarely spoke and he certainly never smiled – that it took him a moment to recall Charly Baltimore, the CIA assassin played by Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight. As it happened, it was one of his favourite films. He remembered that he had the DVD at home and, with Helen and Alice away, there was no one to stop him from watching it. He looked at Dom. ‘We could do with Charly Baltimore now. Or,’ he laughed humourlessly, remembering Samuel L. Jackson’s useless sidekick, ‘even Mitch fucking Henessey.’
‘Bad day?’
Carlyle talked him through the bomb problem. The drugs problem could wait until after he’d had a drink.
‘Tuco?’ Dom asked.
‘The so-called Samurai.’ Carlyle made a face. ‘Who else could it be?’
‘I dunno.’ Dom decided to make a joke of it. ‘The possibilities are endless. You have always been quite good at pissing people off.’
‘Ha fucking ha.’
Gideon reappeared with the whiskey, three shot glasses and three open bottles of Peroni Red. Placing them all on the desk, he helped himself to a Peroni and repaired to the sofa. Ignoring the beer, Carlyle reached over, poured himself a double and took a mouthful. Immediately, he felt a little better.
Dom took one of the beers. ‘Cheers.’
‘By the way,’ Carlyle asked, ‘what did you do with Tuco’s coke?’
Dom took a long drag on his beer. ‘Your people got there too late.’
You fucking nicked it, is what you mean, Carlyle thought. ‘I gave them the tip-off; I need to be able to deliver something to justify the cost of the operation.’
All Dom offered him was a non-committal shrug.
Carlyle changed tack. ‘So what are you going to do about Tuco now?’
A look of annoyance flashed across Silver’s face. ‘Just leave him to me.’
‘How can I do that?’ Carlyle shot back. ‘He blew up a fucking pensioner with a bomb meant for me. EOD are all over it.’
‘Explosive Ordnance Disposal?’ Dom glanced at Gideon. ‘What did you tell them?’
Carlyle drained his glass. ‘I haven’t spoken to them yet.’ With some reluctance, he put the empty glass back on the table and sat back in his chair, resisting the siren call of the whiskey bottle.
‘Good,’ Dom nodded. ‘Keep it simple. Don’t speculate. Wait and see how the investigation progresses.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Dom.’
‘Just leave Tuco to me,’ Silver repeated firmly.
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed.
‘Thank you.’ Dom finished his beer and started on a second one. ‘Now,’ he said briskly, as if he was moving quickly through the agenda at some boring business meeting, ‘Gideon has something he wants to ask you about.’
Gideon? Carlyle frowned, turning in his seat to eye the henchman. ‘Fire away.’
Avoiding eye-contact, Gideon bounced his beer bottle on his knee. ‘Adrian Gasparino.’
Carlyle’s frown deepened. ‘What about him?’
‘He served with my brother in Afghanistan.’
‘Okay . . .’ Carlyle looked at Dom.
Silver shrugged. ‘It’s a small world.’
Sometimes too small for my liking, Carlyle thought.
Gideon fixed him with a blank stare. ‘They were good mates. Adrian was with Spencer when he died.’