Silver watched the French trio leave the bar and turned to Gideon Spanner. ‘Well,’ he said perkily, ‘I think that went well.’ Finishing his beer, he signalled to Michela for another bottle.
As usual, Gideon kept his own counsel.
The first floor of Honeymann’s Finsbury Square offices was busier than the middle of Oxford Street in the January sales. Young, animated professionals descended from all directions on the open-plan canteen. All around were screens showing the current output of Honeymann TV. The place hummed with excitement and activity.
Baseer Yazdani contemplated the inspector with wry amusement as he took it all in. ‘The offices are designed to create what’s called “pandemonium with a purpose” – loads of technology, lots of activity and . . .’ he smiled at an attractive Asian girl who was headed for the drinks machine, ‘lots of babes. What more could you want?’
‘Bloody hell!’ Carlyle laughed. ‘I want to work here.’
‘What you’ve got to remember,’ Baseer explained, ‘is that it’s a young person’s game. The average age here is thirty-one, thirty-two, something like that.’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said, ‘I’m past it. I know.’
The journalist held up a hand by way of apology. ‘Sorry . . .’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Don’t worry. I’m the only person in here with grey hair. I’m not going to take offence.’
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Not a problem. We all get older.’ Carlyle gestured at the scene in front of them. ‘Even this lot. Mr Honeymann won’t be able to save them from that. Not that they’ll be worrying about that right now.’
‘It’s a working space that is designed for incidental contact and accidental creativity.’ Baseer pointed towards the lifts. ‘Let’s make a move. I’ve been here for three years now. It’s great. Twice I’ve been offered jobs at the BBC but I’d never move. I think I would die of boredom over there. Too many rules.’
They reached the lifts as the doors of one opened and another splurge of journalistic humanity spilled out, heading for the free muesli and bananas. Once it had emptied, Baseer stepped inside and hit the button for the third floor.
Upstairs, parked in a glass cube of a meeting room, Carlyle watched a presenter interview a suit on the set outside. With some effort, he tried to focus on what the suit was talking about – something about Zimbabwe’s latest export plans – before losing interest immediately.
‘Here we go.’ Baseer dropped a thick blue file onto the desk.
Carlyle looked at the file. ‘What have you got?’
‘These are some of the documents from our investigation into Dino Mottram.’
Carlyle pulled his chair towards the desk and sat up straight.
‘We have got a lot of material,’ Baseer informed him, ‘but so far, nothing I can publish. It is simply not enough to get it past my editors.’
Folding his arms, Carlyle smiled. ‘So you want me to help you with some more proof?’
‘No. I simply thought you might be interested in the stuff relating to Clifford Blitz and Gavin Swann.’
Carlyle nodded. ‘You thought right.’
Baseer tapped the file. ‘Much of this stuff is publicly available documentation. Some, however, has come from my sources, whom I cannot reveal.’
‘I understand.’
‘Okay. The deal is that you can look through this material here and take notes, but you cannot take it away or make copies. Our relationship has to remain confidential. When you have progress in your investigation, you give me a heads-up first.’
‘That’s fine.’ Carlyle produced a notepad and pen and said, ‘Give me the executive summary, please.’
Baseer took a deep breath. ‘The top rate of tax has gone up and the expectation is that it will go up further.’
Good, thought Carlyle.
‘Footballers and their agents are keener than ever to minimize their tax bill. One tactic that has been used by Blitz is for Swann to take a director’s loan from his image rights company.’
Carlyle began to make notes approximating the journalist’s briefing. The reality, however, was that the detail was lost on him and the words were just bouncing off his brain with nothing going in.
‘As a result, Swann has been able to cut his tax bill by ninety-eight per cent,’ Baseer concluded.
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘How much?’
‘He has borrowed nearly ten million from Monkeyface 286, his image rights company, over the past four years. Had he taken this money as a salary, he would have been liable for more than four million in tax.’
‘But this is legal, isn’t it?’
Baseer smiled. ‘With the taxman, you never really know, do you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Getting into things like this means you are treading a very fine line. You would expect the Revenue to be all over it.’
Carlyle looked the young journalist up and down. ‘And you would help HMRC with their enquiries?’
‘If I can . . . and if I can get some copy out of it.’
‘Okay. Let me make a few calls.’ Stuffing his notes in his pocket, Carlyle got to his feet. ‘In the meantime, I think I’m gonna have to grab a little snack on the way out.’
Pushing up the half-opened shutter, Umar Sligo stepped inside Everton’s and was immediately confronted by a shaven-headed bouncer who was almost as wide as he was tall. In one of his meaty paws was a mug with a Chelsea FC crest on the side.
‘Come back later,’ the man growled, taking a mouthful of tea. ‘We’re closed.’
Umar pulled out his warrant card and let the man slowly read the text.
‘I’m looking for Clive Martin,’ he said.
‘Haven’t seen him,’ the man shrugged, standing aside, ‘but he might be in the back.’
Replacing the ID in his pocket, Umar wandered into the club proper. Aside from a delivery man placing boxes of spirits on the bar and an old woman mopping the floor, the place was empty.
‘The boss isn’t around.’
Umar turned to see the American girl who had whacked the unlucky PC Lea stroll across the room towards him. If anything, she looked even more of an Amazonian goddess with her clothes on, and, without any make-up on her face, he could see that she was definitely on the beautiful side of pretty. Pretending not to recognize her, Umar lifted his gaze to the middle distance.
Christina O’Brien grinned. She was used to making men flustered and the cute cop was not the best when it came to hiding his thoughts. She flashed him a smile, dazzling him with her impossibly white, impossibly perfect American teeth. ‘Clive’s probably in bed with a couple of the girls and a monster hangover. You won’t see him around here until tonight.’
Umar gazed at his shoes. He felt like a deer being circled by a lion; usually it was the other way round and he felt distinctly uncomfortable with this role reversal. ‘Where does he live?’
The bouncer appeared by the bar and glared at Christina.
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, enjoying the obvious lie, before heading for the door at the back of the stage. When Umar followed, she stopped, turned and tapped him on the chest with an immaculately manicured index finger. ‘A bit early for a private dance, isn’t it?’ she grinned, looking over Umar’s shoulder at the bouncer.
Umar felt himself blush but soldiered on. ‘Have you met any of his family?’ he asked, lowering his voice.
Leading him through the door, Christina closed it behind them before answering. ‘He has two sons,’ she said quietly. ‘Both in their 40s, I think. One of them is an accountant or something – he’s never here, which is not surprising seeing as he’s gay.’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘Clive, being a stupid old bugger, is quite put out about it.’
‘The other?’ Umar asked.
‘A right pig. Never worked a day in his life. He uses the place as if it’s his own private knocking shop; I don’t know how his wife puts up with it.’
Umar wasn’t looking for a middle-aged man. ‘What about a grandson?’
Christina gave him a funny look but knew better than to ask any questions herself. ‘No idea.’ Umar frowned.