Carlyle suddenly felt very old indeed. ‘For God’s sake, Gideon, is that what you came over here to hassle me about?’
‘Two things,’ Gideon said firmly. ‘One – be ready to go on a little trip tomorrow night, thirty-six hours or so. Wear old clothes, stuff you don’t mind losing. Make sure all your pockets are empty: no cash, no identification, no electronic devices.’
Carlyle looked at him, bemused. ‘This is a joke, right?’
‘Two.’ Gideon reached down, unzipped the holdall, pulled out a Waitrose plastic bag and handed it to Carlyle. ‘This is for you. Don’t touch anything inside there, it’s all clean – no fingerprints.’
Sighing, the inspector peered at a small canvas satchel inside. ‘What is it?’ Even though he knew the answer, he thought that he might as well ask.
‘It’s the drugs from the house that your people raided in Docklands.’
‘All of them?’
‘So I’m told.’ Gideon got to his feet. ‘Apologies for any inconvenience caused.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Carlyle sarcastically, but the other man was already gone.
Invigorated after an hour with Christina O’Brien and a chicken panini from Carluccio’s, Umar felt almost giddy as he climbed the steps to Clive Martin’s penthouse apartment on Maiden Lane. Ringing the doorbell, he hopped from foot to foot, humming an approximation of ‘Time of My Life’ as he waited for a reply. When no one came, he rang the bell again, longer this time, his enthusiasm for the Black-Eyed Peas beginning to wane.
‘Come on!’ He pressed the buzzer for a third time just as the door swung open.
‘There’s no need to keep ringing the bloody bell!’
Although it was the middle of the afternoon, the girl in front of him looked like she’d just fallen out of bed. Her long blonde hair was all over the place and her face still bore traces of last night’s make-up. Then there was the fact that she was naked, apart from a pair of black lace panties.
Umar slowly looked her up and down. This truly was his lucky day. Must remember to buy a lottery ticket tonight, he told himself.
‘Who are you?’ the girl demanded, making no effort to cover herself up.
‘I’m looking for Clive,’ Umar explained.
‘He’s still in bed.’ Her accent was broad Liverpool; she vaguely reminded Umar of some Scouse pop singer or soap star from when he was a kid, whose name, if he had ever known it in the first place, he had long since forgotten.
Umar glanced at his watch. It was after three thirty. ‘He can’t still be asleep, surely.’
‘Nah,’ the girl grinned. ‘My mate Gemma’s giving him a blow job. At least she’s trying to. The old bugger often struggles to get it up these days.’
Finally, Umar remembered his warrant card. He pulled out his ID and showed it to the girl. ‘Go and tell him I need to talk to him.’
‘Okay,’ the girl pouted, ‘but Clive doesn’t like to be disturbed.’ She gave Umar an evil grin. ‘He gets very pissed off if he can’t deliver the money shot, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sorry.’ Umar watched as she turned and sashayed down the corridor, disappearing somewhere off to the left. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him and went off to find the living room.
‘This police harassment is getting very tiresome. I have already telephoned my lawyer.’ Clive Martin shuffled into the lounge in a Bon Jovi T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts with what looked to Umar very much like a padded crotch. The look on his face suggested that poor old Gemma had not managed to close the deal. Snatching a pair of spectacles from the coffee table, he took a seat on an oversized red fabric sofa.
Umar smiled apologetically. ‘This is not about Everton’s.’
‘No?’ Martin allowed himself a leer. ‘I hear you were there this morning, screwing one of my girls.’
For a moment, Umar was speechless. The thought of Christina hanging out here with Martin sent a wave of sadness and anger through him. Breaking off eye-contact, he contemplated Rob Ryan’s You Are My Universe on the wall above Martin’s head. The print seemed completely out of place in the strip-club owner’s shagpad.
‘News travels fast, Sergeant,’ Martin laughed. ‘Not that it had a long way to come in this instance. Anyway, it’s no big deal. I’m certainly not going to hold it against you. I only wish that your boss was as . . . interesting.’
‘Inspector Carlyle is a really boring straitlaced bastard,’ Umar agreed.
‘He certainly is.’ Martin smiled as a naked, auburn-haired girl, presumably Gemma, appeared with a demitasse which she placed on the coffee table. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’
‘No problem.’ The girl turned to Umar, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Would you like one, Officer?’
Umar’s mouth was dry and his brain struggled to get any signal to his jaw.
Stepping away from Martin’s grasp, the girl scratched a spot on her right thigh. ‘An espresso, that is.’
‘Er,’ Umar finally managed to hold up a hand. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Go to the bedroom,’ Martin commanded. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘All right,’ the girl pouted.
‘Quite a set-up you’ve got here,’ Umar said after Gemma had left.
‘It’s hard work,’ Martin grumbled. Grabbing the demitasse, he downed the espresso in one. ‘Especially at my age.’
Umar murmured sympathetically.
‘So,’ Martin asked, ‘what do you want?’
It took Umar more than a moment to remember why he was there. ‘I need to speak to your grandson,’ he said finally.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Martin got to his feet, theatrically scratching his padded crotch. ‘I don’t have a bloody grandson.’
THIRTY-NINE
Carlyle returned to Charing Cross carrying his plastic Waitrose bag as casually as he could manage. Looking up from behind the desk, Angie Middleton gave him a welcoming grin.
‘Been shopping?’ she asked, gesturing at the bag with her biro.
‘Nah,’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘Just some odds and ends.’ Walking past the desk, he headed through the fire doors and up the stairs.
Up on the third floor, he called Julie Crisp.
‘What do you want?’ she asked suspiciously. She was outside somewhere, maybe at a playground for he could hear children shouting happily in the background.
‘That stuff we missed the other day . . .’
‘Don’t go there,’ she said immediately. ‘I’m a completely busted flush with my superiors after that wild goose chase you sent me on. It’s gonna take me ages to get over that.’
‘This time it’s guaranteed,’ Carlyle protested.
‘Wasn’t it supposed to be “guaranteed” last time?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘It’s no fucking good to me now, John. Even if you came right over and placed the bloody stuff on my desk, it wouldn’t undo the damage done. I have enough trouble here dealing with all the normal, day-to-day shit without you making it worse. You can’t . . .’ her angry words were carried away on a gust of wind, but he got the message. With a heavy sigh, he ended the call and placed the receiver carefully back on the cradle. Pushing his chair away from his desk, he bent down and rummaged around amongst the pile of boxfiles that he had accumulated over the years. Choosing the largest one, he emptied the papers inside into a bin marked Confidential Shredding, replacing them with the package that he had been handed by Gideon Spanner. With the drugs inside, the file didn’t quite shut, but it was close enough. Placing the file on his desk, Carlyle switched on his PC and surfed the net aimlessly for ten minutes before heading back downstairs.
The evidence locker was a secure storeroom that took up approximately 600 square feet of the raised ground floor on the William IV Street side of the building. The duty officer, a WPC whose name Carlyle didn’t know, buzzed him through the security gates and watched blankly as he signed the visitor’s log.
‘I just want to look at something from the Cameron case,’ he said, trying to look as bored as she did.