This, as it happened, was almost true. Wally Cameron was an accountant who had been found dead in his Dean Street office four months earlier. The autopsy suggested a heart attack but Wally’s wife was convinced he had been murdered by an unhappy client. She had been running a low-intensity media campaign to have the case reopened; Carlyle had happily ignored it until Sonia Cameron had managed to buttonhole one of the Met’s more gullible Assistant Commissioners at a public meeting and got him to agree to review the case.
‘The bastards at Paddington Green,’ Carlyle added, ‘have asked me to rewrite my bloody report.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling in mock exasperation.
The WPC couldn’t have managed to look more bored if she was dead herself.
‘I know where the file is. Only need ten minutes, max.’
‘What’s in there?’ The woman nodded at the boxfile under his arm.
‘Just my papers,’ Carlyle replied, ‘the original report. I want to cross-reference a couple of things.’
The woman gestured at the rows of shelving that stretched out behind her. ‘Be my guest.’
I can hardly walk! I hope you’ve got some more of those pills – I’ve got a special surprise for you x
Staring at his iPad, Christian Holyrod re-read the email and winced. His dick felt like it had been rubbed with heavy-duty sandpaper, and every time he moved in his chair a spasm of pain crept through his guts. At least Abigail seemed happy with his new-found stamina. He couldn’t remember the last time she had shown any enthusiasm about his lovemaking; then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he cared. Dino had given him half-a-dozen of the bloody pills. It would be a while before he was in any state to try another one. All he could hope for was that Abigail’s ‘surprise’, whatever it was, didn’t arrive too soon.
‘Mr Mayor?’
‘Hm?’ Holyrod reluctantly looked up from the screen into the enquiring gaze of London Assembly Member Victoria Boffington. Sitting to his right, Rosie Green, Adviser for Economic Affairs, drummed her fingers impatiently on the table. Green was forever complaining that Holyrod needed to up his game when it came to Mayor’s Question Time. She seemed to be in denial about the fact that his time at City Hall – and therefore her hundred and eighty grand a year sinecure – was rapidly coming to an end. The thought of Green, a bland party hack, having to try and get a job in the real world caused him to snort with laughter.
‘Well,’ Boffington demanded, ‘what is your stance on this?’
At the last minute, Green saved him by scrawling ‘artistic metropolis’ on the pad in front of her in letters big enough for him to be able to read.
‘This is an incredibly important issue,’ the Mayor said pompously as he dragged the relevant script from some backwater in his brain. ‘It is essential that we support and work in partnership with a sector that generates over eighteen billion pounds a year, to help ensure that London maintains its position as the “greatest cultural capital of the world”.’
Having stashed the unwanted dope in a dusty corner of the evidence locker, Carlyle grabbed a cheese roll and an orange juice from the canteen and went back to his desk, where he wrote the briefest possible update on his various endeavours in an email to Simpson. Hitting Send, he looked up to see Umar sauntering across the floor, a lopsided grin on his face.
The boy looks like he’s in even more of a daze than usual, Carlyle observed critically.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ Umar replied, slipping into his chair.
Carlyle eyed him suspiciously. ‘What have you been up to?’
Umar tried to keep his grin from spreading. ‘Nothing much.’ He pulled out his mobile and stuck it into a charger he kept plugged into a socket under his desk. ‘I spoke to Clive Martin.’ After checking that the phone was charging, he dropped it on top of a pile of papers.
‘And?’ Carlyle asked impatiently.
Sparing all the unnecessary colour, Umar gave the inspector a short précis of what the club owner had told him.
‘Shit,’ Carlyle said thoughtfully. ‘So where does that leave us?’
‘It leaves me going down to Wimbledon tomorrow to see the son.’
‘Which one?’
‘The straight one, of course.’
‘We should speak to both of them, really.’
‘The other one has been on a safari in Southern Africa for the last month.’
‘Fair enough, that’s a decent alibi.’
‘Anyway,’ Umar mused, ‘we’re not looking for a middle-aged man, are we?’
‘You tell me,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘You wanna come along?’
‘Nah. I’ve got other things to do. By the way, did you ever find that girl – Kelly?’
‘Kelly Kellaway?’ Umar scratched his head. ‘Yeah. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. She was photographed in Fifty-Ninth Street.’
Carlyle looked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s a nightclub in Manchester,’ Umar explained. ‘She was hanging off one of Citeh’s new signings.’
‘How the mighty have fallen,’ Carlyle sneered. ‘From threesomes with Gavin Swann to hanging out with your mob in the provinces.’
Umar ignored the barb. ‘I got a mate up there to track her down. He spoke to her yesterday, but she was no use whatsoever.’
‘What a surprise,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘Claimed she barely knew Sandy Carroll, that they had only done the one threesome together and she didn’t know that Carroll was partying with Swann and Groom the night she got killed.’
‘How very convenient.’
‘Indeed. As soon as she was pressed, she got all pissy and started talking about a lawyer, so we didn’t push it.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘We can drag her down for questioning,’ Umar said, ‘but seeing as you haven’t even taken a formal statement from Swann yet, it seems a bit premature.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘we’ve got a confession. The rest is just more admin.’
Umar looked at him. ‘You still think Swann did it?’
Carlyle picked up a pencil from his desk and started doodling on a report that should have been filed weeks ago. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it? It certainly doesn’t matter to Sandy Carroll.’ He talked Umar through his phone conversation with Blitz. ‘The whole thing stinks. Why would Swann’s agent want to represent a reserve goalie who is going to jail, for God’s sake?’
‘So what do we do now?’ Umar asked. ‘Groom has a hearing scheduled for a fortnight.’
‘Sort out the paperwork.’
Umar rolled his eyes to the heavens.
‘Get the statements done,’ Carlyle continued, ignoring his sergeant’s reaction. ‘Keep it all brisk and official, like we’re smoothly going through the motions. Make sure everything is on time and in order.’
‘Brisk and official,’ Umar smiled, ‘that’s me. What will you be up to, though?’
Carlyle was saved from having to reply by the appearance of a plain-looking blonde girl at Umar’s desk. She was wearing a brown leather jacket over a flowery print dress and the inspector was fairly sure he had seen her around.
‘Oh, hi Heather,’ Umar said sheepishly.
The girl turned to Carlyle. ‘WPC Heather Wilson.’
Getting to his feet, so that he could make a quick getaway, Carlyle shook her hand. ‘John Carlyle.’
‘We all know who you are, Inspector,’ Wilson grinned in a rather unsettling manner. She flicked a thumb in Umar’s direction. ‘I’m here to see if your sergeant is going to deliver on his promise to take me out.’
‘Oh yes?’ Carlyle enjoyed watching Umar squirm in his seat.
‘You see-’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘No need to explain, Umar.’ Smiling broadly, he patted Wilson on the shoulder. ‘Make sure he takes you somewhere really expensive,’ he said mischievously. ‘I hear that Nobu on Park Lane is excellent.’
Having caused as much trouble as he could, Carlyle left. Was that the sound of Umar gasping for air as he headed for the lift? He certainly liked to think so.