Gavin Swann. It was another name – like Adrian Gasparino – that almost seemed to belong to a past life. All the righteous anger that he’d felt about both men – one probable perpetrator, one definite victim – had evaporated over the last few days, lost at sea. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s been shot.’
‘Oh?’ Carlyle’s first thought was that Maria sounded very matter-of-fact about it. Then again, in his experience, tax inspectors tended to sound very matter-of-fact about most things.
‘He’s not dead,’ Maria explained. ‘One of my colleagues was just turning up to interview him as the ambulance arrived.’
Carlyle’s mind turned to Wayne Devine and Marcus Angelides. ‘I suppose the media will have the story already. It’s bound to be a total shit storm.’
‘The attackers shot Mr Swann in the leg,’ Maria continued, apparently uninterested in the business of the fourth estate. ‘I don’t know whether that will stop him from playing football in the future . . .’
‘It should certainly give him more time to help you with your enquiries,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘We’ll see,’ Maria chuckled. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. I just thought I’d let you know.’
‘Thanks.’ Ending the call, Carlyle dropped the phone into his pocket and decided to head for home.
Back at the flat, he filled a small backpack with some clothes and threw in his passport, travel documents and a copy of the latest Elvis Cole and Joe Pike paperback. He’d been looking forward to reading it for some time, knowing it would be a rollercoaster ride towards an insanely satisfying climax where the two buddies would ruthlessly take out the bad guys using enough weapons to equip a small army.
If only real life was like that.
Closing up the bag, he dropped it in the hall by the front door and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of green tea. The kettle had just boiled when the landline started ringing. He padded into the lounge to pick it up.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me.’ Clear as a bell, Helen’s voice came down the line, causing a flutter in his chest.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine. It’s been quite gruelling and a real eye-opener, especially for Alice, but it was certainly worth coming. How are you?’
‘Fine.’ Images of the farmhouse in Belle-Île-en-Mer flashed through his brain. It took him a moment to suppress them. ‘How is Alice? Can I speak to her?’
‘She’s doing great. She’s just having a shower at the moment. I just wanted to say hi, and check you are okay for the flight tomorrow.’
‘I am. I’ve just finished packing. I’ll send you a text before I get on the plane.’
‘Good. We’re looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Me too. I’m really quite up for it.’
‘How are things in London?’
‘All quiet. Nothing much to report.’ The conversation about Harry Ripley could wait till they got back or, at least, until he had worked out what he was going to say about the poor old bugger.
‘Okay,’ Helen sighed. She sounded tired but happy. ‘We’ll see you in a couple of days.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Lots of love.’
‘You too. Give Alice a kiss for me.’
‘Will do. Bye.’
Putting down the phone, he looked around the room, as if realizing for the first time how empty it was without them. With a sigh, he started back to the kitchen when the phone rang again. Assuming it was Alice, he grabbed the handset.
‘Hiya, sweetheart!’
‘Hiya to you too,’ Umar laughed, ‘sweetheart.’
Carlyle cursed under his breath. ‘Sorry, I thought it was my daughter. What is it?’
‘I’m waiting for you in a car downstairs. We’ve gotta get going.’
‘Fucking hell, what now?’ Carlyle asked grumpily.
‘Trust me. You’re gonna love this. Hurry up.’
FORTY-NINE
Shielding his eyes against the floodlights, Carlyle watched as Evan Milch strode towards the centre circle, with a couple of forensics technicians in tow. It was bizarre to be standing in the middle of one of London’s largest sports stadia, surrounded by empty stands on all sides. Turning to Umar standing beside him, he asked: ‘How did we hear about this so quickly?’
‘I was at the station,’ Umar explained, ‘when a call came in for you from a guy called Bas-something.’
‘Baseer Yazdani, the wire journalist at Honeymann?’
‘Yeah. He gave me the basics. He said you had a deal.’
Carlyle said nothing as he watched Milch approach the plastic sheeting that covered the centre of the pitch.
‘I should be selling bloody tickets to this,’ the pathologist grumbled. ‘Everyone wants a look.’ Reaching down, he lifted up a corner of the sheet.
Carlyle and Umar quickly stepped forward to see with their own eyes that the rumours were most emphatically true. Lying on his back along the halfway line, Christian Holyrod gazed vacantly up at them with his lifeless eyes; all the politician’s cunning gone from his face. However, it was not his face that caught Carlyle’s attention. Naked from the waist down, the dead Mayor still retained a massive erection.
‘It looks like he rather overdid it with the Viagra,’ Milch smirked.
Carlyle gave a harsh, unsympathetic laugh. ‘He died with his hard-on.’
‘Will it wear off?’ Umar enquired.
‘Eventually.’
‘Surely,’ said Carlyle, ‘that wasn’t the cause of death?’
‘No, no,’ Milch replied. ‘The excitement of sexual congress was too much for the poor chap. He had a massive heart attack. Dead before he hit the turf.’
‘An extreme case of coitus interruptus,’ Umar reflected.
‘Indeed.’ Milch let the sheet fall from his hand.
‘Where’s the girlfriend?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I think they took Ms Slater to the boardroom for a cup of tea – and some gentle questioning,’ Milch replied.
‘Apparently,’ said Umar, the glee clear in his voice, ‘she paid one of the ground staff five grand to switch on the lights.’ He nodded in the direction of the corpse. ‘She set it up as a special treat for Holyrod. They found her screaming her head off, wearing nothing but a replica jersey and a strap-on dildo.’
‘Outstanding effort. Truly outstanding!’ Carlyle knew that he was grinning idiotically – like a kid who’d just managed to lay his hands on his first ever porn mag – but he did not care one jot. ‘Abigail Slater, what a woman! Out-fucking-standing.’ Starting back towards the main stand, he pulled out his mobile and called Baseer. Waiting patiently for it to go to voicemail, he left a simple message: ‘It is, my friend, the story of your dreams. Fill your boots.’
Ending the call, he pulled up Simpson’s number. She answered on the third ring.
‘You’ve heard about what’s happened, I presume?’ Carlyle asked, by way of greeting.
‘Dino’s in a foul mood,’ she said, by way of reply. ‘He’s stomping around – I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Her voice was cautious, low; a tone that he’d never heard before.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, John.’ Simpson audibly bristled at the suggestion that she might not be able to handle her boyfriend’s moods. ‘Just a bit surprised at Dino’s lack of grace under pressure.’
‘I’m surprised that Holyrod was that important to his operation,’ Carlyle mused. ‘After all, he’d only just joined the Board.’
‘Holyrod?’ Simpson spluttered. ‘Dino couldn’t give a fig about that self-important buffoon. It’s his bloody love-child Gavin Swann that he’s exercised about. The people who shot him in the leg knew what they were doing. It looks like his career could be over.’
‘Shame.’ Signalling to Umar and Milch that he was leaving, Carlyle began walking off the pitch.
‘Dino reckons that Mr Swann’s premature retirement could end up costing him the best part of a hundred million,’ Simpson added, in a tone that suggested she cared as little about it as the inspector did himself.
‘Who’s investigating the Swann shooting?’
Simpson mentioned the name of a Detective Chief Inspector who they both knew was completely useless.