You could have told me, Carlyle thought. ‘The Mayor’s website?’ he echoed. There was no love lost between Carlyle and the Mayor, Christian Holyrod. Their paths had crossed several times before and the result was usually unhappiness for all concerned. Now, according to what he read in the papers, Holyrod was planning to cash in his chips and trade ‘public service’ for some lucrative private directorships. Carlyle hoped that meant the bastard would never be heard of again, at least by him. ‘Why does he care?’ he moaned. ‘It’s not like he’s running for re-election, thank God. He’ll be out of the job later this year.’
Simpson gave him an as if I could give a monkey’s shrug.
‘We’re policemen, for fuck’s sake,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘not some bloody multi-media . . . content provider.’ Was that how these type of people described themselves? He wasn’t sure but it would be close enough.
‘Look at it this way,’ Simpson said sweetly. ‘As long as you’re polite, don’t assault anyone or ogle the strippers too much, what have you got to worry about?’
Carlyle looked at the other male officers in the group. The enthusiasm was draining from their faces. They were all thinking the same thing: why would we have volunteered for this if it wasn’t for the perks?
Simpson also knew what was floating through their brains. ‘Remember – keep it all above board tonight,’ she ordered as she began making her way towards the door. ‘Do not forget that this is the twenty-first century. That means twenty-first-century policing, twenty-first-century rules and, above all, twenty-first-century scrutiny. I want you all to bloody well behave out there.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s go. You heard what the Commander said. Be polite. No swearing. And,’ he snapped, ‘remember to fucking smile.’ Feeling put upon, he watched Simpson disappear down the corridor. ‘I hope you have a nice meal,’ he mumbled, unhappily, to himself.
Dinner had been worth waiting for. The roasted Muntjac deer, crushed celeriac, chestnuts, red cabbage and spiced chocolate jus had been delightful and she had also allowed herself the indulgence of the Kentish strawberry and elderflower cheesecake, with black pepper crème fraîche.
‘Enjoyable?’ The crafty glint in Dino Mottram’s eyes suggested that they could well be breaking out the Viagra Professional tonight.
Carole Simpson squirmed involuntarily in her seat. After a drought of more than two years, sex with Dino was still fun but, for an old guy, he still seemed to have a lot to prove. Tonight she would insist on going on top – since the alternative was to be pounded remorselessly into the mattress by a man possessed. That or she’d plonk him on the sofa with one of his favourite porn DVDs while she relaxed in a long, hot bath.
She took a mouthful of the Crianza 2004 and sighed happily. ‘Delicious.’
Dino looked around for a waiter. ‘We should get going, I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
‘Me too,’ Simpson told him. Maybe the red pills could stay in the bottle tonight.
Dino poured the last of the wine into his glass as the maitre d’ appeared with the bill. ‘I had lunch with the Mayor today.’
Simpson tensed up at the mention of the M-word. Holyrod and his cronies had presided over the steady politicization of the Metropolitan Police in recent years – something that she objected to both in principle and in practice. Although she had started out as an active supporter, she now considered the Mayor a vain and ineffective man who had no use for public office other than as a vehicle for his endless self-promotion. ‘Holyrod?’
Dino gave her an of course look. ‘Interesting man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ Simpson nodded. ‘I’ve come across him a few times.’
Dino raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of his wine. ‘Oh?’
‘He’s the Mayor,’ Simpson shrugged. ‘He gets involved in policing.’
‘Well,’ said Dino, ‘he’s getting involved in my world too. He’s joining the Board of Entomophagous Industries as a non-executive director.’
‘Snouts in the trough time.’
Displeased by her response, Dino made an effort to mishear what she had said. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘He needs to make some money.’
Dino smiled blandly. ‘Don’t we all?’
You certainly don’t, Simpson thought. Her mind alighted on a quote she’d read recently from some contemporary thinker: in poor countries, officials receive explicit bribes; in the west, they get the sophisticated, implicit, unspoken promise to work for large corporations.
‘He’s certainly not coming cheap,’ Dino mused.
Simpson drained her glass. ‘I hope you get your money’s worth,’ she said tartly.
Dino, bristling at Simpson’s chill tone, gave her an angry stare. ‘You think that it’s a mistake?’
‘Dino . . .’ Reaching across the table, she patted him gently on the arm; for a captain of industry, he could be incredibly thin-skinned at times. ‘You know that’s not something I would have a view on.’
He took her hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. ‘But I’m asking your opinion.’
‘Unlike you,’ she said sweetly, pushing her chair away from the table, ‘I don’t feel the need to have an opinion on absolutely everything.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but you do have one on our Mayor, don’t you?’
Simpson thought about it for a moment. ‘Holyrod was a soldier,’ she said finally. ‘By common acclaim, a good one. Just because you’re good at one thing doesn’t mean you’ll be good at others.’
Dino nodded his agreement. ‘Most people aren’t good at anything.’
‘Quite. Christian Holyrod always struck me as a bit of a fish out of water as a politician. God knows what he’ll be like as a businessman.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dino said coolly, ‘the bar’s not set very high. I’ll sort him out.’ He gave her a searching look. ‘As you know, I always get my money’s worth.’
EIGHT
Corporal Adrian Gasparino tapped the toe of his boot against the low mud wall in time to the tune of Bleeding Through’s ‘Love Lost in a Hail of Gunfire’, which was pounding through the headphones of his iPod Nano. Reaching up into the shade, he plucked a fat white grape from the vine above his head, popped it into his mouth and crushed it between his teeth. Sharp and juicy, it tasted good, so he snapped off a couple more, crushing them mechanically between his teeth.
‘Hey! Leave those alone.’ Sergeant Spencer Spanner appeared at his shoulder, poking him gently on the arm with the barrel of his SA80 assault rifle. ‘Those aren’t any old grapes; they’re terrorist grapes.’
‘They’re good,’ grinned Gasparino, taking another.
Taking a handful for himself, Spanner stuck them in his mouth and chewed. ‘Mm. Not as good as Tesco’s.’
‘Cheaper though.’
‘Whatever,’ Spanner shrugged, tiring of the chat. With his SA80, he pointed at the buildings behind the wall, on the far side of the compound. ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted at the line of soldiers strung out behind them. ‘Another day at the office beckons. Watch where you put your fucking feet.’
‘Okay.’ Gasparino smiled as Metallica’s ‘Nothing Else Matters’ took over the task of numbing his brain. He scanned the dense orchard littered with mines and other ordnance which concealed the irrigation canals used by the Taliban to move freely under the noses of the coalition troops.
‘A chess game,’ was how their Commander had described it in an interview with CNN a few months earlier, ‘played with bullets and IEDs.’
A chess game? Like fuck. Gasparino glanced at the ground a metre in front of him in a half-hearted attempt to identify anything suspicious. Not only was it a waste of time, it only made him feel worse about his situation. Your best hope was that, if you did get blown up, the IED was sufficiently powerful to blast you to smithereens, so that small parts of your body were scattered to the four winds before you even had a chance to realize what had happened. Far better that than losing your legs and bleeding in agony while watching the confused, helpless expressions on the faces of your mates.