‘Not a lot.’ The inspector scratched his head. ‘Joe’s been checking out a missing teenager, but that’s about it.’
‘Good. Focus on Mosman for the next couple of days, and then we’ll see where we are.’ Reaching across the desk, she pulled a sheaf of papers towards her, signalling that their meeting was over.
‘Okay.’ Carlyle got to his feet and turned towards the door.
‘Oh — and Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
Simpson pointed to the plastic bag sitting by the chair. ‘Don’t forget your lunch.’
SEVENTEEN
‘What did you expect? A half-empty bottle of scotch and twenty Benson amp; Hedges?’ Sylvain Bellamy fixed Joe Szyszkowski with a gimlet eye, as he finished off his green salad with a flourish.
‘I didn’t expect anything,’ replied the sergeant defensively.
‘The days of long boozy lunches are long gone.’ The Editor of the Sunday Witness tossed the remains of his takeaway box into a nearby wastebasket and took a slug of sparkling water from a small plastic bottle. ‘There’s no time for bad habits any longer and you don’t get anywhere in this game if you don’t look after yourself.’ He had the slightly emaciated, hollow-cheeked look of a man who believed in looking after himself, or at least ran regular marathons. He gestured towards a framed certificate hanging on the wall behind his head. ‘They sent me to Harvard last year, to do an MBA.’
‘Good for you,’ Joe mumbled.
‘Zenger Corporation takes the professional development of its employees very seriously,’ Bellamy smiled. ‘At least for those of us that make it off the news desk.’
Sitting back in his chair, Joe looked through the window that offered a view across the empty newsroom. The place looked like a DIY warehouse filled with row after row of desks and computers, their screens illuminated by the strip lighting suspended from the ceiling. The overall effect was profoundly depressing. It made Charing Cross police station look like a palace.
‘Before we start,’ Bellamy interrupted the sergeant’s musings, ‘I have to tell you that I won’t be able to deal with any detailed questions about Duncan Brown or his work or about the hacking inquiry.’
Joe turned back to face the Editor. ‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Both. You can, of course, ask me anything you like. However, if we stray into. . difficult territory, one of our lawyers will have to be present.’
Joe nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘You have to realize that the amount of discretion I have here is severely limited. Indeed, if my boss knew you were here now, she would be very unhappy.’
‘Maybe I should speak to your boss.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Bellamy agreed. ‘But you won’t get anywhere near Sonia Claesens without an army of lawyers getting in your way. Not to mention Trevor Miller stomping all over you.’
Trevor Miller? Joe thought. Fucking hell, what’s he got to do with this? Play dumb, he told himself. In the inside pocket of his jacket his mobile started vibrating — for the third time in the past minute. For the third time in the past minute, he ignored it. ‘Who’s Trevor Miller?’
‘Hah!’ Bellamy thumped the table in amusement. ‘You don’t know much, Sergeant, do you?’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe smiled, careful not to rise to the bait. ‘So, what can you tell me about Duncan Brown?’ he asked. ‘Did he look after himself?’
‘I suppose so. . as much as anyone here does, anyway.’ Bellamy carefully replaced the green cap on his bottle of water as he paused for a moment’s reflection on his dear departed colleague. ‘The important thing to realize is that Duncan was a good lad, a solid citizen.’
‘Why would anyone want to stab him to death, then?’
Bellamy ran a hand through his silver locks. ‘As you can imagine, Sergeant, I have given that some considerable thought.’
‘And?’
‘No idea,’ Bellamy laughed. ‘I genuinely don’t know.’
‘But-’ The phone started vibrating again. ‘Fuck.’ Joe pulled it from his pocket and saw Carlyle’s name on the screen. ‘Apologies. Excuse me a second, I need to take this.’
Bellamy gave a gracious nod and turned his attention to the screen of the computer standing on his desk.
‘Where are you?’ the inspector asked without preamble.
‘I’m in Docklands.’
Carlyle harrumphed. ‘What are you doing in fucking Docklands?’
‘It’s where Duncan Brown worked,’ said Joe, trying to hide his irritation. ‘I’m talking to his boss.’
‘Well get your arse back to Charing Cross, tonto pronto,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘But-’
‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘But-’
‘Simpson says we have to focus on Mosman.’
‘But-’
‘No more fucking buts. See you back at the ranch asap.’
Bloody Carlyle, Joe thought, irritated. Always swanning around in his own little world, acting like he was the only one trying to shovel shit. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’
‘Good. See you soon.’ Without another word, the inspector ended the call.
Bellamy looked up from his screen and smiled. ‘Problem?’
‘We’ll have to talk later, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m always here.’
‘Good to know.’ Joe flicked through a mental checklist in his head. ‘In the meantime, I will send someone to check through Brown’s desk and computer. It would also be helpful to have a list of his contacts.’
Grinning, Bellamy waved a hand towards the newsroom. ‘We have a hot-desking system here. Everyone moves around all the time, so we won’t be able to show you a specific desk or computer terminal.’
‘Great.’
‘But I’m sure that the IT people will be able to sort something out — once our lawyers have okayed it.’
‘Fine. We’ll be in touch.’ Joe jumped to his feet. Having just been beaten up by his boss, he wasn’t going to let some mere hack take the piss. ‘Don’t bother getting up. I can see myself out.’
EIGHTEEN
Still holding the Greggs plastic bag containing his lunch, a now very hungry Carlyle skipped up the front steps of Charing Cross police station. Reaching the top, he felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. With some reluctance, he pulled it out.
‘Inspector, it’s Julian Richardson here.’
‘Who?’
‘Julian Richardson.’ The young man sounded pained at having to repeat his name. ‘From St John’s Wood.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the inspector irritably, belatedly recalling that Richardson was the sergeant placed in charge of logistical coordination for the Mosman case. ‘What do you want?’ If he didn’t get something to eat in the next five minutes, there was every chance that the inspector would go into total meltdown.
‘I have just spoken to Melvin Boduka, the lawyer acting for Horatio Mosman’s parents. He says his clients will be able to see you this afternoon.’ Richardson reeled off an address near Park Lane.
‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Tell them I’m on my way.’ Ending the call, he stepped through the automatic doors. He would nip down to the canteen, scarf down his lunch, leave a list of things for Joe to be getting on with and then head back out.
‘Inspector!’ Half-turning, Carlyle tried to keep walking even as he smiled at the desk sergeant. ‘How’s it going, George?’
‘Could I have a minute?’
‘Er. .’
George Patrick gestured in the direction of a thin, angry-looking, middle-aged woman who was standing in front of the desk. On first glance, Carlyle thought that she seemed vaguely familiar, but then so did lots of people. ‘This lady could do with some assistance,’ George explained.
‘Sorry,’ Carlyle tried to look sympathetic, ‘but I’ve got to go and-’
‘I’ve been waiting to speak to someone for almost an hour now,’ the woman said huffily, eyeing the bag containing the inspector’s lunch. She stepped towards him. ‘It’s a very serious matter.’
Burying his nose in some convenient paperwork, George Patrick tried not to laugh.