‘And anyway,’ continued the woman, ignoring the sniggering desk sergeant, ‘don’t you know who I am?’
‘You talk, I’ll eat.’ Ignoring the look of displeasure that flitted across Margaretha Zelle’s face, the inspector tore open the cellophane packaging, pulled out his sandwich and took a large bite.
Sitting back in her chair in the almost empty canteen, Zelle cradled a glass mug of jasmine tea. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who I am?’
Trying not to speak with his mouth full, the inspector made a non-committal gesture. The truth was that it had come to him on the way down to the basement. Margaretha Zelle was an over-exposed London celebrity. Not so long ago, he had read about her latest exploits in one of the trashy magazines that his wife brought home with alarming regularity.
Born in Antwerp in the late 1970s, Zelle was a member of that rarest breed, famous Belgians. Known, in no particular order, for being a model, singer and animal lover, she had lost an arm in a climbing accident on the Neige Cordier peak in the French Alps. Her ex-husbands included a banker, a semi-famous actor and a former England football manager. An acrimonious divorce from the last had resulted in her being awarded?8.3 million in a highly publicized court settlement.
Washing the sandwich down with a mouthful of coffee, Carlyle unceremoniously started on the Belgian bun. Pouting, Zelle picked up a copy of Metro that had been left by a previous diner and started pointedly reading a story about a government adviser who claimed that some police officers were barely literate.
Swallowing the last of the bun, Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee. ‘Ah,’ he muttered to himself, ‘that’s better.’ If not exactly full, he was no longer starving. Zelle was still pretending to read the scathing article. Maybe he could grab a Mars bar — or maybe not. Helen would definitely not approve.
A question suddenly came into his mind. ‘Do you happen to know why a Belgian bun is called a Belgian bun?’
‘What?’ Zelle stared at him blankly. Despite the fierce countenance, she was a good-looking woman. Tall, thin and blonde, she had high cheekbones and only the faintest of lines around her sharp blue eyes.
‘Never mind.’
Tapping the newspaper with her prosthetic hand, she gave a grin. ‘It says here that police officers are, quote “barely literate” unquote because the entry standards are so low. Reading, writing and maths skills have fallen significantly.’
Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, Carlyle thought, but what concern is it of yours? ‘I might not be able to read or write,’ he said gruffly, ‘but my timekeeping skills are still up to scratch.’ He pointed at the clock on the far wall. ‘I really do have to get going soon, so tell me what the problem is and let’s make it quick.’
The grin widened, making Zelle look even more attractive in a dangerous type of way. ‘My, my,’ she teased. ‘We are sensitive, aren’t we?’
Fuck it, thought Carlyle, I will have that Mars bar. And a double espresso to go with it. ‘You’ve got five minutes. Remember to keep it simple though, given how stupid us cops are.’ Then, getting to his feet, he bolted for the confectionery display and came back almost immediately clutching his prize.
‘My publicist suggested I should come.’
That’s not a line you hear every day, Carlyle thought, chomping on the Mars bar.
‘My phone’s been hacked.’
‘Mm.’ As the last piece of chocolate disappeared into his maw, the inspector realized that he should have gone for the king-sized bar.
‘It needs to be investigated.’
Finishing his coffee, Carlyle screwed up the Mars wrapper and dropped it into the empty mug. He told himself firmly that he wasn’t going to lose his temper. ‘There’s a special task force looking into this whole issue. You should go and talk to them.’
‘Don’t try and fob me off!’ the woman snapped. ‘I’ve been waiting upstairs for ages.’
‘I’m sorry that you had to wait,’ Carlyle replied evenly. ‘All I’m trying to do is ensure that you get to talk to the right people.’
‘A journalist called me last week,’ she continued, ignoring what he had just said. ‘He was able to quote verbatim from phone messages that Sam had left for me.’
‘Sam?’ Carlyle asked, curious despite himself.
‘Sam Grove.’ Grove was the former England football manager — Mr Zelle number three, or maybe it was number four. Either way, marriage to Margaretha, combined with a run of shockingly bad results, was enough to make him public enemy number one up until the point where he was ceremoniously sacked.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t you follow football, Inspector?’
He shrugged. Proper football fans don’t support England, they support their club. ‘I’m a Fulham fan.’
Not knowing what to make of that, she ploughed on. ‘Anyway, I told this journalist: “If you do anything with this story I’ll go to the police”.’
‘And what happened?’ Carlyle already knew the answer but asked anyway.
‘The bastard ran the story last weekend.’ Zelle hoisted a massive red Chloe python-skin tote bag on to the table and untied the flap. Carlyle watched in silence as she pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed him a half-page cutting. ‘This is it.’
Squinting, Carlyle scanned the article. Under the headline MAD MARG BLOWS HER TOP was a not very flattering picture of Zelle wearing a bikini on a Caribbean beach. The ‘story’ itself involved an argument over money; just a precis of the kind of routine domestic row that any couple might have. As a ‘story’, it was utterly boring. No wonder newspapers were dying on their feet.
Rereading the piece, Carlyle noticed the byline and realized that the article had been written by Duncan Brown.
He looked at Zelle. ‘You spoke to Duncan Brown?’
‘So, you can read, then,’ Zelle said petulantly. ‘And I didn’t even see your lips moving.’
God give me strength, Carlyle thought morosely. ‘When exactly did he call you?’
Zelle gazed into the middle distance. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said, before reeling off a number of possible dates. ‘I think it was the Wednesday and I’d just come out of the gym. But you can check my phone records.’
Yes, Carlyle thought, I suppose we can. ‘Did you ever actually meet him?’
‘No!’ Zelle made a moue. ‘I only spoke to the nasty little rodent once on the phone. That was it.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced again at the clock. The day was slipping away from him but the Mosmans could wait a little longer. After all, he hadn’t committed to turn up at their lawyer’s office at any precise time. Turning his gaze back to Zelle, he tried to smile. ‘What we need to do now is this. .’
NINETEEN
‘Shouldn’t you be in uniform?’ Louise Greco studied the warrant card carefully before handing it back to the WPC. The pretty young officer had arrived in her office only ten minutes ago, but already she had created a significant glitch in Greco’s tight schedule.
When you were headmistress of St Marylebone C of E Secondary School, the bureaucracy was never-ending. Greco pined for the time — long gone — when her days hadn’t been chopped up into thirty-minute blocks, each of which was completely filled with a range of wearisome tasks.
Greco checked her watch. As of right now, she had a letter to write to all parents of Key Stage 3 students regarding the use of social networks and mobile phones, as well as drafting an invite for the White Paper Consultation meeting. And the Pupil Achievement Team meeting was due to start in less than fifteen minutes. In short, the headmistress simply didn’t have time for some girl who looked like a refugee from the Sixth Form Common Room waltzing into her office and demanding to be allowed to interview various pupils.
Maude Hall smiled sweetly. She had been in the MPS for barely nine months, but already she understood well enough that most people were naturally suspicious of the police. ‘It’s my day off.’