Sitting in the canteen at Charing Cross police station, Joe Szyszkowski looked up from his notes. Although he was more than miffed about being dragged back to the station only to sit around for hours, waiting for his boss to turn up, he tried not to let it show. ‘Which one do you want to do first?’
Carlyle finished his second Mars bar of the day, a king-sized one this time, and crumpled the wrapper in his fist. ‘The Mosman case,’ he took a slurp of black coffee, ‘obviously. That’s what the powers-that-be want us to focus on.’
Sitting next to Joe, Maude Hall raised an eyebrow. ‘Commander Simpson?’ she asked.
‘Precisely,’ Carlyle said. He wasn’t entirely sure what the young WPC was doing here, but she was certainly easier on the eye than his sergeant.
‘Okay.’ Joe took a deep breath. ‘The bomb was made of ANFO.’
‘Mm.’ The inspector tried to feign some kind of interest. In truth, he always found the technical stuff rather boring. At the end of the day, a bomb was just a fucking bomb. It either blew up or it didn’t.
‘That’s ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.’
‘Good to know.’
‘A fertiliser bomb,’ Hall elaborated.
‘Commonly used in mining,’ Joe continued. ‘But also handy for DIY bombers.’
Carlyle looked at both of them in turn. ‘So there was nothing particularly sexy, unusual or exotic involved?’
Blank looks all round.
‘Nothing,’ he added, ‘that makes this bomb a one-off and leads us straight to an address where we can arrest the crazed loon that did this.’
‘No,’ Joe admitted.
‘Okay.’ The inspector smiled. ‘So we leave that exciting stuff to the techies and the Bomb Squad. What else?’
Hall handed each of them a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve gone through the transcripts of the interviews with Horatio Mosman’s siblings, and also with Marc Harrington’s wife and daughter.’
‘Harrington?’
‘The neighbour who was shot dead.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Carlyle mumbled. ‘Good.’ His mood improved by the sugar rush, he was beginning to think he could get to like this girl. God knows, he could do with an extra pair of hands.
‘Anything interesting come out of the interviews?’ Joe asked.
‘Not really. According to Madeleine Harrington — the daughter — Horatio was a bit of a geek and’ — she let out a small chuckle — ‘a, quote “chronic self-abuser” unquote. That’s about it.’
‘A normal teenager then,’ Joe grinned.
‘Speak for yourself,’ Carlyle chided him. ‘Anyway, let’s not worry about that now. I want us to focus on Horatio’s parents.’
‘I thought you were already speaking to them.’
‘I was, Joseph. And, so far, no one has told me much of any use whatsoever.’
‘Those poor people,’ Hall said sympathetically. ‘They must be in a terrible place right now.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Carlyle cheerily, ‘so I want you to get right in there along with them. I want to know about their secrets — especially the mother.’
‘Okay,’ said the WPC, clearly unconvinced that she could deliver.
‘Why the mother?’ Joe asked.
‘I have a feeling,’ Carlyle said vaguely.
The sergeant frowned. ‘You don’t normally have feelings.’
‘Very true,’ Carlyle conceded. ‘But for once, I feel I need to trust my gut instinct — my intuition, call it what you will.’
‘Are you ill?’ Joe asked sarcastically.
‘Not at all.’ The inspector waved the idea away. ‘Maybe it’s just a new me.’
‘Bollocks,’ Joe snorted. He knew perfectly well that his boss was not the kind of copper to go along with any new age nonsense. The inspector dealt in facts — and facts alone.
‘Okay, okay.’ Reverting to the matter in hand, Carlyle pulled the plastic bag on to his lap. After a few moments of rooting around amongst the papers inside, he came up with the photocopy that he had shown to Zoe Mosman. ‘This was the picture that was pinned to Horatio’s shirt.’ He handed it to Hall. ‘Find out what it is, and where it lives. And find out what its connection is to Mrs Mosman, who happens to be an art historian.’
‘Cool,’ Hall said. ‘I can do that.’
‘If you have any problems, go and talk to Economic and Specialist Crime. I can give you a couple of names of people there who will help.’ Carlyle rubbed his hands together in glee: he could smell progress. With a bit of luck, they would have this sorted out in double-quick time. He could then get Simpson off his back, and everyone would be happy.
Everyone except perhaps Joe.
‘Could be a red herring,’ his sergeant said.
‘What?’
Joe gestured to the picture in Hall’s hand. ‘Someone clearly wants you to focus on the picture, and therefore look at the mother,’ he suggested. ‘It’s not very subtle, is it?’
Hall looked down at the picture then at the inspector.
‘I hear what you’re saying, Joseph,’ Carlyle tried not to grimace, ‘but let’s first just see what WPC Hall can uncover. Take things one step at a time, cross that bridge — et cetera, et cetera.’
‘You’re the boss,’ said Joe, not sounding too happy about things.
‘Glad we sorted that out,’ the inspector quipped. ‘Now, tell me about all the other stuff.’
‘Well. .’ Finally his moment had come. Sitting up in his chair, Joe ran through the details of his meeting with Sylvain Bellamy, Duncan Brown’s Editor — and Bellamy’s warning about Trevor Miller.
Folding his arms, Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Trevor fucking Miller,’ he said angrily. ‘I should have known that bastard would be up to his neck in this.’
Maude looked from one to the other, like an eager kid wanting to be let in on the secret. ‘Who’s Trevor Miller?’
‘Miller and the inspector go back a long way,’ Joe grinned.
Fuck. The mere mention of the name made Carlyle feel old and tired. He looked at the WPC’s expectant face and sighed. ‘When I was first starting out on The Job — younger than you even — I was on the picket line during the miners’ strike.’
Hall looked bemused.
‘Before your time,’ Joe interjected. ‘Before you were even born. The inspector’s older than he looks.’
Carlyle frowned. ‘Anyway, I was in duty one day when Miller sexually assaulted a woman.’ He could remember her name even now: Jill Shoesmith. ‘She launched a civil action and I was the only witness. Miller didn’t think I did enough to cover his back.’
Hall thought about that for a moment. ‘So you wouldn’t lie for him?’
‘No. Trevor had to go through a formal disciplinary hearing. I told them what I saw.’
‘And?’ Hall asked, trying to drag it out of him.
‘The woman got her payout, Miller got a promotion, and I got my card well and truly marked as someone who couldn’t be trusted by his fellow officers.’
‘How did he get a promotion?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘Good bloody question.’
‘These things happen,’ said Joe
‘So you regret the way you handled it?’ Hall asked.
No, Carlyle thought. Telling the truth is always the easiest option. Just don’t expect any thanks for doing it. ‘Maybe.’ He looked at them both. ‘If you’re playing the game, you might as well play the game. By doing what I did, I made a few enemies and was seen as being unreliable — not a team player.’
Joe quickly brought the story up to date. ‘Mr Miller eventually left the Met to set up his own private consultancy. Dipped below the radar for a while. Then he reappeared as Edgar Carlton’s security man, just before the last election.’
‘Wow.’
‘And then,’ Joe continued, ‘the inspector here managed to get into another pissing contest with him.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Carlyle turned back to Hall. ‘Miller was involved in the death of a young man. It was something that was never investigated properly.’
A bemused look passed across Hall’s face. ‘Why not?’
Once again, Carlyle shrugged.
‘These things happen,’ Joe repeated.
‘The thing now,’ said the inspector, ‘is that we will have to move very carefully on the Duncan Brown thing. Ironically, it probably helps that we are supposed to be focusing on Mosman.’