‘Hannah Gillespie is the schoolgirl who has gone missing.’ He quickly filled her in on the details.
‘Do we think she’s okay?’
‘She’s still checking her phone messages.’ The inspector immediately regretted letting slip the fact that they had been tapping the girl’s phone but, happily, Simpson either didn’t pick up on the point or she let it pass.
‘We’ll just have to hope that she turns up.’
‘The parents aren’t very happy.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t be, would they?’ Simpson snapped.
‘My sergeant spoke to them just as I was coming over here. He says they’re talking about going to the press.’
‘Christ, that’s all we need.’ Simpson drummed her fingers on the table. ‘What are they like?’
‘The parents?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Dunno. Haven’t met them. Joe’s been handling it all.’
‘Well, you’d better bloody well pay them a visit, then.’
‘But you told me to prioritize Mosman,’ he protested.
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just as well you’re so good at multi-tasking then, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, boss.’ Hoist by his own petard, Carlyle got to his feet. ‘I’ll add it to the list.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ The inspector strode out on to the balcony of the Soho flat and let the chill evening air wash over him.
‘Yeah.’ Joe Szyszkowski held up a stack of envelopes that he’d picked up off the floor. ‘They’re all addressed to Francis Clegg.’
‘Well, he’s not here now.’ Leaning over the railing, the inspector gazed at the newly refurbished Marshall Street Baths across the road. They were barely a one-minute walk from Oxford Circus. The 2,000 square foot loft-style apartment with three bedrooms and direct lift access to an underground car park had to be worth several million. ‘The bloke’s obviously doing well.’
Clearly thinking the same thing, Joe gave a rueful shrug.
‘Go and have a word with the concierge and see what he can tell us. We need to find this guy.’
‘Will do.’ As Joe headed for the door, the chirp of a mobile sounded in his pocket. He lifted it to his ear. ‘Hello?. . Yeah.’ He turned to face the inspector. ‘No, when do you need it by?. . Okay, I’ll see what I can do. . Yeah, I’ve got your number.’
‘News?’ Carlyle looked at him expectantly.
‘That was Bernie Gilmore.’
Carlyle’s heart sank. Gilmore was a freelance journalist who chased down crime and political stories for a range of different newspapers and websites. You never wanted to get a call from him; invariably it meant he was on to something that was best kept under wraps. He eyed his sergeant suspiciously. ‘How did he get hold of your number?’
‘He’s got everyone’s number,’ said Joe wearily. ‘I’m only surprised that he didn’t call you first.’
Right on cue, Carlyle’s official, MPS-issue Nokia began vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. Scooping it out, he squinted at the screen: BG. Hitting the reject button, he let it fall back into his pocket. Looking up, he saw Joe eyeing him inquisitively. ‘Just the missus,’ the inspector smiled. ‘What did Mr Gilmore want?’
Joe let his gaze drop to his shoes. ‘He’s on to the Hannah Gillespie story.’
‘Fuck!’ Carlyle stomped his foot in frustration. ‘How the hell did he manage to get that?’
‘Dunno,’ Joe replied, ‘but he’s spoken to the parents. They gave him my name.’
‘And?’ Carlyle demanded, sensing there was more.
‘And he’s also got Clegg’s name.’
‘You are fucking kidding me!’ The inspector’s face turned an unpleasant shade of red until, for a moment, it looked like his head might actually explode.
‘And he’s even got this address.’ Fearing that his boss was about to rush over and throttle him, Joe took a couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘I know,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘I know, I know, I know. Someone’s blabbed. But we are where we are. He’s going to be here in ten minutes. What do you want me to tell him?’
After a succession of deep inhalations, Carlyle’s face slowly began to return to something approaching its normal colour. ‘Just go and speak to the bloody concierge. I’ll deal with Bernie myself.’
Carlyle intercepted the journalist at the front door of Clegg’s apartment building. Bernard Wynstanley Gilmore was a bear of a man: six foot two and twenty stone, he had a shock of black hair and an unkempt beard flecked with grey. His Depeche Mode Sounds of the Universe sweatshirt was covered in stains of an indeterminate nature, and his jeans were torn at both knees.
‘How’s it going, Bernie?’
‘Inspector.’ The journalist greeted him, wheezing as if he’d just climbed ten flights of stairs. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course not,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘Why not?’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it a crime scene?’
‘No.’ At least not yet anyway. Carlyle gestured down the road, towards Ganton Street. ‘Let’s go to the Shaston Arms.’
‘Mm.’ Gilmore thought about that for a moment, patting his belly as he did so. ‘D’ya think they’ll have Tyrell’s crisps?’
‘I’m sure they do,’ Carlyle said, leading the way.
Bernie Gilmore looked genuinely hurt. ‘They didn’t have any Tyrell’s.’
‘Ah well.’ Never a connoisseur, the inspector smiled as sympathetically as he could. As far as he was concerned, one bag of crisps was pretty much the same as another. It wasn’t as if the pub didn’t have any kind of crisps, so surely the hack could make do.
Gilmore ripped open a bag of Thai Sweet Chicken and another of Sizzling King Prawn and laid them on the table. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took a sip of his Jameson’s and waited while the journalist sampled the different flavours. Listening to the happy buzz of the conversations around them, he considered how he should play this meeting.
After washing the crisps down with a couple of gulps of Greene King IPA, Gilmore placed his pint glass on the table and happily wiped some crumbs from his beard. ‘Ahh!!’
‘Good?’ Carlyle finished his whiskey. He should have asked for a double. Already he felt like another.
‘I think I prefer the Sweet Chicken,’ Gilmore said solemnly. ‘Anyway, what’s the story?’
‘That remains to be seen.’
Gilmore lifted the glass back to his mouth. ‘Hardly.’
‘Pardon?’
‘As you well know, Inspector, these days, wait and see is never an option.’ Gilmore paused to demolish the rest of his beer. ‘If you’re going to ask me to just sit on this, there’s no chance. Pretty girl, a top student, goes missing in the middle of the big city? It seems very surprising that the police haven’t gone public on it already. Meanwhile, the parents, as you would expect, are worried sick. So, what are you waiting for?’
What do you know about the parents’ worries? As far as Carlyle knew, Gilmore didn’t have any kids. Even if he did, it was a fair bet he never got to see them. Being an in-your-face, muckraking journalist was a 24/7 gig; it did not sit easily with family responsibilities. ‘We don’t actually know that the girl is in danger.’ He kept his voice low, his tone even. ‘So far, this is just a missing person inquiry.’
‘Is that so?’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. The Missing Persons Bureau hasn’t heard of her.’
‘Okay,’ Carlyle grimaced. ‘Maybe — and this is not for quotation — we’re a bit behind on the paperwork.’
Folding his arms, Gilmore sat back in his seat. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not interested in giving you a hard time.’
Carlyle shook his head disbelievingly. ‘No?’
‘No, really, I’m not. But the point is, I’ve got more than enough material to go with this story. I’ve spoken to the parents, and to the best friend. By all accounts, Hannah was a smart kid.’
‘Is,’ Carlyle corrected him, hoping that he was right.
‘Very smart,’ Bernie continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Her parents were already dreaming of a scholarship at Stanford. That’s an American university.’