‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Silicon Valley and all that.’
‘You can hardly blame them,’ Bernie mused, ‘what with tuition fees here going through the roof. Who’d want to scrape together nine grand a year to send their kid to some shitty polytechnic that no one’s ever heard of?’
‘Do they still have polys?’ Carlyle asked.
Bernie thought about that for a moment. ‘Maybe they changed their names,’ he offered finally. ‘Still, no match for the Ivy League, though.’
‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘So the boyfriend was obviously a bit of a fly in the ointment when it came to the grand plan.’
‘True.’
‘Teenage hormones,’ Bernie shrugged. ‘They’re a killer.’
A thought struck Carlyle. ‘Did you tell the parents about Clegg?’
‘You really are off the pace on this one, aren’t you?’ Gilmore shot him a pitying look.
Fuck, the inspector thought, as he realized that he would have to talk to Mr and Mrs Gillespie asap. That was something else to look forward to.
‘So you did tell them?’ Carlyle asked again.
‘Well, I’m not going to let them read about it in the paper, am I? I’ve even got a photo of young Hannah posing with the Mayor.’
‘Christian Holyrod?’ Carlyle felt himself shudder. ‘When did he manage to find his way into the story?’ He had a sudden nasty thought. ‘He hasn’t been shagging her too, has he?’
‘No, no, no.’ Bernie tutted in disgust. ‘She was introduced to him at a Peer Workers’ Outreach event. Hannah is a member of the Link Up Crew.’
What the hell are you talking about? Carlyle wondered.
‘The Link Up Crew,’ Gilmore explained, ‘are kids who are supposed to go out and spread the word about the Mayor’s good deeds, informing young Londoners on what’s happening in the capital and sending their views, opinions and feedback to City Hall. It’s all part of the Mayor’s policy of engagement with the youth of today — trying to stop the little buggers looting sneakers next time there’s a riot.’
‘What a load of old crap,’ Carlyle snorted.
‘Quite. But the fact that Hannah signed up to take part shows she’s trying to be a good corporate citizen. In other words, she is not just some feckless chav.’
‘No one ever said that she was,’ Carlyle replied defensively.
‘No, but equally, she’s not the kind of middle-class kid with connected parents for whom the forces of the state would be deployed in the blink of an eye without any of this let’s wait and see stuff.’
‘Eh?’
Giving up on the social commentary, Bernie spelled it out. ‘Maybe you could be doing a bit more.’
‘Like what?’
‘You tell me. You’re the policeman.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out.’
For a few moments they sat in uneasy silence, until Gilmore gestured to Carlyle’s empty glass. ‘Want another?’
The inspector let out a deep sigh. ‘Why not?’
Returning from the bar, Gilmore handed Carlyle his whiskey. ‘Got you a double this time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You look like you need it. I saw how the last one didn’t touch the sides.’
‘There’s a lot going on.’
‘There always is.’ Gilmore sat down heavily, dropping a packet of Flame-Grilled Steak crisps on to the table. ‘Dinner,’ Bernie said succinctly, noting the policeman’s dismay.
‘Fair enough.’ Lifting the glass to his lips, Carlyle took a modest mouthful, letting the Jameson’s slide across his tongue.
Gilmore sat back, waiting for the negotiating to begin.
‘Look,’ said Carlyle, returning his glass to the table, ‘I know that we might be playing catch-up. . but I can trade.’
Now it was the journalist’s turn to shake his head. ‘Not your style.’
That was true enough. It was well known that the inspector was not a great one for cosying up to journalists. Here and now, however, it looked like he was going to have to make an exception. ‘Circumstances change.’
Gilmore contemplated his new pint for several moments. ‘I’ve got the girl, the boyfriend and the worried parents,’ he said, not looking up. ‘That’s everything I need; more than enough, in fact.’ Carlyle nodded, letting him say his piece. ‘What’s more, it’s an exclusive.’
The inspector patted the phone in his pocket. ‘It wouldn’t be for long if I gave it to someone else.’ But it was a feeble threat, and they both knew it.
‘What would be the point of that? It would hardly solve your problem.’
‘I’m also working on Horatio Mosman. .’
‘Big deal!’ Gilmore scoffed. ‘Everybody knows that. And it’s been done to death already.’ Opening his new packet of crisps, he arched an eyebrow. ‘No pun intended, of course. And anyway, I am perfectly well aware that you have no progress to report.’
‘Then there’s the Duncan Brown case.’
‘Mm. .’ Gilmore dropped a handful of crisps into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘That may be a little bit more interesting. What have you got so far?’
‘You’ll have to wait.’
‘A bird in the hand, Inspector.’
Looking around, Carlyle lowered his voice. ‘I will give you a full heads-up on both Mosman and Brown — in due course. Also, if anyone else starts sniffing around the Gillespie story I will let you know straight away, so that you can still get it out there first.’
Gilmore took another crisp from the packet and contemplated it carefully. ‘You have my mobile number?’
‘Of course.’
‘Don’t forget to use it.’
When he returned to Clegg’s apartment, Carlyle was surprised to find WPC Maude Hall there, talking to Joe.
‘How did it go?’ Joe asked.
‘He’ll give us a little time,’ Carlyle replied, not wanting to go into the details. ‘Did you get anything of use from the concierge?’
‘Nah,’ Joe said. ‘The guy says that Clegg travels a lot; hasn’t seen him in the last week or so. He doesn’t recognize the girl — says he hasn’t seen her coming or going from the flat.’
‘Or doesn’t want to let on,’ Carlyle grumbled.
‘Either way, it’s the same situation.’ Joe gestured towards the WPC. ‘Anyway, Maude’s come up with something interesting.’
‘On Mosman,’ Hall clarified, ‘not this.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle was more than happy to accept good news wherever he could find it. He looked her up and down: out of uniform she looked so very young. And was that a stud in her nose?
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes?’ He belatedly restored eye-contact.
‘Zoe Mosman told you that she was an art historian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s not quite the whole story. She is, in fact, Creative Director for the Government Art Collection.’
‘That’s the thing Sir Michael Snowdon was talking about,’ Joe reminded him.
‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘the bikini picture. But is that of any significance?’
‘I think so,’ said Hall. ‘The picture that was pinned to Horatio’s shirt was a view of Covent Garden, painted by a Flemish painter called Joseph van Aken in the 1700s. The GAC bought it back in 1929 and the last record of it being on display was in an exhibition put on by the British Embassy in Lagos in 1986.’
Carlyle looked at Joe and Maude in turn. ‘How did you find this out?’
‘It’s all easily accessible,’ Hall smiled, ‘if you know where to look.’
‘Good. Well done.’ The inspector turned to Joe. ‘So, it looks like we need to go and have another word with Mrs Mosman.’
‘Yes.’ His sergeant looked eager at the prospect.
The inspector thought about it for a moment longer. ‘But maybe I should talk to Sir Michael first.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Trevor Miller shovelled the last forkful of Cumberland sausage into his mouth before pushing away his empty plate with a satisfied sigh. Wondering what he could stuff down his gullet next, the Prime Minister’s Senior Security Adviser noticed that his dining companions had barely touched the food on their plates. Sonia Claesens had ordered the caviar omelette (sixty quid!) and Simon Shelbourne the haggis with fried duck eggs (only a tenner). Twenty minutes waiting for their orders to arrive, and then the two of them spent another ten minutes pushing the food around their plates, waiting for Miller to finish eating so that they could finally get down to business. The bill would come to more than a hundred quid and all they would actually get out of it was a cup of herbal tea.