‘Realized what?’ Carlyle felt unable to hide his curiosity any longer.
‘That — at some level — it had to be related to what his mother was up to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the van Aken.’
His mind blank, the inspector turned to Snowdon for help.
The waiter arrived with Sir Michael’s wine and he sniffed it appreciatively. ‘Joseph van Aken’s View of Covent Garden,’ he declared.
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle said, recalling the conversation he’d had with Maude Hall. ‘You mean the picture pinned to the boy’s shirt.’
Highman scratched his nose. ‘It is one of a number of government-owned paintings which have gone missing.’
‘As in stolen?’
‘As in unaccounted for.’
Snowdon took a mouthful of the wine. ‘When Her Majesty’s Government decided to sell off some of the works in its collection, it realized that it didn’t really know what it had. Quite sensibly, therefore, it decided to conduct an audit of the entire collection. Poor old Harris here was tasked with trying to track them all down. Quite a few, a rather shocking number, in fact, remain “unaccounted for”, as the dear fellow so euphemistically puts it.’
The inspector thought about that for a moment. ‘How does this connect to Zoe Mosman? When I showed her a copy of the painting, she didn’t even recognize it.’
Snowdon glanced at Highman, who allowed a pained expression to dance across his face. ‘That would be hard to believe, Inspector. In fact, it is impossible, simply impossible. I have had three meetings with Zoe over the last year concerning the missing paintings. We have discussed the van Aken at least twice.’
‘So someone was trying to drop her in it,’ Carlyle mused.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Snowdon solemnly. ‘It certainly looks as if someone was trying to give you a very big clue.’
* * *
Wondering how best to deal with Zoe Mosman, Carlyle wandered up Drury Lane, heading for home. Turning into Macklin Street, he fumbled in his pocket for the fob that opened the front entrance to Winter Garden House. On the step, he flicked it across the small black entry pad and heard the heavy door click open. Stepping inside, he breathed in the powerful smell of pine disinfectant that Daniel, the caretaker, used on the stairwell every day. The LCD display above the lift doors said it was currently on the third floor, heading upwards. Maybe he should take the stairs instead.
‘Hello, John.’
Slowly turning round, Carlyle smiled. ‘Trevor. I was wondering when you’d show up.’ He glanced towards the CCTV camera positioned above the door, which covered the lobby area. Someone had yanked the cable out, which was not a good sign.
Squaring his shoulders, Trevor Miller moved forward. The man was six foot plus, giving him a height advantage of four inches. These days he also had a weight advantage of four or five stone. ‘Our paths cross again.’ It came out like a line he’d been rehearsing for a while.
‘It seems so.’ Carlyle tried to hold his irritation in check. Despite the fact that the guy was hopelessly out of shape, Miller could beat him to a pulp with one hand tied behind his back. He would therefore have to let him have his say, respond calmly and face him down. ‘What can I do for you?’
Miller shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that you, of all people, ended up on the Duncan Brown case.’ In a grey suit and with a white shirt open at the neck, he looked more tanned and relaxed than Carlyle could ever remember him. But, carrying so much weight, he still looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.
If only, Carlyle thought. Half-turning away, he pressed the call button for the lift. ‘A bloke gets stabbed and dumped in a rubbish lorry in my patch, so what do you expect?’
‘And it’s just my luck that the world’s most fucking offside plod happens to get the case.’
Carlyle watched his former police colleague slowly ball his fists. ‘Do you perhaps have some information that you would like to share with the investigation?’ he asked evenly.
‘Yes, I do.’ Miller stepped even closer. The strong whiff of alcohol on his breath made Carlyle wonder if he’d had a few in the Rising Sun across the road, while waiting for his quarry to arrive. But he held his ground and tried to retain eye-contact, which was difficult now that Miller was actually towering over him. ‘Even you have to realize that this is one time when you need to try and understand the bigger picture,’ Miller told him.
‘Oh?’ Carlyle said. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Don’t play stupid with me.’ Miller jabbed a meaty finger towards his face. ‘Brown, as you very well know, was up to his neck in this phone-hacking business. It is very important for the MPS to be-’ The entrance door to the building buzzed open and Miller suddenly shut up. A small boy in the uniform of the nearby St Clement Danes Primary School heaved it open, struggling with his oversized backpack. The boy, who was called Samuel Bajwa, looked at the two men suspiciously.
Carlyle suddenly wondered if Alice had made it home yet. He didn’t want her to walk in on this nonsense. Stepping away from Miller, he gave the boy a cheery smile. ‘How’s it going, Sam?’
‘Okay, Mr Carlyle.’ But the boy looked less than reassured.
‘School all right?’
Samuel’s face brightened a little as he waved the sheet of A4 paper that he was carrying in his left hand. ‘I am Star of the Week.’
‘Good for you,’ Carlyle said. ‘Your mum will be really pleased.’
Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Miller glared at the boy.
The inspector pointed to the lift, which was now back at the third floor. ‘It’s really slow today. Why don’t you take the stairs?’
The boy didn’t look thrilled about that idea, but Carlyle knew that he only lived on the first floor. The exercise would do him good.
‘Go on.’
Samuel made his way to the first step and began climbing up with the help of the handrail. Slowly his footsteps grew quieter and then there was the sound of a door slamming shut.
With some satisfaction, Carlyle realized that he couldn’t even recall what Miller had been saying. ‘This is neither the time nor the place,’ he declared. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve by-’
Leaning forward, Miller gave an instant response, by way of a sharp punch to Carlyle’s gut. As the inspector staggered backwards, he followed it up with another, and then a swift kick between the legs. Sinking to the concrete, Carlyle took another two quick blows to the side of his head.
I guess that means I’ve won the argument, he thought, trying not to puke all over himself.
The concrete floor was cool, with that reassuring smell of disinfectant. Carlyle didn’t try to get up. Concentrating on breathing, he wiped a tear from his eye and waited for the pain to subside.
Stepping forward, Trevor Miller wiggled the toe of his boot right in front of Carlyle’s face. ‘Remember last time.’
The inspector said nothing. Last time, Miller had drowned a young man in a swimming pool. Carlyle had watched it happen. But, still, he hadn’t been able to put the bastard away for it.
‘You know the drill,’ Miller hissed. ‘For once in your life, don’t be a stupid cunt. Remember, I’m on to you. Push things too far, look into anything that is beyond your immediate brief, and I will make sure you are fucking dealt with once and for all.’ He aimed a final kick at Carlyle’s ribs, before stomping away.
The inspector listened to the leather soles of Miller’s boots on the concrete, the click as the main door was opened and then the clunk as it shut again. A few moments later, the returning lift finally reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, two women he didn’t recognize stepped out, chatting away about something on last night’s television. Each was pushing a stroller containing a small child. If they were surprised to see him lying there, they didn’t let it show. Without interrupting their conversation or otherwise acknowledging his presence, they expertly manoeuvred the buggies past the prone policeman and headed out of the door.