‘Yes,’ Carlyle lied.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘your basic law of supply and demand tells you that information is now effectively worth nothing. That’s bad news for someone like me who sells information for a living.’
‘You could always become a plumber,’ Carlyle smirked. ‘Or even a copper.’
Gilmore ignored this feeble attempt at humour. ‘Of course, some types of information will always be worth something. . in particular circumstances. But even the stuff that is worth something is only worth something if you know that it’s worth something.’
‘Mm.’
‘And even then, that same information may have a value that changes over time.’
‘Right.’
‘So,’ said Gilmore, finally getting to the point, ‘what I knew about Trevor Miller wasn’t really that useful — until I ran into you.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker winced in pain. The operation on his bad back had been declared a success but it didn’t feel much like that to him. The painkillers provided by the hospital were simply not up to the job. Even after downing four of them in quick succession, it still felt as if someone was stabbing him repeatedly in the lower spine with a hot needle.
Noting his boss’s obvious discomfort, Simon Shelbourne adopted a solicitous demeanour. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have discharged yourself for another day or two.’
‘Nonsense.’ Looking round the room he had been given, Sir Chester dismissed his spin doctor’s concerns with as imperious a wave of the hand as he could manage. The Laura Ashley decor did nothing to improve his mood. ‘It’s like a bloody twelve year old’s bedroom in here.’
Shelbourne nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s the best room they had available,’ he said. ‘I double-checked. Anyway, the wallpaper is the same in all of them.’
‘And how much do people pay to come here?’
‘About twelve hundred a night.’
‘Good God!’ At least he wasn’t having his bank account raped as well as having his senses assaulted. Another spasm of pain shot through the Commissioner’s back and his face crumpled in distress.
Shelbourne gestured towards an armchair in the corner of the room. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’
No fear, thought Sir Chester. If I sit down, the pain will only get worse. ‘It’s nothing,’ he insisted. ‘At least, nothing that a large scotch won’t sort out.’
Lowering his gaze, Shelbourne shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘What?’
‘The doctors were very clear. No alcohol allowed until you come off your medication.’
‘Bugger that!’ Sir Chester eyed the sideboard sitting by the wall. ‘Where is the booze in this place anyway?’
‘That’s the other thing,’ Shelbourne said. ‘This is a one hundred per cent dry facility. There is no alcohol at Laanti’s.’ He tried not to smirk. ‘Zero tolerance of booze is a cornerstone of their “guaranteed detox” policy.’
With increasing impatience, Sir Chester listened to his minion run through a series of rules and regulations that the younger man had seemingly learned off by heart.
Having reached the end of his recital, Shelbourne gave a shrug. ‘This code of conduct extends to the customers as well as to the staff.’
‘It sounds more like a bloody prison than a health farm,’ Sir Chester said grimly.
‘Anastasia Carlton can’t speak highly enough about it,’ Shelbourne remarked.
‘Yes, well,’ Sir Chester mumbled, ‘the Prime Minister’s wife has plenty of time on her hands for swanning around spas these days, from what I hear.’
‘Sonia is a big fan too.’
‘Sonia Claesens?’ The faintest of alarm bells began ringing in the back of the Commissioner’s fatigued brain.
‘Yes,’ said Shelbourne, ‘she comes here all the time. At least, she used to when I was working on the Sunday Witness. Her ex-husband built the kriotherapy centre here. It’s considered state of the art.’
Sir Chester frowned. ‘I thought the former Mr Sonia Claesens was a farmer or something?’
‘He’s in agribusiness,’ Shelbourne nodded, as if that was one and the same thing. ‘This is just a sideline. I think it was Sonia who got him interested in it in the first place. She might have ditched him for a toyboy, but she is still a big kriotherapy fan.’
The bells started ringing louder but Sir Chester dismissed them angrily as he fought to process the random bits of information his PR man was now throwing at him. Dammit, all he wanted was a bloody drink! Was that really too much to ask?
‘Kriotherapy,’ Shelbourne droned on, ‘comes from the Greek word cryo meaning “cold” and therapy meaning “cure”. It involves using extreme cold to reduce pain and inflammation.’
This idiot has swallowed the marketing brochure whole, the Commissioner reflected.
‘I’ve even booked you in for a session, since it should be good for your back.’
‘I’ll try anything,’ Sir Chester decided. A thought suddenly hit him: ‘Is it expensive?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Shelbourne smiled, ‘everything is being taken care of. Hannes was absolutely clear that this isn’t going to cost you a penny.’ He was referring to Hannes Laanti, the owner of the eponymous spa. ‘You will get an itemized bill at the end of your stay, but that is simply so that you can place it on the Official Register of Interests when you get back to work.’
Sir Chester harrumphed. This kind of so-called ‘transparency’ was all the rage these days. He could barely go to the bloody toilet without having to report it to someone or other. The whole thing went against all his old-school principles. Why he couldn’t let a friend do him a favour without having to tell the whole world about it was beyond him. He felt his mood darkening by the minute. He really did need that damn drink. ‘I’ve got to ring Tanya,’ he said gruffly, ‘and tell her to bring me a bottle of Royal Lochnagar.’ He patted his pockets, searching in vain for his mobile.
‘The use of mobile phones is not allowed here either,’ Shelbourne chirruped. He had a cheeky glint in his eye which irritated the Commissioner even further.
‘Simon,’ he said wearily, ‘just give me your bloody phone, so that I can call my good lady wife.’
‘The reception’s crap as well,’ Shelbourne pointed out. Nevertheless he fished an iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it over, before politely retreating to the far corner of the room to allow his boss some privacy. After struggling with the number, Sir Chester listened to the phone ring for what seemed like an eternity before Tanya’s cheery voicemail kicked in. Stifling a curse, he mumbled a brief message, hung up and forcefully bowled the handset back to his lackey.
‘Is she on her way?’ Shelbourne asked brightly, plucking the phone out of the air just before it smashed against the wall.
‘She’s taking her own sweet time about it,’ Sir Chester grumped. He imagined that she was probably tied up with her Pilates class, or the Bikram yoga, or whatever the latest fad was for this week. He sighed deeply. No sense of priorities, that woman; no sense of priorities at all.
Stepping over to the window, Shelbourne looked out across the carefully manicured front lawn which extended in front of the original manor house around which the spa had been developed. A small group of fat, middle-aged women were waddling across the grass under the watchful gaze of a couple of young instructors dressed in army fatigues. Obviously, the luxury bootcamp brigade were heading off on their country hike.
‘Look at that lot,’ he giggled. ‘Let’s just hope none of them suffers a heart attack.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Still focused on the matter of refreshment, Sir Chester eyed his aide thoughtfully. ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘you could go and find me an off-licence?’