‘What?’ Shelbourne turned away from the window and frowned at his boss. ‘Er. . well, not really,’ he stammered. ‘For a start, we’re in the middle of nowhere. And anyway, I need to get going.’
Resisting the urge to throttle the useless little shit, Sir Chester’s eyes narrowed. ‘So, remind me, why exactly are you here?’
Shelbourne stole another glance out of the window. A couple of the fattest women in the group were struggling to reach the far side of the lawn without collapsing; it looked like the bootcamp had been a bit too ambitious. Maybe the cost of their stay would have been better spent on liposuction or on having a gastric band fitted. ‘I just wanted to make sure that you were settled in okay,’ he lied.
The reality was that he had been called into a strategy session by Hannes Laanti himself, for whom he moonlighted as a freelance adviser. After three hours’ talking crap in a tiny room, Shelbourne was more than ready for a stiff drink himself. Turning back to face his boss, he smiled. ‘And also to talk to you about my meeting with Sonia Claesens and Trevor Miller.’
Mention of Miller’s name made Sir Chester wince yet again. By some margin, Miller had turned out to be the most annoying individual the Commissioner had come across since arriving in London. As head of the MPS, Sir Chester had assumed, somewhat naively as it turned out, that his job had included responsibility for the security of the Prime Minister. Instead, he was horrified to discover that the job had been entrusted to a grubby private contractor. A man who had barely risen above the rank of constable when he was serving in the Force now had the ear of the most powerful man in the country. The whole situation was a total disgrace.
‘What did that oaf have to say for himself?’
‘He was particularly brusque.’ Shelbourne shook his head at the memory. ‘Even Sonia was given short shrift.’ He allowed himself the briefest of peeks out of the window. Two of the hikers were now lying on their backs on the lawn, surrounded by staff dressed in white coats. It looked like they were receiving extra oxygen. ‘I thought she was looking terrible, by the way; a bit like Cruella De Vil on crack.’ He sniggered at his own joke.
Not picking up the reference, Sir Chester gingerly lowered himself on to the bed. As his buttocks made contact with the duvet, a now familiar pain shot up his spine and he immediately jumped back to his feet. ‘What precisely is Miller suggesting in terms of a course of action?’
‘He basically told her that she’s on her own,’ Shelbourne replied, trying to ignore Sir Chester’s signs of discomfort.
‘And us?’
‘The clear implication of what he said is that the PM considers that we’ — meaning you — ‘are also expendable.’
‘We’re all expendable.’ His gaze focusing on the patterned carpet, Sir Chester began pacing from the bed to the armchair and back again. ‘The question is whether there is anything we can do to try and retrieve the situation?’
Damned if I know, Shelbourne thought. Outside, an ambulance had appeared. One of the hikers was being lifted on to a stretcher.
‘Where are we on the other stuff?’ Sir Chester asked, realising that this boy was not about to deliver anything useful or insightful on the phone-hacking front.
‘Other stuff?’
‘I don’t know. .’ Sir Chester racked his brain, trying to remember what concerns had been current before he had gone under the surgeon’s knife. That had been less than forty-eight hours ago but it felt like weeks, if not months. ‘The teenager who was blown up?’
‘Horatio Mosman,’ Shelbourne reminded him. ‘I haven’t had any update. Do you want me to ring Commander Simpson?’
‘We need news,’ the Commissioner mumbled, ignoring the question. ‘Good news. Something to show that we are moving things forward.’ He eyed the other man hopefully but even his spin doctor, who could always be relied upon for a vacuous phrase or a meaningless soundbite, seemed lost for words.
Salvation came in the form of a knock at the door. Before either of them had time to respond, it opened and a pretty blonde girl appeared in the room.
‘Sir Chester?’
The Commissioner suddenly felt his spirits rise.
‘I’m Sally,’ the girl said cheerily. ‘It’s time for your kriotherapy.’
Having let the polite ripple of applause die away, Carole Simpson stepped quickly off the stage in the gymnasium of the Bernard Rhodes South Camden Secondary School. There was a time when the Commander would have given awards ceremonies like this the widest of berths, but nowadays she was more relaxed about such events. All she had to do was hand out a few prizes, then have a quick cup of tea with the headmistress in the staffroom; undemanding if somewhat boring, it was the Met’s idea of winning hearts and minds.
‘Boss.’ Carlyle emerged from behind a curtain just as she reached the bottom step.
Simpson took a half-step backwards, almost falling over. ‘Jesus! Why do you have to creep up on people like that?’
‘Sorry.’ The inspector glared at a timid-looking woman in a cheap business suit hovering a few yards away. ‘We won’t be a moment,’ he told her. The headmistress gave a nod and retreated to a respectful distance. The kids had already fled, along with the rest of the teachers, leaving the cavernous hall empty apart from the three of them.
‘Nice speech,’ said Carlyle feebly.
‘What do you want?’ If the Commander noticed the bruises on his face, she chose not to comment on them. Instead, she glanced theatrically at her watch. ‘I need to get going.’
‘Your office said I would find you here. I need to update you on various things.’
‘Okay.’ Simpson shot the headmistress a look that was more of annoyance than apology. ‘Make it quick.’
Carlyle quickly took her through the highlights, careful to focus mainly on the Mosman case.
‘So,’ she said, cutting him off before he had finished, ‘when are you going to bring the mother in?’
It was the obvious question. At the very least, Zoe Mosman had some explaining to do. ‘I’m not in any hurry,’ he said.
Simpson tugged at a button on her uniform. ‘You might not be but the bloody Commissioner is.’
‘How’s his back, by the way?’
‘He’s recuperating.’
‘At Laanti’s, I hear.’
Simpson looked off into the middle distance, signalling that she didn’t want to discuss the matter.
‘Mrs Mosman,’ said Carlyle, returning to the matter in hand, ‘is already lawyered up. Plus, I suppose, she thinks she can bluff us about the missing picture.’
Simpson gave him a blank look.
‘Joseph van Aken’s View of Covent Garden.’ Carlyle went on to explain the significance of the painting to his investigation. ‘First, I want to see what more we can find out from Harris Highman’s GAC audit before jumping in and trying to force a confession from her.’
‘A confession to what?’
‘Exactly.’ Carlyle smiled, as if she had just made his argument for him. ‘I dunno yet.’
He thought he heard Simpson mumble something that sounded like ‘smug bastard’ under her breath but he let it slide.
‘Okay,’ she said finally, ‘do it your way. But don’t leave it too long. Sir Chester is still enjoying his spa treatments, but it won’t be long before he’s back at his desk in New Scotland Yard and wanting to see some progress.’
‘Understood,’ Carlyle said. The headmistress reappeared in the corner of his vision and hovered. ‘Just a couple of other things,’ he said quickly, as the Commander turned towards her.
‘Yes?’ Simpson did not seem at all happy at the prospect of extending their conversation.
‘It won’t take long at all,’ said the inspector emolliently. Guiding his boss by the elbow, he moved them away from their host, saying, ‘Excuse us just one moment longer.’
The woman struggled to come up with a smile. This was her school and she wasn’t used to being kept waiting.
‘Quickly,’ Simpson hissed.
‘Right.’ Lowering his voice, Carlyle skipped through his conversation with Gilmore about Trevor Miller and Wickford Associates.