TWENTY-NINE
At least there was one person in Charing Cross police station who looked like they had taken more of a kicking than he had. After getting Francis Clegg to sign his statement, the inspector retreated back up to the third floor. Joe was sitting at his desk, drinking a mug of coffee, while WPC Hall was perched on the edge of a nearby desk, munching happily on a banana. Since returning from Heathrow, each of them had maintained an exaggerated air of innocence; just as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
Carlyle put the statement on his desk and eyed his sergeant carefully. ‘So he sold her?’
Hall quickly swallowed the last of her banana, dropping the skin into the cardboard box on the floor that served as a makeshift bin. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He just kind of passed her on to one of his mates.’
‘As one does,’ Joe said, looking sick.
‘Do we believe him?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I think so.’ Joe brightened. ‘Once Maude had a little word with him, he rather quickly decided to lose his attitude and tell us what was going on.’
Blushing, Hall looked at the floor.
‘The Krav Manga worked a treat,’ Joe smirked. ‘I’m thinking of taking a few classes myself.’
‘Krav Maga,’ Hall corrected him, still blushing. ‘It’s a fighting technique developed by the Israeli Defence Forces,’ she explained, seeing that Carlyle was at a loss. ‘It’s their official martial art — a form of hand-to-hand combat originally developed to defend Jews against Nazi attacks in the 1930s. I go to classes in Westminster twice a week. It’s good fun. You should give it a go.’
Not me, Carlyle thought, but it might be good for Alice. His daughter already did a weekly karate class at Jubilee Hall on the south side of the piazza; maybe this Krav Whatever would help her take her self-defence skills to the next level.
‘What d’ya reckon?’ Joe asked.
‘Nah,’ Carlyle said. ‘I’m too old, too slow.’ He waved an admonishing finger towards Hall. ‘Just make sure you keep it for outside, in future. You’re very lucky that Clegg didn’t make a complaint. The stupid bastard didn’t even ask for a lawyer.’
‘We got a result,’ Joe protested.
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘But at the very least, the pervert could have tied you up in disciplinary hearings for months.’ He gave his sergeant a disappointed look. ‘You should have known better.’
Staring into his coffee, Joe said nothing.
Turning to the WPC, Carlyle gave Hall a hard stare. ‘Don’t do it again.’
‘Okay,’ she said meekly.
‘Good.’ Carlyle dropped into his chair and placed his hands behind his head. ‘Now, the new guy we think Hannah Gillespie has ended up with. What do we know about him?’
Joe put his coffee cup down on the desk next to the sheet of A4 paper containing his notes. ‘Alexander Montague Laws. Known as Monty. No record. Some kind of freelance IT guy. He’s not at the address that Clegg gave us. So far, he’s in the wind.’
‘Okay. See if you can extract any more useful information from Clegg’ — Carlyle looked up at Hall — ‘without smacking him around. Just tell him he’s stuck in that cell until we find Mr Laws.’
‘And then?’ Joe asked.
Having no idea, Carlyle shrugged. ‘Let’s worry about that later. Meantime I’ve got to chase something else up. Keep me posted.’
‘What happened to you?’ Detective Inspector Vanessa Valette asked as she handed Carlyle back his warrant card.
‘Walked into a door.’
‘Mm.’ Valette, a slightly built brunette, rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Come into my office and we can talk there.’
Following her inside, Carlyle sat down and glanced around. The DI lived and worked in a glass cube, measuring about eight feet by twelve, in the corner of a large, open-plan industrial space. Rows of computer screens waited patiently for someone to start using them. Yet, apart from a group of five officers crowded round one desk about twenty feet away, the place was empty. In the background, he could make out the general hum of traffic on the Commercial Road, six floors below them.
‘A bit out of the way here, aren’t you?’
‘We wanted a bit of space well away from the Commissioner and his guys, for obvious reasons.’
‘Mm.’ It must be a really shit job working on Operation Redhead, Carlyle thought. A complete hospital pass. Sooner or later, someone will come along and nobble you. And in the meantime you’re stuck out here in the arse end of nowhere: glamorous East London, where the Luftwaffe was as near as things ever got to urban planning.
Barely five feet two, Valette disappeared behind a mound of files resting on her desk and sat down. Carlyle waited patiently while she cleared a channel through which they could re-establish eye-contact. ‘Sorry about that.’ Under the harsh lighting, she looked tired and frail.
‘No problem,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘So, what brings you here again?’
It took some considerable effort for Carlyle to suppress a grimace. He had already explained his involvement in the Duncan Brown murder case to four different lackeys, in order to get this meeting with Valette. Now it seemed that he would have to start all over again.
‘Duncan Brown.’
‘Sorry.’ Valette gestured to the paperwork surrounding her. ‘He’s not one of mine.’
‘Huh?’
The DI leaned forward between two piles of documents, each at least a foot high. ‘This investigation is so large — and growing all the time — that we have had to divide it up among half a dozen of us.’ She scratched her head. ‘I think Brown belongs to Inspector Walters but, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure.’ She gestured to the largely empty room beyond the window. ‘Anyway, I fear he’s not around right now.’
Christ, Carlyle thought, if the Commissioner really is worried about the possibility of this investigation causing him any grief, a quick look round here should put his mind at rest. Clearly, Operation Redhead was going nowhere. ‘But this is a murder investigation I’m talking about,’ he said, finally letting his exasperation show.
‘Yes, well.’ Valette disappeared behind one pile and switched on her computer, which began slowly wheezing into action. ‘Interesting thought. Do you think there’s any connection with what we’re doing here?’
Carlyle bit his lip in frustration. ‘I believe I have to work on that assumption.’
‘You do? Why?’
‘Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Somewhere behind all the paper, she began tapping on a keyboard. I should get going, Carlyle thought. This is a complete waste of time.
A few more taps.
He pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Sorry for wasting your time.’
‘Hold on.’ Valette reappeared with a pair of rimless spectacles now balanced on her nose. They made her look at least ten years older. She held up a finger. ‘One minute.’
Reluctantly, Carlyle sat back down. Retrieving a mobile from her jacket pocket, Valette made a call. Almost immediately, someone picked up at the other end.
‘Duncan Brown,’ said Valette by way of introduction, sounding very businesslike. ‘Yeah.’ She glanced at Carlyle. ‘Right, one minute.’ Ending the call, she got up and headed for the door. ‘Wait here.’ It was an instruction, rather than a request.
Despite himself, Carlyle nodded meekly.
‘I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,’ she added.
Just shy of twenty-five minutes later, Valette reappeared in the doorway. ‘You check out,’ she announced.
That’s good, Carlyle thought, not knowing what she meant.
Holding the door open, she signalled for him to stand up. ‘Come on.’
The inspector jumped to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To see Meyer.’
Standing at a window, staring down at the slow-moving traffic, Russell Meyer looked round as Carlyle shuffled into the room. The chief inspector was a small man, maybe five foot four, with a light frame and greying bouffant hair. Carlyle was somewhat surprised to see him wearing a single-breasted suit in a Prince of Wales check, rather than a uniform. Then again, hardly anyone seemed to wear a uniform these days. That’s what happened when you went from being a Police Force to becoming a Police Service.