‘But she’s still worthy of some careful investigation?’ Hall’s grin grew wider. ‘It’s good to know that I am working with a pair of dirty old men.’
The inspector was about to protest but thought better of it. When in a hole. . and all that.
‘By the way,’ Hall added, ‘Bernie Gilmore called.’
Carlyle groaned. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone?
‘He says you owe him a phone call.’
‘Okay.’ Bernie wanted his pound of flesh, which was fair enough. But a bit more patience wouldn’t hurt. Right on cue, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Pulling out his mobile, he stared at the blank screen, puzzled. Then he pulled out the private mobile he used alongside his police-issue device.
‘Yeah?’
‘Inspector? It’s Bernie Gilmore.’
Carlyle looked at the handset. The Nokia 1800 was one of the cheapest, most ubiquitous pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash and then topped it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. The number was shared with as few people as possible; even then he would change both the phone and the SIM card every three or four months. This didn’t guarantee him complete secrecy, but it meant that no one in the MPS could check his calls as a matter of routine. It gave him some measure of privacy and for that it was worth the hassle and extra cost involved.
‘How did you get hold of this number?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to call,’ Gilmore replied, ignoring the question. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Hold on a sec.’ Carlyle made a gesture to Joe and Maude indicating that he would be back in a minute, then headed off to one of the small meeting rooms that lined the far wall of the room, playing for time while he pondered how best to play Bernie.
‘Okay.’ Stepping inside the room, he carefully closed the door behind him and perched on the single desk that took up 80 per cent of the floor space. Through the wall-to-ceiling glass, he could see there was no one within twenty feet of him. Regardless, he was careful to lower his voice before resuming the conversation.
‘You still there?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Right, this is what I think you should do.’ The inspector filled Gilmore in on the developments with Clegg and Monty Laws. ‘I would go with the Gillespie story tonight. We’ll hold a presser tomorrow, so you’ll be ahead of the game.’
There was a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Okay. So, what else have you got?’
Carlyle sighed. He should have known that Bernie would drive a hard bargain. At the other end of the line he heard car horns blaring and someone shouting.
‘Duncan Brown,’ he said finally, once the noise had died down, ‘is going to cause a storm.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Later,’ said Carlyle as firmly as he could manage. ‘I need to nail down a few things first.’
‘But we have a deal?’
‘Of course, Bernie, absolutely. I’ll keep my side of the bargain. You’ll get a heads-up well before anyone else.’
‘Okay, but keep me firmly in the loop.’
‘I will.’
‘Good.’
After checking a few more details on the Gillespie case, Gilmore hung up. Making a mental note to change SIM cards straight away, the inspector put the phone back in his pocket.
As Carlyle returned to his desk, Joe was scrolling through one of the Word files on Brown’s USB stick.
‘No more photos, then?’
‘There were plenty more photos.’ Joe kept his eyes on the screen. ‘I must say, that girl is really quite uninhibited in front of a camera.’
‘Maybe she was just drunk,’ Carlyle mused. ‘Or high.’
‘I’ve found the Zelle story.’ Joe was pointing at the screen. ‘Nice headline: MY HELL WORKING FOR RANTING PARANOID MARG.’
‘Not a favourable piece, then?’
‘Hardly. It goes: Queen Bitch’s nanny tells how she was driven to thoughts of suicide by threats and bullying. It’s a story that appeared a few weeks ago.’
‘But nothing that tells us any more about the phone hacking?’
‘Not as far as I can see.’
‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced over at Hall, who sat working away at a nearby desk. It struck him that he was beginning to really quite like this girl. Maybe she could be a good addition to the team; he would have to talk to Simpson about that. ‘Maude, what are you doing this afternoon?’
The WPC looked up at him and smiled. ‘That depends. What do you have in mind?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘It doesn’t involve a pink wig.’
Hall narrowed her eyes. ‘Shame.’
‘I was wondering if you could check something out for me.’
Perched on the edge of the sofa, Sir Gavin O’Dowd appeared a study in concentration as he slowly peeled the skin from a Cox’s pippin, letting the peel drop on to the table.
‘I hope you’re going to clean that up after you,’ Edgar Carlton, sitting in an armchair opposite him, said huffily.
Ignoring him, Sir Gavin continued carefully wielding his Swiss Army knife.
I know what I’d like to do with that, thought Trevor Miller grimly. Standing by the window, he was playing Angry Birds on his smartphone, while watching the rain fall on Downing Street.
After finishing his task, the Cabinet Secretary took a modest bite from the denuded apple, and chewed happily before swallowing. ‘You know,’ he said, waving the knife airily, ‘the study is my favourite room in Number Ten. Lady Thatcher used to work in here on important documents from her red boxes until late into the night. Sir Winston Churchill apparently used it as a bedroom.’
Enough of the bloody history lesson. Stepping away from the window, Miller looked at his boss. ‘We need to decide on your schedule.’
Crossing his legs, the PM looked up. ‘My schedule has already been decided,’ he whined, ‘by Mrs Carlton.’
Miller tried not to let his irritation show. ‘But my advice-’
‘I’m well aware of your advice, Trevor,’ Edgar snapped. ‘And also of the advice of the Communications Director — and the advice of the Party Chairman, and so on and so forth. And it’s not as if I want to go to any bloody harvest festival. But Anastasia has decided that she must go. And that’s that. I have to indulge her on this.’
Seeing as you’re banging some Peruvian bird behind her back, Miller reflected.
‘And you will just have to make sure that nothing embarrassing happens.’ Edgar waved a finger towards his security chief. ‘Make absolutely sure I’m never standing close enough to Sonia Claesens for anyone to get a picture of us together, and things will be fine.’
Sir Gavin placed the remains of his apple on the table, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began cleaning the knife. ‘The formidable Ms Claesens will make a beeline for you, of course.’ Closing the knife, he put it back in his jacket pocket. ‘Even if Trevor has already warned her off, she is a very determined lady’
Closing his eyes, Edgar began massaging his temples vigorously. ‘Well, you’ll just have to manage it somehow.’
‘Fine,’ said Miller unhappily. His mobile phone began vibrating in his hand. He didn’t have to look at the screen to know who it was, and they could wait.
‘Good.’ Re-opening his eyes, Edgar stood up. ‘Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to go and see Yulissa. She’s hanging one of her paintings in the White Drawing Room. It’s called Final Voodoo or something. Worth three to five mil at auction, apparently, but now another gift to the nation.’
‘Your. . friend is too generous,’ Miller smiled.
Saying nothing, Sir Gavin stared intently at the table. Three to five mil? The work in question looked like something cobbled together by a rather backward six year old. Nevertheless, if Edgar was right, the damn thing was worth more than he had earned in total, over almost a quarter of a century as a high-ranking civil servant. As he fought to keep the rising tide of self-pity at bay, an idea popped into the mandarin’s head: Perhaps I should turn the remains of my apple into a work of art?