‘Inspector, this is Harris Highman. We were introduced recently by Sir Michael Snowdon.’ Slowly and clearly he recited his mobile number and then repeated it. ‘I would be very grateful if you could give me a call at your earliest convenience.’
‘Sit up.’
Sniffling, Hannah Gillespie did as she was told. She no longer noticed the unpleasant smell or the buzzing in her head.
‘Can you stand up?’
She shook her head. Her legs felt like jelly.
‘Never mind.’
‘Please. .’ Her voice, barely audible over the traffic, sounded small and far away.
‘Just keep still. This won’t hurt.’
‘Mum,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
THIRTY-TWO
As usual, the Media Centre at Charing Cross was cold, harshly lit and filled with the smell of stale food from the canteen next door. With Joe Szyszkowski following behind, Carlyle entered the room from a side door, making a quick headcount as he marched towards the platform. To his relief, a handful of hacks had managed to make it out of bed: a news reporter from the Evening Standard, a guy from the Daily Mail, a local radio reporter, and local television in the shape of Independent Television’s London Tonight and BBC London. The small group sat waiting with Impress me looks on their faces, idly scribbling on copies of the Hannah Gillespie press release or tapping away on their assorted mobile devices. Bernard Gilmore Esq was nowhere to be seen. That was not a surprise; Carlyle knew Bernie wouldn’t bother turning up just to gloat at rivals that he’d already scooped. He might be a hack, but he was a classy hack.
Carlyle waited for a few extra minutes beyond the appointed start time, in the vain hope that someone else might turn up.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Joe mumbled, as the clock on the far wall ticked on towards five past ten.
‘Okay.’ With a sigh, Carlyle switched on the microphone in front of him. ‘Good morning.’ Once he was sure he had their attention, or at least as much of their attention as he was ever going to get, he launched into a scripted introduction which explained the background to Hannah’s disappearance and concluded with an appeal for her to get in touch with her anxious parents as soon as possible.
After he finished there was a pause before an emaciated-looking man in a red Berghaus jacket, sitting in the middle row, raised his hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Edgar Smith, the Mail.’ The skeleton looked up from the pad on which he had been scribbling furiously and pinned the inspector with a hostile gaze. ‘Why did you bother calling this press conference when you’d already leaked the story to Bernie Gilmore last night?’ A murmur of approval for the question spread among the other hacks.
And why did you bother coming, if you weren’t interested in the bloody story? Carlyle thought sourly. ‘We didn’t leak anything.’
Smith shook his head in mock disbelief.
‘I think you’ll find,’ said Joe firmly, ‘that it was Hannah’s parents who spoke to Mr Gilmore.’
‘Is that why they’re not here?’ asked another man at the back. ‘Because they’re not happy with the lack of action so far on the part of the police?’
Conscious of TV cameras rolling at the back of the room, Carlyle bit his tongue. ‘There has been no lack of action on our part,’ he said finally. ‘Hannah’s parents are understandably concerned. .’ As he watched the hacks struggling to find enough enthusiasm to write down these words, he wondered about the wisdom of holding this presser at all. ‘What we are basically asking is. .’ Just then, he was distracted by a hand landing on his shoulder. Maude Hall had appeared at his side and handed him a note. Reading it quickly, he nodded and gave it back to her.
‘What we are saying is that all everyone wants is for Hannah to get in touch with her parents as soon as possible.’ He jumped to his feet, signalling for Joe to follow. ‘So, if there are no more questions, let’s leave it there. Thank you for your time. We will let you know of any further developments in due course.’
Not waiting for any additional responses, he skipped off the platform and ducked through the door, heading for the lift.
The inspector picked up the business card and made a show of reading it carefully. Charles W. Ross, Life President, Wickford Associates. What did the W stand for? Carlyle wondered. He let a somewhat uncharitable but appropriate word float through his brain as he considered the address underneath. An office on New Bond Street in the West End: the same address as on a similar card he’d taken from the envelope of goodies that Duncan Brown’s girlfriend, Gemma Millington, had recovered from her flat.
Well, well, well.
Sitting in a fourth-floor meeting room, Charlie Ross eyed the inspector carefully while sipping slowly from an outsized Starbucks beaker. Happy to have escaped the press conference, Carlyle could do with a coffee himself. He placed the card back on the table and looked up.
‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.
Ross fixed him with a sharp gaze. Well into his eighties, his blue eyes were still clear and alert behind a pair of fashionable rimless glasses. ‘Aye, son, I remember you well.’
Happy to go along with the fiction, Carlyle nodded.
‘At Cortonwood and Orgreave,’ the old man continued.
‘Right.’
‘That business with Trevor Miller.’
‘Indeed.’ Maybe the old sod genuinely did remember. Or maybe he’d done some homework before bowling up here.
‘Bloody hell!’ Charlie chuckled. ‘That was something like thirty years ago now. I was still a young man back then — almost.’
‘Time is a bastard,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘You’re looking good though.’ It was true. On first inspection, apart from the fact that his hair was now pure white, Sergeant Charlie Ross didn’t appear that much older than when he was dodging half-bricks on the Yorkshire picket lines. Indeed, tanned, relaxed and carrying a few extra pounds, he looked considerably healthier than Carlyle remembered him back then. The expensive-looking suit he was wearing only added to an overall impression of well-being and prosperity.
‘Thanks.’ The old man grinned ruefully. ‘I wish I could say the same for you.’
Carlyle smiled. This was still the same old Charlie: always in your face. Born in Burnbank, South Lancashire, Charlie Ross’s police career had been going nowhere until it was given a late lease of life by the 1980s miners’ strike. For John Carlyle, a young PC dumped out in the provinces to take on a paramilitary role on behalf of an extremist government only too keen to go to war against the ‘enemy within’, it was an uncomfortable education in more ways than one. For Charlie Ross, with almost twenty-five years’ service under his belt, it had instead been a memorable swansong.
‘We gave those bastards a right shoeing,’ Ross recalled happily, his harsh accent defiantly unaffected by more than fifty years of living in London.
‘Mm, what can I do for you, Charlie?’
Placing his cup on the table, Ross sat back in his chair and folded his arms. The look on his face said Don’t fuck about with me, son. For someone who was an old man, he still managed to create an air of menace — especially when he smiled. ‘I thought I’d come and see you before you came to see me.’
‘Oh?’
‘In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t been over to see us already.’
‘I’ve had a lot on.’
‘I bet you have. And I thought I might be able to help you in that regard.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘My company has nothing to hide.’
Your company, the inspector wondered. I thought it belonged to Trevor Miller? It was a detail that he let slide. ‘That’s good to know.’