The youth stood his ground. ‘We need to get this bridge open.’
Carlyle’s eyes narrowed.
‘There are roadworks on Waterloo Bridge,’ Peterson explained, ‘and London Bridge is closed for repairs. If we don’t get Blackfriars open there’s going to be total chaos.’
‘There’s always chaos,’ Carlyle grunted.
‘Improved transport routes are one of the Mayor’s key deliverables. We are already six percentage points down on where we were projected to be this month, in terms of improved traffic flows. That means we are on course for having to provide the Assembly with a written explanation. It is imperative-’
What the fuck is the little sod talking about? Stepping forward, the inspector cut Eric Peterson off with an angry wave of his hand. ‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is a crime scene.’
Folding his arms, the young bureaucrat shook his head, annoying Carlyle even more.
‘The point is-’
‘The point is,’ Carlyle stepped right up to the guy and jabbed a finger towards his face, ‘people have died here. My job is to find out what happened, and that will take however long it takes. So kindly fuck off behind the tape there, or I will have you arrested for obstruction and wasting police time.’
‘The Mayor will not be happy,’ Peterson huffed.
‘The Mayor will not be happy,’ Carlyle parroted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Joe approaching. Even at this distance, it was clear that his sidekick had the deathly pallor of a man who had done a full night’s work.
‘Not in the slightest.’ Confronted by the policeman’s full-on hostility, Peterson’s bottom lip had started to quiver and it looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.
‘Well, tough shit. The Mayor’s re-election prospects are not my concern.’ For a second time, Carlyle pointed towards the tape. ‘Now fuck off.’
‘Who was that?’ Joe asked as he watched Eric Peterson slouch off towards the tape.
‘Just another fucking idiot sent by the powers-that-be to try my patience,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘What have you got for me?’
Gesturing in the direction whence he had come, the sergeant held up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a mobile phone. ‘We found this in the gutter back there. It’s been fairly bashed up but the SIM card should still be fine. We think it must belong to our guy.’
Our guy. Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s a fucking result.’
‘And a half.’
‘So, tell me what happened.’
‘What we think happened?’
‘Yeah, your best guess.’
‘Okay.’ Joe took a deep breath. ‘Based on what we’ve pieced together so far, from CCTV and a couple of eye-witnesses, the assumption is that our guy went into the Government Art Collection building over there,’ he pointed past the statue of Queen Victoria towards an office block on the north-east corner of the bridge, ‘and shot both Harris Highman and Zoe Mosman. Then he waltzes out and starts crossing the bridge, heading towards where we are now. After tossing his gun into the river, he makes a call on his mobile. Deciding to cross the road, he walks out from behind a bus and gets taken out by Fred’s Fabulous Fruit ’n’ Veg van, which is coming the other way at somewhere north of eighty miles an hour.’
Fred’s Fabulous Fruit ’n’ Veg? The name vaguely rang a bell but Carlyle couldn’t immediately place it, so he let it slide.
Joe pointed towards the ragged hole in the fencing almost exactly in the middle of the bridge. ‘The van careers across the road, taking the pedestrian with it, then crashes through the barrier — and splash!’
The pedestrian, meaning the shooter.
‘Out-fucking-standing,’ Carlyle grinned, gazing down at the pontoon from where police divers were trying to recover the bodies. ‘How long till we get an ID?’
‘Dunno,’ Joe shrugged. ‘If we can work it out from the phone, maybe a couple of hours. If not, we’ll have to wait for the river to give him up. They reckon there are two guys still inside the van but they haven’t found the pedestrian yet.’
‘All three are sleeping with the fishes?’
‘Not down there, they’re not,’ Joe laughed. ‘They probably died of poisoning rather than drowning.’
‘I thought the Thames was supposed to be cleaner these days?’
‘I dunno about that.’ Joe pointed at the murky grey-brown water. ‘I mean, look at it.’
‘Fair point.’ Carlyle returned his attention to the bridge itself. ‘Anyway, this is probably the most excitement they’ve had here since Calvi in the early eighties.’
‘Eh?’
‘Roberto Calvi, God’s banker.’
Joe still looked at him blankly.
‘He was an Italian banker, with links to the Mafia, the Masons and the Vatican, yada, yada, yada.’
‘Clever boy.’
‘Yeah. His bank went bust and he was found hanged underneath the arches, weighed down with bricks and fifteen grand still in his pockets.’
‘Before my time,’ said Joe with the air of a man having more pressing things to worry about.
‘Mine too,’ Carlyle mused. ‘Just.’ A thought suddenly struck him. ‘Where’s Maude, by the way?’
‘Haven’t been able to get hold of her so far this morning.’ Joe held up the battered mobile again. ‘I’ll go and get this checked out.’
‘Fine,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Then go and see Mrs Mosman’s lawyer. Tell him, if he’s withholding anything from us, I will make sure that he faces conspiracy charges.’
‘Conspiracy to do what?’
‘We’ll work that out later.’
‘Fine,’ Joe laughed, walking away.
Considering his next move, the inspector turned his attention back to the vista in front of him, ignoring the angry horns of snarled-up traffic on both sides of the bridge. Right here, right now, London was his.
What a great fucking city.
THIRTY-FIVE
‘What we are doing here, in a very real sense, is parlaying food into a branch of performance art.’ Standing in the mud of the Funky Food Field, Liam Shakermaker popped a cube of his award-winning Everything’s Gone Green brand of organic goat’s cheese into his mouth and began chewing thoughtfully. In his deerstalker hat, tweed jacket and plus fours, he looked like a country squire from a 1950s Ealing comedy.
‘Mm, yes,’ Edgar Carlton mumbled, uncomfortably aware of a journalist hovering on the edge of their conversation, digital recorder in hand. At least it wasn’t raining — yet — and there was no sign of Sonia Claesens. But he felt horribly exposed, all the same. Where the hell was Trevor Miller? Anastasia had taken the kids off to have a go at milking some goats, while he suspected that his Head of Security had sneaked off to the real ale tent.
Shakermaker finished chewing and offered Edgar a taste from the plate of samples sitting on a beer barrel that doubled as a table. ‘Why don’t you try some? It’s delicious.’
‘I’m sure.’ Edgar tried not to grimace. He wasn’t a cheese man.
‘I make it at my organic farm in East Sussex. One hundred per cent natural ingredients, and we follow a traditional recipe used by Ancient Britons since the time of Stonehenge.’
Edgar held up a hand. ‘I’ve already tried some,’ he lied. ‘Very nice.’ Somehow, he managed to drag a smile across his face. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘Food is the new rock’n’roll,’ Shakermaker mused, dropping another cube into his maw. ‘In fact, it’s why I gave up rock’n’roll.’
‘Of course,’ said Edgar, looking round desperately for someone to save him from this idiot. ‘You were in the. .?’
‘Heathen Physics,’ Shakermaker grinned, naming his largely forgotten band. ‘I played keyboards and tambourine. And the occasional triangle.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Edgar nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Kings of Britpop.’
‘Mm.’ The PM was more a Spandau Ballet man himself: anything after ‘Gold’ left him rather cold.
An idea floated through Shakermaker’s brain. ‘Maybe you could start serving Everything’s Gone Green cheese at Number Ten.’