‘Good,’ said Simpson sternly. ‘Get on with it or I’ll go and get one of those baseball bats out of the Evidence Room and beat you round the head with it.’
Gripping his pint of London Pride so tightly that it felt as if the glass might disintegrate, Charlie Ross tried to remember the last time he’d felt this angry. Probably not since his second wife had run off with one of the neighbours. In the event, that had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. This, however, was a total car crash, pure and simple.
The temptation to take his glass and smash it into Trevor Miller’s stupid mug was almost overwhelming. The boy had always been a liability — all the way back to the miners’ strike when he attacked that woman. How Miller had ever made it through the door of Downing Street would forever be one of life’s great mysteries.
It’s your own bloody fault, Charlie reproached himself. When Miller had come to him with the idea for Wickford Associates, he should have known that it was always going to go tits-up. At the time, however, he had been happy enough to come along for the ride.
‘So what are we going to do now?’ Miller asked, hiding behind his bottle of Mexican lager.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Charlie hissed. The pub, a dive off the Gray’s Inn Road, was largely empty but there was no harm in being paranoid.
Miller adopted an appropriate whisper. ‘What do you think?’ His face had the worried look of a ten year old who’d been caught stealing sweets from his local newsagent. A monster ten year old, but a little kid all the same. ‘Is it all going to blow over?’
It was questions like these that had left Charlie tossing and turning all night. At his age, sleep was hard enough at the best of times. At the moment, he couldn’t be getting more than a couple of hours a night. He felt weary to his bones.
‘What are we going to do?’
Having reached no kind of conclusion, Charlie just shrugged. ‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t see what else we can do except press on with the current plan.’
THIRTY-SIX
‘Have you ever heard of a guy called Anton Fox?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said. ‘He was a private investigator who got murdered in a pub car park.’
‘That’s right.’ Dominic Silver yawned. Nine-thirty in the morning was still a bit early for him, given the nocturnal company he kept.
‘You need some coffee?’
‘Peppermint tea is fine.’ Sitting in a Dean Street cafe, they were comparing notes. ‘The Fox case remains open, as you are doubtless aware — you being a police inspector and all.’
Carlyle scowled; he was in no mood to have his leg pulled. ‘All right, all right, get on with it.’
‘Okay.’ Dom placed his cup on the table and spread his arms wide. ‘Gideon tracked down Bella Fox, Anton’s sister. That didn’t take him long.’
Carlyle nodded: they both knew that Gideon Spanner was extremely efficient and totally reliable.
‘She’s a teacher, living in Southend.’
‘Nice.’
‘I went to see her last night.’
‘You know,’ Carlyle laughed, ‘you might make a decent copper yet.’
‘Wish I could say the same for you, sunshine,’ Dom grinned. ‘Anyway, Bella says that, just before he was killed, Anton was convinced he was being targeted by the Sunday Witness. He told her that they had him under surveillance.’
‘But wasn’t he working for them?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Indirectly, I mean, through Wickford Associates?’
‘Yeah. This is where it all gets rather messy. What I think happened is that Anton, off his own bat, had been chasing down evidence of police corruption: officers taking backhanders from journalists in exchange for information and also for phone numbers that could be hacked.’
‘A bit close to home,’ Carlyle mused.
‘For sure,’ Dom agreed. ‘Of course, if he did have evidence, the irony was that the only thing he could usefully do with such information was to give it to someone else in the press.’
And that someone would doubtless be Rosanna Snowdon, Carlyle thought, and her London Crime show. He felt a jolt of adrenalin; things were finally falling into place.
‘But that meant that Anton was going up against both his employer and the company’s number-one client.’
‘So they killed him?’ Carlyle still wasn’t convinced.
Dom shrugged. ‘He went to the Princess Ottoline pub in Hammersmith to meet a contact, and ended up with a terminal headache.’
The inspector let out a long breath. ‘It’s all speculation.’
‘Absolutely. But you know Trevor Miller. You know Charlie Ross. Both of them are nasty bastards in the extreme. They had stumbled into a nice little business and wouldn’t want anyone to mess it up.’
Carlyle let his gaze lose focus as he stared out of the window, realizing that they still had a way to go to join all the dots. He thought of Anton Fox, Rosanna Snowdon and Maude Hall. ‘Do you think he could have killed them all?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.
‘Trevor?’ Dom wrinkled his nose. ‘Why not? That fucking idiot is capable of anything — anything stupid, that is.’
‘Fu-uck! What a mess.’
‘Yes, but you might be able to get your man.’
‘How?’
Dom took another mouthful of tea. ‘I would lean on Simon Shelbourne.’
‘The Commissioner’s PR man?’
Dom nodded. ‘Before he became Editor of the Sunday Witness, he covered the crime beat for the paper. Bella says that he was close to Anton. She says that Shelbourne promised Anton fifty grand for some big story just before he died.’
‘What story?’ Carlyle demanded.
‘Dunno. What I do know, however, is that our Mr Shelbourne has been interviewed by Operation Redhead officers. . twice.’
The inspector smacked his head. ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Bloody Chief Inspector Russell Meyer, why hadn’t he mentioned any of this?
‘Both times,’ Dom continued, ‘he denied having any contact with Fox.’
‘So why do you think I would be able to get any more out of him?’
‘Shelbourne is weak,’ Dom continued, ‘both physically and mentally. I could get Gideon to have a word with him. He’d crumble in less than five minutes. Tell you whatever you want.’
‘Mm.’ Carlyle had to admit, the idea had much to commend it. As he contemplated Gideon getting to work on the ex-Editor, his phone started vibrating. ‘Hold that thought. In the meantime, keep on digging. See what else you can find out.’
‘Inspector?’ said a familiar gravelly voice. ‘It’s Charlie Ross.’
‘Charlie.’ Carlyle shot a glance at Dom.
‘Are you busy?’
‘I’m always busy. What can I do for you?’
‘I was wondering if we could meet up.’
On his way to see Charlie Ross, Carlyle took a detour in order to drop in at the Holborn police station on Lamb’s Conduit Street. He wanted to speak to Susan Phillips. In the event, he had to wait more than half an hour before the pathologist made an appearance. Sweeping through the reception at a clip, she headed straight for the entrance door, signalling with the slightest nod of her head that he should follow. Carlyle chased after her, but she was going at such a pace that they were halfway towards Coram’s Fields before he caught up.
‘What are you doing here?’ Phillips snapped, not slowing down.
‘Nice to see you, too,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘John, now is really not the time.’ Skipping out in front of a taxi, she crossed Great Ormond Street and dived into the Starbucks on the corner, leaving him still standing on the kerbside. By the time he made it inside, she had already ordered a double espresso and a latte and was paying for them with her credit card. ‘Get a seat. I’ll bring the coffees.’
Stepping back outside, the inspector grabbed a small table that had just been vacated by a couple of tired-looking hospital workers. From his seat, he watched her through the window, chewing nervously on her thumb as she waited for their order. Given that Phillips was just about the most laid-back colleague Carlyle had ever known, it was clear that something must be up.