Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle placed his hands behind his head and smiled to himself.
If something was up, that meant they must have found important new evidence.
‘Just don’t ask me anything about Maude Hall.’ Phillips took a mouthful of her latte as soon as she had handed Carlyle his espresso.
‘Thanks.’ The last thing the inspector needed was more caffeine, so he placed the small paper cup carefully on the table without taking a sip.
‘Because I know that it’s not even your case,’ said Phillips, lowering herself into the other chair.
‘No,’ he had to agree.
‘Not that you’ve ever let minor details like that stop you in the past.’
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It’s just the way I am, sorry.’ He knew Phillips well enough. Despite the complaining, she would tell him what was going on in her own time.
‘Yes, well. .’ Phillips looked around, before leaning across the table, tension etched on her face.
Fuck me, Carlyle thought, I’ve just walked into a John le Carre novel.
‘The shit has really hit the fan on this one,’ she whispered.
Or maybe not. Le Carre’s characters always spoke so much more eloquently. All that public school and Oxbridge education; money well spent. He tried not to laugh at his own musings.
‘Poor Maude Hall put up a hell of a fight.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. She was an expert in self-defence.’
Phillips nodded. ‘We found traces of skin and blood under her fingernails.’
Carlyle knew where this was going, but he should let her tell it at her own pace.
‘And we’ve got a match.’
I’ve got the fucker! He wanted to leap in the air and start running down the road, arms pumping in triumph. Instead, he restrained himself.
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Go on.’
Phillips did another sweep of the street, as if looking for spies. ‘We’ve got a match — to a guy who does security for the Prime Minister.’
‘Trevor Miller.’ Carlyle’s self-restraint buckled and he couldn’t resist dropping the name in first.
Phillips’s eyes narrowed even further. ‘You know him?’
‘Yeah. How did you make the match?’
‘Everyone who works in Downing Street has to go on a DNA database. It took us about ten seconds to find him.’
‘Trevor Miller fucks up again.’ He had to fight the urge to give Phillips a big kiss. ‘Nice.’
The pathologist finished the last of her coffee and tossed the paper cup into a nearby bin. ‘But why would he kill a police officer?’
‘Because he’s a total bastard. And a complete fucking moron.’ Carlyle was going to be late for his meeting with Charlie Ross and he didn’t have the time — or the inclination — to take Phillips through the whole backstory. ‘Who else knows about this?’
‘When the results came in, it had to go straight to the top. All the way up to the Commissioner.’
Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that. ‘When?’
‘I dunno, maybe an hour or so ago.’
‘Tell me at least that you haven’t put it on bloody Twitter.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Phillips chuckled. ‘The tweetathon’s finished.’
‘Thank God for that.’ The inspector thought things through for a moment. ‘I should give Simpson a heads-up,’ he said, making the call there and then. ‘And I need you to do me a favour,’ he added to Phillips, as he listened to Simpson’s phone ringing.
A dark look crossed the pathologist’s face. ‘But-’
Grimacing, Carlyle held up a finger as the Commander’s voicemail kicked in. ‘It’s me,’ he said curtly, ‘and it’s urgent. Bloody urgent. Call me as soon as you get this message.’
Returning his attention to Phillips, he began talking quickly, keen to override her likely objections to his latest disregard for protocol. ‘There’s a case that Fulham have been working on for a couple of years, concerning the death of a woman called Rosanna Snowdon.’
‘The TV presenter?’ said Phillips cautiously, not sure where the inspector was going with this.
‘Exactly. I want — I need you to check the evidence that they collected and do a read-across from Hall.’
Staring at the sky, Phillips slowly let the implications of what he was asking for sink in. ‘That’s going to be very tricky.’
‘I know.’ Fighting his own excitement, Carlyle waited for her to resume eye-contact. ‘But speak to a sergeant there called Fiona Singleton. Tell her I suggested it. She’s solid.’
‘Mm.’ Phillips looked dubious.
Carlyle gave her his most earnest stare. ‘I’ve been chasing this bastard for a long time, Susan. I want to get him for everything.’
‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Simpson’s phone was still going to voicemail. Without leaving another message, Carlyle put his phone away and scanned the bar of the Adam Tavern, just south of the Euston Road. It took him a few moments to locate Charlie Ross, sitting on his own in a booth at the back, nursing a pint of beer, and then the best part of ten minutes to get served at the bar. By the time he returned to Ross’s table with the drinks, the old sergeant’s previous glass was empty.
‘Thanks.’ Ross accepted the pint of Morse Ale and placed it on the table. Still holding his glass of Jameson’s, the inspector pulled up a stool.
‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle lied.
‘Your health,’ Ross mumbled, lifting the fresh glass to his lips for a modest sup.
‘So,’ Carlyle asked, keen to get down to business, ‘what did you want to talk about?’
Charlie tried — and failed — to do an impersonation of a guileless old man. ‘I just wanted to see where you are with your investigation.’
‘Don’t fuck me about, Charlie,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘I thought I was getting Trevor Miller’s head on a plate.’
‘Patience, patience. All in good time.’
Carlyle downed his whiskey in one. He wasn’t going to sit around and talk nonsense with this old bastard. ‘Trevor is living on borrowed time,’ he said, smacking the shot glass down on the table. ‘So, give him up — if you can give him up — and the better it’ll be for you.’
A shit-eating grin spread across Ross’s face. ‘I know about Anton Fox.’
‘Not that crap again.’
The grin ebbed away as Ross placed his glass on a beer mat advertising a gambling website.
‘We’ve been hearing all these stupid stories for years,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘That’s old news. Who cares who brained that stupid bugger?’
‘I also know who did Duncan Brown.’
‘Charlie, I know the whole story,’ Carlyle told him. ‘Not just Fox, not just Brown. . but the whole fucking thing.’
‘You can know what you like,’ the old man growled, ‘but you have fuck all when it comes to actual evidence.’
The inspector said nothing.
‘Otherwise you’d have a fucking warrant,’ Charlie’s eyes narrowed, ‘and I’d be behind bars by now. Am I right?’
Busted. All Carlyle could do was to try and brazen it out. There was no appealing to Ross’s better nature because the old sod didn’t have a better nature.
‘Please,’ he said finally, ‘don’t waste my fucking time. We are talking about multiple murders here — and by former police officers, for Christ’s sake. Trevor goes down, you go down too, along with anyone and everyone associated with Wickford Associates and God knows who else. Either you cooperate now or you will die in jail.’
Leaning forward, Ross jabbed a finger towards the inspector’s face, the anger clear in his eyes. ‘Don’t threaten me, sonny. You don’t know shit. Without me, you have nothing — and Miller will slip through your hands yet again.’
A voice inside the inspector’s head told him to stay calm. He would deal with Charlie Ross in due course. In the meantime, he had to stay focused. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, letting out a long breath. ‘What do you want?’