Carlyle frowned as he reread the quote. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’
‘What?’ Helen asked, looking up from her article on winter soups.
Carlyle gestured at the phone sitting on the arm of the sofa.
‘Throw me my mobile, will you?’
Reaching over, Helen grabbed the phone and handed it to him.
‘Ta.’ Carlyle pulled up 901 and hit call.
You have no new messages and twelve old messages.
Quickly deleting the first three, he came to the one that Joe had left for him a couple of days earlier.
‘Boss, it’s me. What do you want me to do on this Hannah Gillespie thing? I’m worried that it’s dragging on and we are just not getting anywhere on this. She’s still checking her voicemails, so that’s okay, but she’s not responding to any of them. With the benefit of hindsight, people are gonna say there’s just not enough officers on the case. At this rate, we’re not going to find her. And Simpson’ll go mad if we end up getting sued by the parents. Give me a call.’
Carlyle replayed the message. Then he looked back at the newspaper. ‘Bugger me,’ he groaned. ‘It looks like my phone’s been hacked.’
‘Hah!’ Helen chuckled. ‘Who’d want to hack your phone?’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Right on cue, the mobile started vibrating in his hand. It was Joe. Mightily relieved that it wasn’t Carole Simpson, Carlyle squeezed the receive button with his thumb. ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, by way of introduction.
‘What?’
‘The Sunday Witness.’
‘Well, forget about that,’ Joe replied brusquely. ‘Sorry to interrupt your Sunday-morning reading but we’ve found a body.’
Standing behind the police tape in an Army surplus jacket, Bernie Gilmore caught Carlyle’s eye. Filled with an overwhelming sense of grim resignation about the turn of events, the inspector left his sergeant dealing with the pathologist, and wandered slowly towards the journalist.
‘Bernie.’
‘Inspector.’
A few yards away, a small knot of hacks eyed them suspiciously. ‘Not really a great place to talk,’ Carlyle mumbled, pawing the greasy cobbles with the sole of his shoe.
‘No. You wouldn’t want to be marked out as my bitch, would you?’
Carlyle smiled grimly. ‘I’m not sure I’d quite like that either but no, I certainly wouldn’t want our. . relationship to be misconstrued.’
‘Do you know the Constitution on St Pancras Way?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.’
‘Make it twenty.’
‘Fine. I’ll have a Jameson’s ready for you.’
Turning on his heel, Carlyle trudged back towards the crime scene. ‘Make it a double.’
‘So. .’ Sitting underneath a muted 50-inch TV screen showing Sky Sports News, Bernie at least had the good grace not to say, ‘I told you so.’
‘So. .’ Carlyle took a mouthful of whiskey and placed his glass on the table. ‘It’s Hannah.’
Saying nothing, Bernie supped at his pint of IPA.
‘The parents haven’t been formally told yet, so you’ll have to hold off for a while.’
‘Of course,’ Bernie said, returning his glass to the table, where it sat next to a blue biro and an unopened notebook.
‘The body was discovered in the boot of a Vauxhall Vectra that was reported stolen two days ago. The vehicle was found dumped in the alley earlier this morning. The boot was already open. We think she’s been dead for at least a day.’ Grabbing his glass, he took another swig. ‘That’s all I’ve got at this stage. I don’t know precisely how she was killed or any other. . details.’ Details like whether the girl had been sexually assaulted, which was always the first thing that the hacks wanted to know.
‘Okay, where do you go from here?’ Bernie listened to Carlyle run through the backstory which had so far been kept from the press, concerning Francis Clegg and Monty Laws. ‘You gonna go public on that?’ he asked when the inspector had finished.
‘Dunno yet. Not my call.’ Carlyle finished his drink. He wanted another but that was not advisable, given that he had a long day in front of him. ‘We’ve urgently got to find Laws, but if we go public now, we’re gonna get a lot of shit.’
Bernie looked disapproving. ‘Are you a cop or a PR man?’ he snorted.
‘Both. You know the way it works. The girl is dead. Whose fault is that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘It’s the fault of the bastard who did it, obviously. .’
‘Obviously.’
‘But we get the shit for not stopping it.’
‘That sounds more than a little self-pitying to me,’ Bernie commented. ‘And it doesn’t leave me with much in the way of a story.’
‘I would have thought you’d have moved on by now,’ said Carlyle, keen to return the barb with one of his own, ‘seeing as how you always seem to be so far ahead of the game.’
‘Now, now,’ Bernie waved an admonishing finger, ‘let’s not descend into acrimony. Don’t forget you need all the friends in the media you can get. Did you see the Sunday Witness this morning?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle said dolefully.
‘What idiot copper admitted that they were fucking up?’ A sly grin spread across his face. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’
‘No, no,’ replied Carlyle defensively.
‘Whoever said it — if they said it — it was a strangely unguarded remark.’
‘I wonder,’ Carlyle mused, trying to sound as if it was a casual thought that had just popped into his head, ‘if they’re now tapping our phones.’
Bernie pondered. ‘Possible. It would be an incredibly stupid thing to do, under the circumstances, but it’s certainly possible. What makes you think that’s happened?’
‘No reason.’
‘Anyway,’ Bernie went on, ‘the real problem is that you really are seriously off the pace.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, Inspector, but sometimes the truth hurts. This has all been a complete pile of shite.’
‘Constructive criticism, please.’
‘On the bright side, things will move on quickly enough.’ Gilmore paused, looking round the pub. ‘By the way, Trevor Miller’s been sacked by Number Ten.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Yes?’ queried Bernie, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘They’re trying to stonewall me at the moment but something’s definitely going on.’
‘Bernie,’ Carlyle quipped, ‘there’s always something going on.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?’
‘No,’ Carlyle shook his head, ‘but I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Thanks. What else is happening?’
‘Well, there’s Sir Chester’s trip to the health farm.’ The words slipped out before he had the chance to properly consider the wisdom of using them.
‘Everyone knows about that,’ Bernie said dismissively.
‘I hear the bill was thirty grand.’
‘Mm.’
‘Which he didn’t pay for.’
‘So who did?’
‘The guy who owns the place. Can’t remember his name. I’ve no idea why he’d do that.’
‘That’s certainly a nice present. Has he declared it yet?’
‘Dunno.’
Bernie thought about it further for a moment. ‘In the current febrile atmosphere, if he hasn’t, he will be in trouble, silly boy. Things like this can make you look either bent or naive.’
Sitting patiently, Carlyle watched the cogs turning in the journalist’s brain.
‘Does anyone else know about this?’
Happy to be gaining some credit with the Bank of Bernie, the inspector smiled. ‘Not as far as I know.’
After his conversation with Bernie Gilmore, the inspector simply wanted to go and hide. The best place to do that was at work. As expected, the third floor of the Charing Cross police station was empty, as he sat down at his desk and switched on his computer. It was a Sunday and, nominally at least, he was off duty but he felt agitated, and with this agitation came the need to at least feel like he was doing something effective. Helen had sent him a text saying that she and Alice had gone to Brighton to see Helen’s mother, so there was no pressure for him to get home. Sitting back, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by tiredness. ‘I shouldn’t have had that whiskey,’ he mumbled to himself, closing his eyes.