‘Quite. Anyway, it seems as if that particular own goal has been avoided.’
‘And Meyer?’
‘As soon as he’s well enough to sign a letter of resignation, he will be standing down — for personal reasons.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Edgar shook his head. ‘And to think he was my appointment. I really have been so badly advised on these things.’
‘Never mind,’ said Holyrod. He gave the PM a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘You can hardly be blamed for the man’s irresponsible libido.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Edgar handed a passing waiter his empty glass, declining a fresh one as he did so.
‘And look on the bright side. By the time we get a replacement, and the whole inquiry thing gets going again, it will be after the General Election.’
Edgar’s expression lightened up somewhat. ‘Good point.’
‘Speaking of libidos,’ Holyrod grinned, ‘how is the lovely Yulissa?’
Edgar’s face darkened again. ‘She’s becoming a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. The latest thing is that she wants a seat in the House of Lords.’
Sipping his wine, Holyrod stared thoughtfully at his shoes. ‘Well, she’d certainly liven the place up a bit. And it would be very handy if you fancied a quick bunk-up in the Derby Room.’
‘Ha, ha,’ was the hollow response. Edgar glanced at his watch. ‘Enough of this chatter. I need to go and say a few carefully crafted words about GOD’s impending departure.’
THIRTY-NINE
By the time he looked up it was too late. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I was wondering when you would get here.’
Oh fuck.
‘John bloody Carlyle — God’s gift to the Metropolitan Police Service. Better late than never, I suppose. Come on in.’
Taking a step into the Snowdons’ living room, the inspector took a moment to compose himself. Sitting on the sofa, Veronica Snowdon looked even more pale and sickly now than he remembered. Barely acknowledging his arrival, her eyes remained firmly fixed on her other visitor. Resting his ample arse against the dining table, Trevor Miller stood, arms folded, with a smug grin on his face. In his right hand he held a Glock 19, silencer affixed to the short barrel, which was pointing towards the ceiling in a rather dissolute James Bond-type pose. He was wearing jeans and a brown Kappa hoodie; the overall effect was that of a monster five year old.
A monster five year old brandishing a loaded weapon.
So much for me being the bearer of good news, Carlyle thought glumly.
‘Sit,’ Miller commanded.
After a moment’s pause, Carlyle did as he was told, parking himself next to Lady Snowdon. By the sideboard, beneath Osmund Caine’s Bathing Beach, Sir Michael hovered next to the Bladnoch single malt. Ever the gracious host, the old man gestured towards the bottle. ‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’
Despite his situation, Carlyle smiled. ‘Under the circumstances, why not?’
Miller frowned. ‘On duty? I think not.’
‘As you wish,’ the inspector sighed. His desire for a drink was acute but not acute enough to risk getting shot. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’
‘I thought that would be obvious,’ Miller snorted.
‘Trevor,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘nothing you do is ever obvious — at least not to normal people.’
There was a flash of rage in Miller’s face. His arms dropped to his sides and it looked like he was going to spring forward and pistol-whip the insolent cop. But the moment passed and he restricted himself to a threatening movement with the gun. ‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on you, and now it’s time to get this thing sorted.’
‘Good idea.’ Carlyle gestured to Veronica and Sir Michael. ‘So, when were you going to tell the Snowdons here that you murdered their daughter?’ To his right there was a whimper and for a second he was worried that Veronica Snowdon had collapsed. Then he felt her fingernails dig into his flesh, as she grabbed hold of his hand and held on for dear life.
Sir Michael took a half-step forward until a wave of the Glock warned him to come no further. ‘Is this true?’
It wasn’t clear who the question was directed at, but Carlyle decided to jump in. ‘Rosanna was investigating a case for her TV show: the murder of a private detective called Anton Fox. Fox worked for Trevor here, but when he started looking into police corruption someone stuck an axe in his head.’ He looked up at Miller. ‘Was that you, too?’
‘Anton was a complete berk,’ Miller grunted. ‘He never knew when to leave well alone. Neither did the girl, for that matter.’
That doesn’t sound like the Rosanna I knew, Carlyle thought. With the best will in the world, the girl had never been much of an investigative journalist. But now wasn’t really the time or the place to debate the point.
‘You bastard!’ Sir Michael shouted. Rushing at Miller, he was stopped in his tracks by a meaty fist which sent him to the floor, blood oozing from a gash above his right eyebrow.
‘Michael!’ Dropping Carlyle’s hand, Veronica Snowdon jumped up from the sofa and went to comfort her groaning husband.
Staying seated, Carlyle glared at Miller, who had retreated to the window, his Glock now pointing directly at the inspector’s head.
Miller ran his tongue across chapped lips. ‘He’s got a bit of bottle, for an old fella.’ His trigger finger was visibly shaking and the inspector sincerely hoped that the safety catch was still on. ‘Unlike some people here.’ He gestured at his ex-colleague with the gun. ‘You never did have any bottle, did you?’
He’s totally and utterly round the bend. Carlyle knew that he would have to try and rush the crazy bastard. But what were his chances of doing any better than the old man?
Miller read his thoughts. ‘Want to give it a go?’
The inspector said nothing.
‘Up you get, dear.’ Veronica Snowdon helped her husband from the carpet. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but Sir Michael still wore the glazed expression of someone who didn’t really know where he was. Shuffling sideways, the inspector made room for the two of them on the sofa.
‘Stay where you are,’ Miller barked.
Carlyle held up a hand. ‘Relax, Trevor. I’m not going anywhere.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he registered a flicker of movement in the hallway. Miller caught it too. Keeping the pistol trained on the inspector, he edged his way across the room. Reaching the doorway, he stuck his head tentatively into the hallway. It’s now or never, Carlyle thought, moving to the edge of his seat. He tried to catch Sir Michael’s eye, but the old man was still in a daze. The gap between himself and Miller was about eight feet, so he’d just have to hurl himself forward and hope for the best.
Stop thinking about it, you stupid bastard, and just do it!
Rocking forward, he had just transferred his weight to the balls of his feet when a shabby-looking grey cat sauntered into the room.
‘Silvio,’ Veronica gasped, ‘what are you doing here?’ The cat prowled along in front of the sofa, eyeing the three of them suspiciously.
‘Silvio?’ Carlyle enquired, happy enough for any distraction which gave him a little more time to play with.
‘Next door’s cat,’ Veronica Snowdon explained, as if this was a normal conversation. ‘He’s a bit of a ladies’ man but they don’t have the heart to give him the snip.’
‘Stupid bloody animal,’ Miller huffed. Taking a step forward, he aimed a kick at Silvio’s ribs, but the cat was too quick for him and darted under the table.
‘Still quite nimble,’ Veronica mused, ‘for his age.’
Carlyle grinned at Miller. ‘Maybe you should shoot it.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘No, fuck you.’
There was an audible click. ‘What the-’ Miller froze as he felt some cold steel nuzzle the back of his neck.