Carlyle changed tack. ‘What else did the sergeant say?’
‘Nothing really. She said that the guy was probably harmless but that I should be vigilant and call 999 if he ever threatened me.’ For the first time this morning, she gave Carlyle some proper eye contact. ‘It wasn’t very reassuring, to be honest. I mean, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.’
‘This has happened before?’ he asked, confused.
‘Not to me,’ Snowdon said. ‘But I’m not the first presenter to be targeted.’
‘Yes.’ Carlyle remembered the case, a decade or so earlier, of a newsreader who had been shot dead on the street. That had been in Fulham too, if he remembered correctly. Maybe all newsreaders lived down there. The place had certainly risen in the world since the days when young Master Carlyle had grown up there.
‘What a mess that was!’ Rosanna exclaimed.
‘The dark side of fame,’ Carlyle mused. ‘The thing is, Singleton’s advice is basically sensible.’ He knew that it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it was all he had.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to press him further, ‘I know you think that I am a bit of an autocutie airhead-’
‘A what?’
‘A pushy bimbo.’
‘No.’ He tried to put some conviction into his voice. ‘Of course not.’
‘All I want is to do my job and be left in peace, Inspector. That is reasonable enough, surely?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s a quality-of-life issue. I know this guy is probably not such a big deal, but he is beginning to get to me.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Carlyle said. Reasonableness personified.
She traced the lip of her glass with her right index finger. ‘And you owe me, remember?’
Here we go, Carlyle thought. He had been waiting for this moment and nodded in acknowledgement.
‘Well,’ she told him, ‘if you can help me on this, it will make us even. More than even. You can come on London Crime any time you want, although not talking about this business, obviously. The new series starts next week and we could do with covering some decent cases for a change.’
‘I will do what I can,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘Don’t worry about the show – that’s not my kind of thing.’
‘God!’ She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and he watched her breasts swell inside her blouse. ‘You must be the only cop in London who doesn’t want to get himself on telly.’
He grimaced slightly, forcing his gaze back to eye level. ‘The way I see it, having to go on your show – any show really – is an admission of failure.’
‘Not really.’ Rosanna half-lifted her mint tea to her lips and then returned it gently to the table. ‘All you are trying to do is use the medium to good advantage.’
‘But how often does it get results?’
That stopped her in her tracks. ‘Well . . .’
He wondered if she’d ever really thought about it before. It was just some cheap entertainment. So who cared if it actually caught any criminals? But he pushed these thoughts to one side; he wasn’t here to put her on the spot. ‘I’ve become slightly involved in the Jake Hagger case,’ he said, moving the discussion on. ‘It’s not one of mine, but I know the mother.’
‘Ah yes,’ she nodded, ‘the little boy who was snatched from the nursery by his father.’
‘Did you cover it?’ Carlyle asked.
‘No, we’ve been off air. But we could do it on the new series, if you wanted.’
‘I think it’s too late for that.’
‘Why?’ She looked at him carefully, happy to be talking now about someone else’s problems. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’
Carlyle snorted. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I hope he’s dead.’
‘But . . .’ Slowly, a patina of understanding spread across her face ‘Oh God, that is so horrible!’
Carlyle shrugged.
‘Maybe you are being too negative,’ Rosanna sniffed. ‘After all, child protection is not really your thing. A lot of kids get found. They reckon around five hundred children are abducted in Britain each year. Almost all are taken by a disaffected parent who wants custody. Not nice, but a lot different from the kind of thing you’re thinking about.’
Carlyle looked down at his empty cup. ‘I’m no expert but, trust me, the last thing Michael Hagger wants is custody of his kid. He’s either tried to sell him or he’s used him in some other way in one of his business transactions.’
‘Urgh!’ She stuck a finger in her cold tea and stirred it aimlessly. ‘That makes my problem look a little pathetic, doesn’t it?’
Yes, it does, Carlyle thought. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘But anything to do with kids is just the worst.’ He smiled. ‘When you become a mum, you’ll realise.’
A rueful look passed over Rosanna’s face. ‘Josh would have kittens if he heard you talking about me having kids.’
‘Well,’ Carlyle said, feeling himself slip uneasily into father mode, ‘if I was ever talking to Josh about it, I would tell him that, when the time comes, the only thing that he should be worrying about is doing what he is told, stepping up to the plate and performing.’
She blushed. ‘Inspector!’
‘It’s true,’ he grinned, pleased that he’d at least cheered her up a bit.
‘He wouldn’t be happy at all,’ she protested.
He scanned the street outside and sat back in his chair. ‘Alternatively, I could send round a couple of guys with baseball bats – threaten to break his legs.’
She laughed. ‘I presume you know plenty of people like that.’
‘I do,’ he said, trying not to sound too pleased about it.
For a moment they sat in comfortable silence. Then she asked: ‘Do you think there is any chance of finding Jake Hagger?’
Remember she’s a journalist, a little voice piped up in the inspector’s head. ‘Off the record?’
‘Of course.’
He thought about it for a moment. ‘I think that there is as near to no chance as makes no difference.’
‘I see.’
He glanced at his watch. It told him that he really should be getting back to the station and dealing with Henry Mills but, once again, for some reason the enthusiasm to do so just wasn’t there. For her part, Rosanna didn’t seem desperate to get off to work either. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘how are your political chums? Spend a lot of time in Number Ten?’
Spotting a woman acquaintance walking up the street, Rosanna waved to her, before returning her gaze to Carlyle. ‘I have been to Downing Street twice, as it happens. It was nice, but not exactly life-changing. I know the Prime Minister’s Director of Communications extremely well – I’m sure I could get you an invite there if you wanted.’
I wonder what Simpson would make of that? Carlyle reflected. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’
Rosanna leaned slightly over the table towards him. ‘To be honest, I think that they’re not finding it as much fun as they thought it was going to be.’
The poor dears, Carlyle thought.
‘Edgar,’ she continued, ‘is finding it quite tough going. The poor chap is obsessed with the idea that he has been found out – as if you need to be a genius to be Prime Minister. Every time his poll ratings slip a bit further, he’s waiting for Christian to come through the door and steal his job.’
‘I would have thought the Mayor of London has enough on his plate as it is,’ Carlyle mused, keen to hear more.
‘Being the Mayor is not really a full-time job though, is it? Certainly not for a man of action like Christian. All you’ve really got any responsibility for is trying to stop the Tube drivers going on strike, which they do regardless, and implementing the congestion charge, which he wants to scrap anyway.’
‘So what does he do, then?’ Carlyle asked.
Rosanna gave him those big eyes. ‘To be fair, Christian Holyrod is amazing. The job itself just isn’t big enough for him. Apart from anything else, he needs his own foreign policy; he’s a soldier right down to his DNA and he needs to operate on the biggest stage.’
This all sounded like gibberish to the inspector. ‘I see.’