Heading for Paddington Green police station, Carlyle walked out of Edgware Road tube station. At the station entrance, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. There was no need to hurry, as Simpson regularly stayed holed up in her office to late into the night. She was not the best when it came to handling bad news, and therefore Carlyle was in no rush to give it to her.
As he approached the station, he was struck by its shameless ugliness. Paddington Green police station was a brutalist cube from the 1960s that almost made its Charing Cross counterpart seem elegantly designed. Straight out of the couldn’t-give-a-flying-fuck school of architecture fashionable at the time, it eroded his spirit still further. Five minutes later, waiting in the anteroom outside her office, he picked up a magazine that had been discarded on the seat next to him. Flipping the pages, he realised it was the same magazine he’d been reading in the clinic on Harley Street while waiting for Ferruccio Pozzo to come round from his operation. Finding the correct page, he picked up the article about The Golden Twins, Edgar and Xavier Carlton, where he’d left off before arresting the now-deceased Mafioso.
Both brothers have worked hard to cultivate their voter-friendly image. Each is physically imposing (Edgar is 6’1” and Xavier 6’2”), with the looks of a pair of matinee idols. Both have the regulation exotic political wife (Russian for Edgar, while Xavier’s is Italian) and an impressive number of suitably cute and precocious children (four and three respectively).
The third leg of this proto-political dynasty is provided by half-sister Sophia, who is married to close political ally Christian Holyrod, the former soldier whose election as Mayor of London last year was very much seen as a forerunner of Edgar’s assault on No 10. Sophia has her hands full with the five children she has popped out for Holyrod in the course of their eight-year marriage, but she is still seen as a powerful behind-the-scenes influencer. Last year’s Christmas card, a group shot of the three families at a polo match under the legend Wishing You a Carlton Christmas, was, in effect, the party’s manifesto encapsulated in full.
The door to Simpson’s office opened, and a young woman stepped out. She didn’t introduce herself, but Carlyle assumed she must be his superior’s assistant.
‘Sorry for keeping you waiting.’
‘That’s fine,’ Carlyle smiled. He had already resigned himself to a long wait, so it was relatively easy to be gracious. The PA was a chunky girl, in her twenties, with mischievous grey eyes and an arresting lime-green bra clearly visible under her transparent white blouse.
She let him gawp at it for a few seconds. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘If you do need anything, just let me know.’ She smiled before disappearing back into the office.
Carlyle filed the bra in his bank of happy thoughts, and returned to reading his article.
The brothers are poster boys for ‘the new posh’, the fashionable, knowing, ironic elite who can beat the liberals at their own game. So, by and large, they keep their fancy cars in the garage (Edgar has a Porsche Cayenne 4?4 and Xavier not one but two Maseratis), but they make sure that they are only ever photographed driving their matching, environmentally friendly Prius hybrids.
Xavier has also embraced a bicycle, some say at his brother’s behest, regularly cycling to work at the Commons. ‘It takes me back to my days at Eton,’ Xavier said recently, ‘the happiest days of my life, obviously. And, at the end of the day, when you look at the big picture, you can see howit’s also about freedom of the individual and taking one’s own action over an overbearing nanny state which wants to kill our spirit and rob us all blind.’
Camping (it’s not like the boy scouts; instead think drinking Chablis in a?5,000 yurt while barking down your iPhone at your PA and complaining about your WiFi), music festivals and British seaside holidays have all got the Carlton thumbs-up. Times may be tough, but they are laughing in the face of recession. It’s all therefore about the quality of life. Is it all bogus, though? Of course it is. But if everything is bogus, then nothing is. What is a dream if it’s not reality?
The door opened again. This time, Simpson herself dashed out, bouncing along the corridor without even acknowledging him. Less than a minute later, she bounced back.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, John. I won’t be long.’
She didn’t wait for his reply. He didn’t utter one, being too busy worrying because she had used his first name.
Such is this picture of domestic and political perfection that even ‘the race issue’, the one thing that some of the more antediluvian political commentators speculated could halt their blitzkrieg through the establishment, has been completely neutralised. In a recent pressyour button. co. uk poll for Political Stud magazine, 42 per cent of respondents didn’t even realise that they were black. As Edgar himself put it recently: ‘I’m not black, I’m privileged.’
Carlyle felt a familiar vibrating feeling against his chest, and pulled out his phone. Seeing that it was Joe, he hit the receive button.
‘How’s it going?’
‘There’s not a lot to report, boss,’ Joe replied. From the sounds in the background, he had either gone home already or he was watching the Cartoon Channel in the office. ‘Did you speak to Simpson?’
‘Still waiting. Anything new in the media?’
‘No, it’s all gone quiet.’
‘Good. I’ll give you a call right after the meeting.’
‘OK.’
‘Give my best to Anita and the kids.’ Carlyle ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket. Lucky sod, he thought. I wish I was at home, too.
Of course, neither brother has ever worked in the real world, moving seamlessly from Cambridge to safe seats, one in London, one in the country, after a few years spent travelling and setting up their respective families. At that time, Edgar spent a year at the Society for Freedom, Progress and Innovation, currently the party’s favourite policy think-tank. Colleagues at the time have suggested that he was a stranger to the concept of a five-day working week, but he still managed to be credited as the co-author of a pamphlet called ‘ Heading South: The case for internal migration in the UK ’, which argued that northern cities like Liverpool and Newcastle have ‘lost much of their raison d’etre’, their private sector economy and their ability to generate wealth. It argued that the citizens in such godforsaken places should head south to places like Oxford and Cambridge, offering better job prospects. Needless to say, this paper caused a storm of protest. The idea has now been disowned and it is not expected to appear in the party’s election manifesto.
His phone went again. This time it was a text from Helen: We’ve eaten, so you’re on your own for tea. x
Carlyle ignored his rumbling stomach and focused on finishing off the article.
With the election looming, it seems that nothing can stop Edgar and Xavier Carlton from realising their political ambitions. According to a former colleague: ‘There was never any doubt that they were ultimately going to run the country.’ A bold statement, but an accurate one. If there ever was any doubt before, there isn’t now.
He closed the magazine and let his gaze lose focus. Nothing he had read made him feel any happier. What the hell was he going to do with these people? The Carltons wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere near his case, even if it turned out that they were right in the middle of it. People like that didn’t get to where they were by worrying about little things like a murder enquiry. At best, they would ignore him. At worst…? Well, who knew?
It was the ultimate no-win situation.
Having been made to wait for more than an hour, it was almost 7.45 p.m. when he was finally invited to enter Simpson’s office. The assistant had put her coat on and was ready to leave. This time round, she did not grace him with a smile, merely pointing in the general direction of her boss, while grabbing her bag and heading in the opposite direction.
As he walked through the door, he realised that he had never been inside this particular office before. However, if he had been looking for clues as to the content of her character, he would have been sorely disappointed. Aside from the furniture, it was spectacularly bare save for a photograph of a middle-aged man who Carlyle assumed was her husband. Sitting at her desk, scribbling some notes on a pad, she gestured him to sit with a curt wave of the hand, without even looking up. Prim, proper and poised, Carlyle thought she had the air of someone who had already done a full day’s work, thank you very much, and now had a top-notch dinner party to go to, offering the chance to mingle with people far more interesting than himself.
Five minutes later, once he had explained the situation, the same dinner party was off. As expected, Simpson did not take the news well. Listening to him in silence, she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, while gnawing on her lower lip. In fact, she seemed to have aged ten years during the short time that he had been speaking.
Carlyle thought she might burst into tears at any moment. All in all, that made him feel a lot better.
After taking a moment to compose herself, Simpson spoke. ‘John, you know how careful we must be here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You realise just how… sensitive this is?’
No fucking shit, thought Carlyle. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘My sergeant,’ Carlyle replied. ‘No one else.’
‘Good. It goes no further than that,’ Simpson said quietly, a steely determination colouring the words. ‘If the press get hold of this, I will have your balls… and Szyszkowski’s.’
Spare me the macho bullshit, thought Carlyle. ‘Understood,’ he replied, in his most clipped, no-nonsense manner.
She looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any idea who is doing this? Or why?’
It was a tricky question that called for a straight answer. ‘No.’
Simpson gave no indication of being surprised. ‘Well, maybe I should see what I can do to help you move this along, Inspector.’
‘That would be very kind. I would be most grateful for any assistance.’
‘Let my office reach out to the remaining Merrion Club members, appraise them of the situation, and then we can take it from there.’
My office? She even talks like a politician, Carlyle thought, not a policeman. He nodded and said nothing as he watched the light bulb coming on above Simpson’s head. It was clearly beginning to dawn on her that this case might not prove a total pile of shit after all. It could offer her the chance to do some favours for some of the most important men in the capital, and therefore in the country. And, if everything turned out well, another promotion beckoned.
‘Once I have made the initial contact,’ Simpson continued, ‘it will become easier for you to speak to them.’
Carlyle kept his expression neutral. ‘Thank you.’
‘These are very important men, so we have to approach them correctly.’
‘Of course.’
Simpson looked him up and down, searching for evidence of sarcasm or unreliability in one of her least favourite officers. Carlyle gave her none. Having laid down the rules of engagement, she switched tack. ‘On the plus side, at least the mayor and the prime minister and his brother will have their own security already.’
‘He’s not the prime minister,’ Carlyle pointed out evenly.
‘Yes,’ said Simpson, clearly put out at being pulled up. ‘A Freudian slip.’
‘Easy to make,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘Yes, indeed. He will be prime minister, of course. And sooner rather than later. Do you look at the polls?’
Carlyle made a non-committal gesture.
‘He’s got the biggest lead since polling began.’ She seemed quite excited.
‘I thought his lead was slipping,’ Carlyle said mischievously, vaguely remembering reading something about it in The Times that morning.
‘You always get the odd rogue poll,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s a certainty.’
Carlyle looked at Simpson carefully: ‘That doesn’t make any difference, though, does it?’
‘To what?’
‘To the way we handle the case.’
‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘What it means is that the killer, if he is after these remaining gentlemen, is very unlikely to be able to get close to at least three of them. Out on the stump, in the public eye and surrounded by security, they’re pretty safe.’
‘Unless our guy changes his MO,’ Carlyle mused.
‘The thing to do,’ said Simpson, ignoring this thought, ‘will be to concentrate on the others… once I have spoken to them.’
‘Understood,’ he repeated.
‘Remember,’ Simpson said with some feeling, ‘there absolutely must be a media blackout on this. It cannot be allowed to… pollute the election. You know how the Met would get the blame. The mess would cover us all. Maybe we should get a DA-Notice out tonight?’
‘Good idea,’ said Carlyle, injecting a little false enthusiasm into his voice, trying to sound supportive. ‘But maybe that would be a bit over the top.’ DA-Notices were issued by The Defence, Press and Broadcasting Advisory Committee, requesting that editors not publish or broadcast items on specified subjects for reasons of ‘national security’. This present case might be a serious matter, but describing it as a national-security issue would be rather stretching it a bit. ‘A Defence Advisory Notice is probably inappropriate here, and this is not really a matter for the Press Complaints Commission,’ he continued, ‘but we could go through the Society of Editors. That’s what the Palace did a while back, when one of the young princes went to Iraq.’
‘Very brave of him,’ Simpson mused.
‘Far better for him than rolling around in the gutter outside some nightclub,’ Carlyle muttered, recalling one of the same young royal’s other hobbies.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now is not the time for any lack of focus, Inspector,’ Simpson said with smooth menace.
Carlyle ignored her tone and ploughed on. ‘Editors might accept a purely voluntary “understanding”, in return for special access later on.’
Simpson thought about it for a minute. ‘I would need to agree that with their people.’ Their people meaning the Carltons’ entourage.
This game is getting very complicated, Carlyle thought.
‘In the meantime,’ Simpson continued, ‘let’s avoid any leaks. And, of course, the quicker we can get this solved, the fewer problems there will be. Let me have a full verbal report every twenty-fours hours. Whatever you need to get the job done, take it.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.
‘John,’ Simpson smiled one of the fakest smiles he had ever seen in his life, ‘I am always here if you need me. You know that, don’t you?’
‘That is a great help,’ Carlyle lied.
‘Good. I’m glad,’ Simpson lied back. Picking up one of the papers on her desk, she began reading it.
This was his cue to leave, and he took it.
Feeling much happier than when he had arrived, Carlyle quickly left the station and sauntered down the Edgware Road. Heading south, in the direction of Marble Arch, he realised that he was in London’s North African neighbourhood and therefore spoilt for choice in terms of coffee and cake. He passed a succession of cafes with men in shalwar kameez smoking oversized hookah pipes at pavement tables. Taking a right turn, he passed the north end of Connaught Square, glancing up at the inevitable pair of heavily armed policemen guarding the fantastically expensive town house of a previous prime minister. It had been bought a couple of years just before he left office and as the lucrative lecture and non-executive director circuit hove into view. With his current successor struggling so badly, it looked as if Edgar Carlton would soon be the third PM in short order. All political careers end in failure, some more quickly than others, Carlyle reflected. He knew that, within twelve months of getting the job he so shamelessly coveted, Carlton’s ratings would be lower than a snake’s belly in a storm drain. People might want the old guy back, even though they had hated him when he was in the job. What a shit job: it was even worse than being a policeman.
Fifty yards down the road, Carlyle took a seat outside the Cafe du Liban and ordered some of their thick, strong, black coffee sprinkled with cardamom seeds, along with a heavy, sticky pastry. At this time of the evening, the place was basically empty, since he had been lucky enough to hit the gap between office workers leaving for home and the locals arriving for a post-dinner coffee and gossip. Enjoying the peace, Carlyle settled down to turn things over in his head and map out what to do next. However, with his mind flitting from one thing to another, he found it impossible to focus on the case.
Letting his gaze roam over the middle distance, he was distracted by the sight of a dwarf chatting with a Big Issue seller on a street corner across the road. The dwarf was waving his arms about, and the magazine vendor was scratching at his beard and nodding vigorously. I’m in one of the crazier David Lynch movies, Carlyle thought unhappily, rummaging in his pockets for his BlackBerry and his different mobiles. If he couldn’t process information in his head, he could at least do it on his various machines.
As it turned out, the only thing of note on any of them was a voicemail from Rosanna Snowdon on his ‘work’ mobile (as opposed to his ‘private’, untraceable, pay-as-you go phone). Snowdon hinted at some new development in ‘the story’ and asked him to call her. He wondered how she had got his number. The message was timed at 4.20 p.m., so he assumed that he’d missed her deadline for today. He would give her a call tomorrow, even if only to discover what she knew. Carlyle saw journalists primarily as people to get information from, rather than the other way round. On that basis, he liked them well enough. He understood the rules of the game, and so did Rosanna. When the time came, both of them would be happy enough to share.
Carlyle was about to switch off his phone and return it to his pocket when it started vibrating again. A text told him he had another message. Irritated, he pulled up the number for his answerphone and hit the call button.
‘This is a message for Inspector John Carlyle. My name is Harry Allen. I was looking to speak to you about Ian Blake…’
‘Fuck!’ Carlyle punched the recall button.
‘I’m sorry,’ said a prim electronic voice, ‘but the number you are calling is not available. We are unable to connect you…’
‘Fuck, fuck,’ he looked at the handset with a mixture of resignation, disbelief and genuine hatred. Punching another button, he waited for the message to return.
‘This is a message for Inspector John Carlyle. My name is Harry Allen. I was looking to speak to you about Ian Blake. I am out of the country at the moment, but I should be back in London next week. I will give you another call when I return.’
‘When you return?’ Carlyle hissed at the phone. ‘When you fucking return? This is a murder investigation, for God’s sake! What is wrong with you people?’ Flicking through his missed-call list, he also had a ‘no number’ from three minutes ago. How could I miss that? he thought. The bloody thing just didn’t ring. Resisting a strong urge to throw the handset under a passing taxi, he wondered if there was some way he could trace that call. At the very least, he could get Joe to track down Allen’s number, and they should be able to get hold of him eventually. The good news was that at least someone was offering to talk.
His coffee arrived along with a generous slice of baklava. His attention now focusing on the humble delights in front of him, Carlyle finally dropped the mobile into his pocket and began to let the vexations of the day slip from his mind.