With three days left until the election, Carlyle had read in the paper that Edgar Carlton would be holding a press conference to discuss his party’s social policies. Despite the narrowing opinion polls, victory still seemed the most likely outcome for the golden twins. The conference was scheduled to start at 10 a.m. at the Royal Academy of Engineering building, close to St James’s Park. Joe Szyszkowski had left for Cambridge, to visit Clement Hawley’s brother, so Carlyle decided to decamp to the park with a coffee and a copy of The Times while he waited for the presser to start.
It was a beautiful morning, with a clear blue sky. The temperature had not yet climbed above fifteen or sixteen degrees, so there was a pleasant nip in the air. He sat on a bench, with Buckingham Palace way off to his left, Downing Street on his right, and watched other people going about their business while he himself took a short time out. If he wasn’t exactly feeling blissed out, there was still a distinctly positive vibe flowing through the Carlyle veins. Things were moving now. Harry Allen’s death had been a new blow to the investigation, though not as big a blow as it had been to Allen himself. The silly sod should have spoken to me sooner, Carlyle thought. But at least his death showed that it was still game on. While that was the case, he remained confident that they would get their man.
Thinking of Allen, he pulled out his phone and deleted the dead man’s voicemail. No sense in leaving that hanging around in case there were any accusations of slackness further down the line. With hindsight, Carlyle knew that he should have tracked Allen down while he was abroad, rather than waiting for him to come back to London. He didn’t need Simpson or anyone else using that mistake as a stick to beat him with later.
Closer inspection of the phone indicated that he had missed another three calls. When did that happen? How come he had never heard the bloody thing ring? There was one voicemail as well, but he wasn’t going to check it just yet. It would doubtless be Simpson, and he didn’t want to speak to Simpson until after he’d seen Carlton. At the earliest. Instead, he called home and gave Helen an update on the situation.
‘Looks like you’re still quite a bit behind the game,’ she said, gently pulling his leg.
‘I know,’ said Carlyle, laughing, ‘but at least now I can start to shake things up a bit.’
‘You could be in for a busy few days?’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, watching a duck waddle towards him. It stopped about two feet away and looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t come up with some bread, it turned around and crapped on the path, before heading back the way it had come.
‘Be careful,’ she added.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m serious, John,’ she said reproachfully, ‘these are not normal people you’re dealing with here.’
‘They never are.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but this is the other end of the spectrum. Normally you’re wading through the bottom end of the gene pool. This is different.’
‘You mean I’m playing out of my league?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, with mock indignation.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not about you. With people like that, it never is. It’s all about them. Don’t get in their faces.’
‘Me? Never!’
Helen sighed loudly. ‘You never learn, do you? Just be careful. And good luck. I’ve got to get Alice to school now. Let’s talk later.’
‘Give her a kiss from me. Tell her I’ll try and take her sometime soon.’
After hanging up on his wife, Carlyle scoured the back pages of the newspaper for any decent football news. Finding nothing of interest, he folded the paper and tossed it on to the bench beside him, before checking his emails. There was nothing of interest on his BlackBerry either, so he moved on to his private mobile. There were yet more unanswered calls and another message, timed at 8.30 the previous evening. This time he checked his voicemail.
Dominic Silver’s message was short and to the point: ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the Merrion Club? Call me back.’
‘Why do you think?’ Carlyle said to himself. He switched the phone off and stuck it back into an inside pocket of his jacket. That was another conversation to be delayed until later in the day. Yawning, he got up from the bench and stretched. It was almost twenty past eight now and the rush hour was in full swing. The park was getting busier, with a steady stream of people using it as a pleasant short cut on their way to work. Carlyle picked up his newspaper and dropped it in a nearby bin.
Then he headed off to see Mr Carlton.
Everyone likes a winner, and the Royal Academy of Engineering was full to bursting. Simpson would kill for a crowd like this, Carlyle thought. More than a hundred journalists and a dozen camera crews had turned up to listen as Edgar Carlton, flanked by two severe but eager-looking women, whom Carlyle didn’t recognise, revealed the secret of how precisely he was going to fix Britain’s ‘broken society’.
Waiting for it to finish, Carlyle quietly sat at the back, playing the BrickBreaker game on his BlackBerry. After about twenty minutes, they went to Q amp;A. After another ten, a PR flunky called a halt to the proceedings. Immediately, the journalists and cameramen swarmed to the front of the room to grab the man of the moment and ask him the same questions all over again.
Carlyle moved in the direction of the crowd. He was happily hovering behind a rather foxy-looking German reporter when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said Rosanna Snowdon, ‘how nice to see you again.’
‘Er… yes. You too.’
‘You didn’t return my call,’ Rosanna said sweetly.
He casually feigned ignorance. ‘Sorry?’
‘I left three or four messages on your mobile.’
Three or four? He vaguely remembered one.
She gave him just the slightest pout. ‘You never called me back.’
Had that been deliberate or not? He couldn’t remember. ‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind,’ she said, in a cheerily forgiving manner. ‘I can’t even remember what my message was about.’
He assumed that was a lie. Rosanna Snowdon didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who forgot anything. ‘Ian Blake, perhaps?’
‘Who?’
Don’t over-egg it, he thought. ‘The guy who was killed at the Garden Hotel,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘You came to our press conference.’ He gestured at the continuing throng. ‘Not quite as big a deal as this.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Snowdon nodded, ‘Carole Simpson. The superintendent is a very impressive woman. It must be great for you to be working with her.’
Carlyle said nothing.
‘Anyway,’ said Snowdon, moving on, ‘what brings you here?’
Carlyle realised that there was no point in trying to bullshit his way out of it. ‘I’m looking for a quick word with Mr Carlton.’
She smiled at him, in a very disconcerting way. ‘Ah, yes, that would be in relation to the Merrion Club, I suppose.’
Seeing the discomfited look on Carlyle’s face, she reined in the smile and returned her beautifully manicured hand to his shoulder to give him a reassuring pat. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. Who am I going to tell? Your superintendent has everyone in line on this one. And if the papers don’t run it, the BBC isn’t going to touch it with a bargepole. We would never have the stomach for a legal dispute like that. Anyway, it is not the kind of publicity that Edgar needs right now. So, tell me, how is your investigation going?’
‘It’s going,’ Carlyle replied tersely, unable to manage a smile of his own. He glanced quickly around the room. The scrum of journalists was slowly thinning out, so Carlton himself would be off soon. Carlyle would have to try to grab his chance while he could.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t managed a chat with Edgar before now,’ she prodded.
Carlyle said nothing.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘I’ll introduce you.’
In front of them, the PR flunky was trying to close it all down. ‘That’s it for this morning. Thank you all for coming. If you have any further questions, please call our press office.’ The remaining journalists ignored him and kept on hurling questions at his boss.
Rosanna pushed her way through a couple of cameramen until she was almost facing Carlton. ‘Edgar!’ she cried, stepping deftly in front of the German reporter and planting a kiss firmly on Carlton’s cheek.
‘Rosanna! How nice to see you,’ Edgar replied warmly, before kissing her on both cheeks. Carlyle was amused to see him firmly squeeze her backside at the same time.
‘You were on good form this morning,’ she remarked.
‘Thank you.’ Edgar glanced at Carlyle, who was hovering at Snowdon’s shoulder like a lost schoolboy, and casually removed his hand from her left buttock. ‘Do you need an interview?’
‘No,’ Rosanna replied, ‘I think we’ll take a clip of the bit where you talked about your “iron will to repair the shattered hopes and dreams of a generation”.’
‘Very good.’
Grabbing Carlyle by the arm, she dragged him forward. ‘I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine.’ She took a half-step to one side. ‘Edgar, meet Inspector John Carlyle.’
The German reporter didn’t notice the cloud pass over Carlton’s face as he turned towards the policeman. It passed in the brief moment that it took Edgar Carlton to set his jaw, but Carlyle caught it. Nice to be welcome, he thought, resisting the urge to get out his badge and start flashing it about.
‘The inspector is investigating the death of Ian Blake,’ Rosanna continued.
‘A terrible business.’ Carlton bowed his head slightly.
‘I was wondering if I could have a couple of minutes of your time,’ Carlyle said, smiling.
‘Absolutely,’ said Carlton, smiling back.
‘I just wanted to ask-’
Carlton held up his hand. ‘We will have to do this later, because I’m afraid now is just impossible. I’m already behind schedule and, as you can, imagine, we’ve got a lot to get through today.’
‘Just a few minutes would be much appreciated,’ insisted Carlyle gently.
Carlton gestured to his flunky, who had by now ushered all the journalists out of the room. ‘Speak to Mr Murray here, and we will get something in the diary. Today is a desperately busy day, but I’m sure that William can arrange to get you a slot sometime this week.’
‘Well…’ Carlyle started to protest, but Carlton had broken eye contact and was already moving off. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, the policeman no longer existed.
‘Come on, Rosanna,’ Carlton said, taking her arm, ‘you can escort me to my next appointment.’
‘See you later, Inspector,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.
Once they were gone, Carlyle stood facing the flunky. He looked about twelve years old and wore an expression that suggested Carlyle was about as welcome as a piece of shit on his well-polished shoe.
‘William Murray.’ He held out a limp hand. ‘I’m one of Mr Carlton’s special advisers.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Carlyle asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ Murray looked confused.
‘What do you do?’
‘I advise,’ the boy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Advise on what?’
‘On whatever comes up.’
Carlyle gritted his teeth, realising that he had to get out of there before he tried to strangle this little tosser. Focus on the matter in hand, he told himself. Keep breathing. Stay neutral. Don’t let this little shit wind you up.
‘So when can I have ten minutes with Mr Carlton?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Murray sniffed.
‘But he said…’
‘I will need to consult with the PA in charge of Edgar’s diary and then I’ll get back to you.’
Carlyle handed Murray a card. ‘My boss told me that I would receive Mr Carlton’s full co-operation.’
Murray briefly turned the card over in his hand, before dropping it into his pocket. ‘You can be assured of our full co-operation. We are the police’s biggest supporters.’
Glad we cleared that up, thought Carlyle. ‘Let me know a time as soon as possible.’
‘Of course. But, remember, there is an election going on.’
He had expected a card from Murray in return, but none was forthcoming. ‘This is just a matter of routine,’ Carlyle said, ‘but it is nevertheless important. People have died, and this is a murder investigation. I have a job to do, just the same as you do. Just the same as Mr Carlton does. If you delay my enquiries any further, I will start making a considerable fuss.’
‘A considerable fuss?’ Murray smirked. ‘We wouldn’t want that, Inspector. Not at all.’
‘Good,’ was all Carlyle could think of saying.
‘Don’t worry,’ Murray said, ‘we will be in touch.’ With that he skipped away, leaving Carlyle to find his own way out.