Fifteen minutes after speaking to Dominic Silver on the phone, Carlyle headed into St James’s Square carrying a small see-through plastic bag containing lunch for them both. Before entering the garden in the middle, he stopped by the simple memorial erected to Yvonne Fletcher to pay his respects. A round plaque told him what he already knew: twenty-five-year-old WPC Fletcher had been shot in the Square on 17 April 1984. She had been on crowd control, looking after a small demonstration outside the Libyan People’s Bureau. Twenty-five years later, her killer had yet to be brought to justice. Carlyle hadn’t worked with her personally, but he knew that she had been well respected as a decent, friendly copper, and also a good colleague.
Carlyle stood there for a minute as the cars rushed past and people went about their business. His thoughts were the same as always. How unlucky was it to have died on what should have been a routine shift in the heart of London? A year after the shooting, Carlyle had stood to attention in the same square while Prime Minister Thatcher had unveiled Fletcher’s memorial. In her speech, Thatcher had signed off with a quote from Abraham Lincoln: ‘Let us have faith that right makes might; and in that faith let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.’ We’ll dare to do our duty, Carlyle often told himself in the years afterwards, if only we’re allowed to by the politicians.
By the time he entered the garden, Dominic Silver was waiting for him on a bench under a tree. The day was warm, but there was a pleasant breeze, and Dom had managed to commandeer the best of the available shade. The park was quite busy, with office workers spread out on the grass to enjoy the sun. Without introduction, Carlyle handed over the plastic bag. Dom rooted about in it for a few seconds, taking what he wanted before handing it back. Together, they sat eating in happy silence for ten minutes or so. When they’d finished, Carlyle gathered up all the rubbish and dropped it in a nearby bin.
‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Dom, as Carlyle returned to the bench.
‘No problem.’
‘It’s a great day to be sitting here in the square,’ Dom said, wiping some crumbs off his Neil Young ‘Like a Hurricane’ T-shirt.
‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, letting the food settle in his stomach.
‘The world’s most expensive house used to be over there.’ Dom, the property guru, pointed a finger over his left shoulder. ‘Number eight went for more than a hundred million, once upon a time. The Russians have pissed on that amount many times over in the last few years, of course.’
‘You wanted to talk about the Russians?’ Carlyle was bemused.
‘No,’ Dom smiled, ‘I wanted to talk about Susy Ahl.’
Carlyle made a face that said Be my guest. A pigeon was trying to stick its head into a discarded crisp packet on the grass. It wasn’t having much success and he knew how it felt. By now he was getting used to everyone else being at least one step ahead of him on this case. ‘And who, pray tell, is Susy Ahl?’
‘Susy Ahl,’ said Dom casually, ‘ was Robert Ashton’s girlfriend, back in the day. She is the woman you need to speak to about the Merrion killings.’
Carlyle turned to look at him, interest finally overriding his irritation at being shown up. ‘And how do you know this?’
Dom waved a hand airily above his head. ‘I know lots of things.’
‘Come on,’ said Carlyle, getting a bit exasperated now, ‘this isn’t about lots of things.’
Now he’d had some gentle fun, Dom’s expression became more serious. ‘Did you know that Eva went to Cambridge?’
‘No.’ Carlyle knew next to nothing about Eva Hollander, other than that she was Dom’s common-law wife.
‘Eva’s a very smart girl, got herself a first in History. Thought about doing a PhD, her subject being the cultural legacy of the Weimar Republic.’
‘But she hooked up with you instead,’ Carlyle quipped.
‘I didn’t meet her until later,’ Dom corrected him. ‘Instead of doing research, she got married. Her scumbag husband was actually a client of mine in the early nineties…’ He let those reminiscences trail off.
With his famed empathy, Carlyle kept on digging. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You lost some money, but won the girl.’
‘Don’t be flippant, John.’ Dominic sat up and stared him straight in the eye. ‘I wouldn’t take the piss out of your family, would I?’
‘No, sorry.’ Carlyle tried to get the conversation back on track. ‘So Eva knows this woman?’ he asked.
‘She knows her sister. They shared a house together in Cambridge, for a year.’
‘Small world.’
‘It sure is. Six degrees of separation, and all that.’
‘How did you make the connection?’
‘It was Eva,’ said Dom, grinding the toes of his black Converse All Stars into the dirt. ‘I got Gideon to do some basic research, since he’s quite good on the old Google and the various other databases we use to keep an eye on our clients…’
Other databases? But Carlyle didn’t enquire further.
‘… and when we pieced together what you were actually interested in,’ Dom shot Carlyle an amused look, ‘I spoke to Eva about it. I knew that she’d been there around the same time, and she remembers the Ashton kid topping himself. You know what teenagers are like, melodrama-wise. It was a big deal back then.’
Carlyle sat back, prepared to be impressed. ‘So how did Eva connect Robert Ashton to the Merrion Club?’
‘The housemate’s sister.’
‘This…?’
‘Susy Ahl. A-H-L.’
‘Ahl. OK, got it.’
‘She was Ashton’s girlfriend.’
‘OK,’ said Carlyle, genuinely interested now.
‘After the kid killed himself, Susy Ahl went off on one big time, apparently…’
‘As you would.’
‘As you would indeed. But she blamed the Carltons and the rest of their crew for driving him to it.’
‘Why?’
‘That,’ Dom said, ‘I don’t know. According to Eva, Ahl kicked up quite a fuss. But no one took her seriously, and she disappeared fairly soon afterwards. Eva graduated that summer, 1985, then she went travelling for a bit. After she got back, she married the moron-stroke-junkie tosspot who made her life hell for the best part of ten years. She was too busy trying to get the shithead clean to bother keeping in contact with all her old pals, so she lost touch with the housemate, too.’
Carlyle idly wondered what role Dom had played in trying to get the ‘shithead’ off drugs, himself being a drug dealer and all. Again, he kept his mouth shut.
‘Then I came along, and we had the kids, and things just moved on. It’s been a busy couple of decades. Now, hey presto, it’s twenty-five years later and now we’re caught up in our own little episode of A Week in Westminster meets Crimewatch.’
‘Where do I find the sister, Eva’s old flat mate?’ Carlyle asked eagerly.
‘She’s in Canada.’
‘Fuck, you’re kidding?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Dom watched a look of exasperation cloud Carlyle’s face, and he smiled. He then dug into the back pocket of his Levis, pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it over. ‘Sarah, the sister, is living somewhere west of Calgary. She married a cowboy or something. They have even more kids than Eva and me, apparently.’
‘That’s good to know,’ Carlyle said gloomily.
‘Susy Ahl, on the other hand,’ Dom grinned, ‘is right here in London.’
Carlyle stared at the address on the piece of paper and smiled. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Unless she’s done a runner in the last fourteen or fifteen hours. Eva tracked down Sarah through her mum. Happily for you, the dear old mum has been living in the same house in Winchester for the past forty years.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yeah.’ Dom stood up and gave his legs a stretch. ‘Thanks again for lunch.’
‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘You’re a cheap date.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Dom scratched at Neil Young’s head, around the spot where his own left nipple should be. ‘By the way, one other bit of background info for you…’
‘Yes?’
‘… my man Gideon served under Christian Holyrod in Afghanistan, three years ago.’
‘What did he think of him?’
‘Gideon doesn’t talk that much, about anything. I think he probably has some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. That or he’s just bored shitless at being home. Either way, I think he felt that Holyrod was basically fine.’
‘Insightful.’
‘It tells you something,’ Dom shrugged. ‘Guys like Gideon, they’re in it for the buzz, essentially. It’s like extreme sports with automatic weapons, and you can actually kill people. Can you imagine the rush that must provide?’
‘No.’ Carlyle had never even held a gun in his life, for which he was very grateful. He didn’t want to think about what it might feel like.
‘Well, you always did lack a certain imagination.’ Dom smiled. ‘Anyway, as regards your average squaddie, as long as the public-schoolboy officer class don’t spoil their fun too much, they put up with them. Holyrod was well enough liked, I think. Gideon could equally take him or leave him.’
‘Not exactly a ringing endorsement,’ Carlyle said.
Dom fixed him with a firm stare. ‘At least he didn’t take out his Browning Hi-Power and put a 9 mm slug in Holyrod’s back halfway up some mountain somewhere.’
‘So?’
‘So… Holyrod was a proper soldier, John. He’s not really a politician – not deep down in his DNA. He’s had experience of doing a proper job.’
‘So?’
‘So, he’s probably someone you can do business with.’ He paused. ‘Or, at least, he’s more likely to be someone you can do business with than the rest of them are.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Carlyle said, and sat for a minute in silent contemplation. The pigeon made one last foray towards the crisp packet before giving up and wandering off in search of a handout from some tourist. For a second, he even felt a bit sorry for the bird, before quickly returning to his own problems. ‘What do you think this is all about, Dom?’
‘I don’t know, mate,’ Dom sniffed, ‘and really I don’t care. That’s your job.’
‘Apparently.’
Dom eyed at him carefully. ‘I know that you must understand just what a tricky situation you currently find yourself in.’
‘Yes.’
‘So it doesn’t need me to tell you how careful you need to be in dealing with people like this.’
‘Why not?’ said Carlyle, smiling. ‘Everyone else has.’
‘That’s good,’ Dom grinned. ‘It means people are looking out for you. Be grateful, you dumb fucking plod, and accept their advice.’
‘I will.’
‘I’ll look out for your case on the news. Let me know how it goes.’ The mobile in the back pocket of Dom’s jeans started ringing, but he ignored it. ‘And remember…’
‘Yes?’
Dom cranked up his air guitar. ‘Keep on rockin’ in the free world, baby!’
Neil Young started playing inside Carlyle’s head as he watched Dom saunter out of the garden, and back into the hustle and flow of the city. What should he do next? He had started making a list in his head, when his own phone went.
‘Inspector?’
‘Rosanna, how are you?’ He was happy enough to get the call, since it delayed the need for him to do anything else.
‘You recognised my voice!’ she chirruped happily.
Carlyle stretched out on the bench and stifled a post-prandial yawn. For most people, lunch hour was now over and the garden had largely emptied. Carlyle had the place pretty much to himself, aside from a bag lady asleep on a nearby bench and a couple of tourists who stood consulting a guidebook. ‘I don’t have that many celebrity contacts,’ he replied.
‘So that’s what I am?’
‘To me, everybody is another contact.’
She laughed. ‘Then I guess that’s something we have in common. How did your meeting with Edgar go?’
Christ Almighty, Carlyle thought. Did everyone know all of his business? In real time? He proceeded with caution. ‘It was fine. I saw him earlier today. He was very helpful.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. Thank you for introducing me the other day. It was very kind of you.’
‘My pleasure.’
Meaning: What are you going to do for me in return?
Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One thing I was wondering…’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you know him?’
‘Edgar?’ She seemed surprised by the question.
No, the bloody Queen of Sheba, he thought. ‘Yes.’
‘We go back a long way…’ He listened patiently to a pause, while she wondered whether what she said now might be significant. ‘I went to school with his wife Anastasia and his sister Sophia who is now Mrs Christian Holyrod.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle. ‘Isn’t that all a bit, well, incestuous?’
‘Do you think?’ she asked. ‘It’s a very close social set, but that’s fairly common, I think.’
Carlyle tried a bit more fishing. ‘Mr Carlton is really quite impressive,’ he lied.
‘Oh, yes,’ she gushed. ‘I’ve known Edgar since I was eight or nine, and he really is a lovely man. Very charming and thoughtful.’
‘And Xavier?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Less of a charmer,’ she mused.
‘More impetuous?’
‘He’s more the kind of man to dominate you by force of will and the power of his emotions,’ she said, with a strange kind of relish. ‘He sweeps you off your feet.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘There’s a time and a place for both. Edgar’s the boss, of course, but I think they complement each other quite well.’
‘I can see what you mean.’
‘So how’s your investigation going?’
‘Nothing to report at the moment,’ replied Carlyle stiffly. ‘We are making progress.’
‘That’s a very straight bat you’re playing, Inspector.’
‘You wouldn’t really expect me to say anything different, though, would you?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘I wouldn’t. But you know that I want the exclusive when something big happens.’
‘Even if it’s a story that your friend Edgar wouldn’t like?’ Carlyle asked.
‘What?’ Her voice changed as the tone of the conversation went up a couple of gears. ‘Is Edgar a suspect?’
‘No, no,’ Carlyle said, hastily trying to backtrack. ‘But, inevitably, this case may throw up things that are embarrassing.’
‘Like what?’
‘Who knows?’ said Carlyle, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘The investigation still has to run its course.’
‘Well, when it does, I definitely want a heads-up, whatever the outcome.’
‘I understand.’
‘You have to remember two things,’ she said primly. ‘A story is a story, so it will get out somehow, and, just as important, I am a journalist first and foremost. I don’t burn my contacts. Rule number one from journalism school is that you always protect your sources.’
It sounded a well-rehearsed spiel. ‘You went to journalism school?’ he asked.
There was a pause. ‘No… but I respect the rules of the game. Therefore I respect you.’ She sounded quite annoyed at having to spell it out for him.
‘I’ll bear all this in mind,’ said Carlyle, happy to get off the subject.
‘Jolly good,’ she said, recovering her brighter tone. ‘You’ve got my mobile number. Give me a ring. It’s always switched on.’
‘I bet it is,’ Carlyle said with a smile.
With no other distractions, he finally had to get on with things. First, he called Joe Szyszkowski and told him to find out whatever he could about Susy Ahl. Then, in a newly found spirit of openness and co-operation, he called Superintendent Simpson to let her know what the day had so far revealed. For once, Simpson was not ensconced in a meeting.
His update to her, while leaving out any reference to Dominic Silver, was comprehensive. ‘This woman Ahl,’ he concluded, ‘appears to be the link between Ashton then and the Merrion people now.’
‘Do you think she can explain it?’ Simpson asked.
‘You would have to hope so. She – or somebody else – has been carefully leading us down this path of inquiry. There has to be an explanation.’
‘Is she a suspect, then?’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said evasively. The reality was that he had no clue. ‘We have no physical evidence. I want to see what she has to say first, and then we’ll take a view.’
‘All the same, let’s keep an open mind.’
‘Always,’ said Carlyle. ‘Are you intending to speak to Carlton about this?’
There was a pause. ‘I promised that I’d keep him informed.’
‘It would be a help if I could speak to the Ahl woman first.’
‘I understand.’
Was that a yes? Carlyle wondered. Promising, as always, to keep Simpson updated, he ended the call. His thoughts turned next to paying Ms Ahl a visit. He looked again at Dom’s piece of paper. In addition to a home address, it had a landline number and a mobile number. He tried them both. Each time he got voicemail. He didn’t leave a message on either. Presumably the woman had a job, so he decided to wait until the evening before paying her a visit at home. Reluctant to go back to the station, he called Helen and scored a few brownie points by promising her that he would head over to the Barbican and pick Alice up from school.