If the Germans had won the Second World War, the world would be a very different place. Nelson’s Column, for instance, would have been dismantled and moved to Berlin. Christian Holyrod was reminded of this fairly pointless factoid as he stood one hundred and eight feet below the great admiral and tried to avoid any shit from such pigeons as had managed to survive the cull organised by one of his predecessors. He was increasingly of the view that being mayor was not a job for a grown-up. Not for the first time, he thought about all he had given up when he had left the army. As a man used to being in control of his environment and the people around him, he was still coming to terms with how little actual control of his day-to-day life he now enjoyed.
Holyrod wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not a great one for what-ifs, but he couldn’t help thinking that if Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, first Viscount Nelson, first Duke of Bronte had, in fact, made that 600-mile journey east into the heart of the thousand-year Reich, then at least Holyrod himself could have been somewhere else today. But here he now was, feeling very warm and more than a little sheepish. Whichever adviser had put him here, in Trafalgar Square, on Election Day, the hottest day of the year to boot, to promote cycling in London, should be shot. Just one more photocall, he told himself, and then it’s all over.
Surrounded by a posse of Lycra-clad lovelies, he took a deep breath as the clicking of camera shutters reached a crescendo.
‘Over here!’
‘Mr May-yor!
‘Christian!’
‘Look this way!’
He smiled with as much conviction as he could muster for the benefit of the collection of snappers and camera crews ranged in front of them. After a minute or so, a nubile television presenter – the token media ‘celebrity’ attending the event – jumped on a bike and started on a wobbly lap around the fountains, chased by a couple of the more energetic cameramen. Taking that as his own cue to leave, Holyrod slipped on a pair of Ray-Ban 3025 Aviators and started walking towards the north-east corner of the square.
Holyrod had already dismissed out of hand a suggestion that he cycle to his next engagement. However, not wanting to set the wrong tone at his departure, he had agreed to meet his driver at a more than discreet distance away, out of sight of any camera lens. His Jaguar was parked on Bedfordbury behind the London Coliseum, home of the English National Opera on St Martin’s Lane. At most, it was a three-minute walk.
Keeping his head down, he set off at a brisk pace in the hope of deterring well-wishers or any persistent hacks. It took him less than a minute to cross Trafalgar Square and reach the National Gallery on its north side. As he did so, a man fell in step beside him.
‘Mayor Holyrod?’
Expecting an autograph hunter, Holyrod slowed his pace slightly and turned towards the voice. He was surprised to recognise the plebeian policeman beside him.
‘Inspector.’ The mayor quickly resumed his previous energetic pace.
‘Mr Holyrod,’ Carlyle upped his own pace, ‘I would like a word, sir.’
‘Not a good time,’ said Holyrod stiffly, upping his pace some more, ‘I have an appointment.’
Already feeling hot and uncomfortable, Carlyle was not going to start jogging. Putting a firm hand on Holyrod’s arm, he ignored the surprised look on the mayor’s face, and stepped closer.
‘I have been very polite, so far…’
‘And we have appreciated it,’ said Holyrod, looking down at his unwanted companion in a way that made his exasperation clear.
The former soldier was a good three or four inches taller, but Carlyle was not prepared to be intimidated. ‘However,’ he continued, ignoring Holyrod’s sharp tone, ‘if you don’t stop fucking me about right now,’ he snarled, ‘I will arrest you. On the fucking spot.’
Holyrod snorted in astonishment.
‘And,’ Carlyle gestured back in the direction of the Square, ‘I will take you down there in front of the camera crews, in handcuffs, while we wait for a car. That should take about twenty minutes, I expect, and might prove a slightly bigger story than your bike thing. Wouldn’t that be a bit of a bugger on Election Day?’
Holyrod sighed. ‘Miller told us you were a complete arsehole.’
Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s Trevor for you. He always was an excellent judge of character.’
A bodyguard, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward, but Holyrod waved him away. He looked back towards Nelson’s Column, down at the ground and then over Carlyle’s shoulder.
‘Let’s go over there,’ he said, quickly heading in the direction of the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, on the opposite side of the road.
Pleased that his bluff had not been called, Carlyle followed as Holyrod slalomed through the stationary traffic and bounded up the steps, before disappearing through the open doors of the church. He knew that if the mayor had decided to simply walk away, arresting him would have been out of the question. Apart from anything else, Carlyle had left his handcuffs behind at the station.
Carlyle took his time in getting to the church entrance, giving the mayor a couple of minutes to ponder what might be coming next. As he approached, he watched a steady trickle of tourists wander up the steps and stick their heads through the door, before retreating back towards the dissolute chaos outside.
Inside St Martin’s, the air was musty but the mood was calm. Light flooded in from the windows on the east wall of the building, bouncing back off the white ceiling. A notice board by the door informed Carlyle that there would be a lunchtime prayer session at 1.15 p.m. He checked his watch: happily there was no chance of getting caught up in that. Another poster announced a performance of the Bach Cantata series. However, the thing that caught his attention was a poster for the church’s Thought For The Week. It proclaimed: ‘The truth will set you free.’ Amen to that, Carlyle smiled. If only more people could appreciate that counsel, his life would be a lot easier.
Holyrod was sitting waiting for him in the front pew on the right, out of the direct sunlight. ‘This must be your local church, Inspector,’ he said, as Carlyle sat down beside him.
‘I suppose so,’ said Carlyle vaguely, the truth being that he had never set foot inside St Martin’s before.
‘You should get to know your neighbourhood,’ Holyrod chided him. ‘This is one of London’s finest baroque churches. During the First World War, it was a refuge for soldiers on their way to France. More than 6,000 homeless people still take refuge here every year.’ The mayor paused, pleased that he had remembered so much from his recent meeting with the vicar of St Martin’s, who, for a man of the cloth, had made a surprisingly slick pitch for city funding.
‘That’s very interesting,’ said Carlyle, ‘but it wasn’t really a history lesson I was after.’
‘So, what exactly did you come for?’ Holyrod asked, barely trying to conceal his obvious contempt.
‘The truth.’
‘Ah.’ Holyrod raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘That’s tricky.’
Carlyle waited for a stray tourist to wander off out of earshot. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Susy Ahl?’
An expression blending confusion and resignation crossed Holyrod’s face.
‘We’re in church now.’ Carlyle was a devout atheist, but Holyrod might have a different take on the meaning of life, so an appeal to a higher authority was always worth a try. He nodded back towards the entrance. ‘The current thought for the week is “The truth will set you free.” I’m not taking any notes now. This conversation is just between us.’
Holyrod gave no indication of being spiritually inclined, however. ‘I don’t recognise the name.’
‘She was Robert Ashton’s girlfriend.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Holyrod nodded. He raised his hands in a gesture maybe supposed to signify sincerity. ‘I’m with you now. I am aware of the person you are referring to. Her name never registered because I don’t know that I ever actually met her.’
‘I suppose that’s progress,’ said Carlyle.
‘Why do you ask, anyway?’ A sly smile crossed the mayor’s face. ‘Is she a suspect? Have you arrested her?’
‘The investigation is proceeding.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then. If she’s your woman, I would suggest that you just get on with it, Inspector.’ Holyrod finally stopped staring at nothing in particular and turned to face Carlyle. ‘That is your job, after all.’
‘Is what she claims happened to Robert Ashton true?’
‘What did she say?’
‘That he was brutally raped, and driven to suicide.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘It’s not my job to believe anything.’
Holyrod dropped his pseudo-patrician demeanour and showed the hard-faced soldier that still lived underneath. ‘Either way, it’s not much of a defence for committing multiple murder, is it?’ He affected a shrill, girlish voice: ‘My boyfriend was on the wrong end of some rough sex.’
Carlyle looked at him, nonplussed.
‘What happened to Ashton wasn’t exactly unique,’ Holyrod resumed his normal tone, ‘even if it did drive him to kill himself. Which, of course, is a matter of complete conjecture and speculation on your part. It might get your woman some extra counselling, while she spends the rest of her life in jail, but that’s about it.’
My woman? thought Carlyle. ‘That’s an interesting perspective on things,’ he persisted. ‘It’s not quite how Ms Ahl explains it.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t.’ Holyrod now threw his hands open wide. ‘Come on, Inspector. When you get to our age, it doesn’t count for much, one way or another. What about all the shitty things you got up to at university, yourself? The things that still make you embarrassed today?’
‘I didn’t go to university.’
Holyrod started to reply, but thought better of it, making do with a look that said: I’m finished wasting my time here. He stood up. Carlyle did the same. This time, the Mayor put his hand on the policeman’s shoulder and gripped it firmly. ‘What you’ve got to remember is that she wasn’t there.’
‘No, but-’
‘Neither were you.’
‘No-’
‘And neither was I.’ Holyrod let go of Carlyle’s shoulder, which began throbbing slightly. ‘Not for the meat of the matter, anyway.’ He smiled. ‘Whatever happened, I was not a party to it. Neither, for that matter, was Edgar Carlton.’ He paused. ‘You know how important our reputations are to us.’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Particularly for the next twenty-four hours.’
Holyrod made a face that was part saint, part executioner. ‘For the next twenty-four hours, for the next twenty-four years – and longer even than that. We are men of honour, do you understand?’
How can people believe this kind of bullshit? Carlyle wondered. But, for once, he bit his tongue and nodded. ‘I do.’
‘I wonder.’ Holyrod looked him up and down. ‘This has been handled pretty well, so far. Now it needs to be finished. Do your job, Inspector, no more, no less.’
Without waiting for a reply, Holyrod turned on his heel and headed for the exit. Carlyle listened to footsteps echoing on the stone floor as Holyrod marched out of the church. After the mayor had gone, he quietly said to himself: ‘Well done, John, that worked perfectly. Exactly as planned. Another triumph beckons.’
Trevor Miller gently returned the phone to its cradle and looked up. ‘OK,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ve found her.’
‘You know what you’ve got to do?’ Edgar Carlton inquired dreamily.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. That’s very good.’
Passing the Garden Hotel, Carlyle glanced inside and caught sight of the concierge, Alex Miles, making a fuss of some newly arrived guest. It was little more than a fortnight since Ian Blake’s body had been found in a hotel room upstairs. Carlyle tried to recall the details. What was the number of the room? How many people had slept in there since? He also wondered if they had installed a new bed; they would have had to replace the mattress at the very least.
He tried to remember what it had been like on walking through that door to see the blood, the empty eyes, to smell the stench of death. None of it came back to him. Nothing had lingered in his memory any longer than last night’s television. Already, Ian Blake had become a dim and distant memory, a minor footnote in his own murder investigation. After only a couple of weeks, did anyone miss him? Did anyone even remember that he had ever existed? The inspector felt a sense of melancholy descend on him that he knew would be hard to shake. Don’t be a victim, he thought to himself as he hurried on. Don’t ever be a victim.
Avoiding a return to the Station, he went home, had a shower and then a cheese sandwich. When Helen got home from work, they took Alice to the polling station at Dragon Hall, just off Macklin Street. It was something of a family tradition that they all went voting together: Alice would hand over the polling cards and collect the voting papers, then she would take each of her parents in turn into the booth and put a cross beside their chosen candidate. Then she would fold the papers and put them in the ballot box. The place was quite empty when they arrived, so they were in and out of there in minutes. Carlyle had very mixed feelings about the whole thing: he knew that his vote counted for nothing; on the other hand, he didn’t want his daughter to grow up as cynical as himself.
He left them at the door to Winter Garden House, with a hug and a kiss.
‘When will you be home?’ Helen asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Late… maybe very late.’
‘OK,’ she sighed. ‘Do what you have to do, but be careful.’
‘I will,’ he said, shuffling off round the corner, into Drury Lane.