Edgar Carlton threw a large glass of Remy Martin XO down his throat, followed quickly by another. Feeling suitably relaxed, he plastered what he hoped was a confident smile on his face and stepped out of No 10 Downing Street to address the world. Gripping the lectern that had been placed out in the street, he acknowledged the assembled journalists corralled behind barriers on the pavement, and waited for the flash photography and the whirr of camera motors to die down. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on a point just above the tallest head in the throng, and launched into his statement:
‘Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a new government, and I have accepted. I came into politics because I believe deeply in public service. I love this great country of ours and I think that its best days still lie ahead. I want us all to work together to help to build a society with stronger families and stronger communities. We should remember the words of St Francis of Assisi when he said: “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.” I believe that together we can provide that strong and stable government that our country needs based on those values – rebuilding family, rebuilding community and, above all, rebuilding responsibility in this country. These are the things I care about. These are the things that I will now start work on delivering. Thank you very much.’
Before he had even finished, the hacks began hurling an avalanche of questions at him. Turning quickly away, Edgar fled back inside.
Carlyle sat in a small office, looking out over the empty newsroom: an open-plan arrangement of desks and monitors, with a small studio set in the far corner. On maybe twenty separate screens, he could see images of Edgar Carlton proclaiming his victory on the steps of Downing Street.
‘How did you make the connection?’
‘Huh?’ Carlyle returned his gaze to Rosanna Snowdon. On the desk in front of her lay William Murray’s mobile phone, recovered from the Carlton brothers’ hotel suite. She eyed it nervously, as if it was radioactive.
‘Between father and son? What made you realise that William Murray was Robert Ashton’s kid?’
‘It just came to me,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘I was sitting in a pub as the polls were closing. Edgar appeared on the TV screen, and William Murray was at his shoulder. Then it hit me…’
‘And his mother was covering up for him?’
‘Yes. We don’t know the precise balance of power in that relationship, but they were in it together.’
‘Madness.’
‘Was it?’ Carlyle exhaled. ‘If someone did that to my family, well
…’
Rosanna drummed a perfectly manicured fingernail on her desk. ‘Are you actually condoning murder, Inspector?’
‘No,’ he said stiffly, quickly descending into a bit of jargon in order to mask his opinions. ‘But at least you can put together the pieces and, at the very least, begin understanding the motivation of the perpetrators. That is not the same as condoning it.’
‘It’s an amazing story…’
‘It certainly is,’ Carlyle agreed.
‘… but I can’t use it.’
She looked up at Carlyle, with a pained expression. ‘Why have you brought me this?’
‘I thought you wanted an exclusive,’ he said evenly.
She gestured at the mobile. ‘Not this kind of exclusive.’
Carlyle shifted in his chair. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be the brightest decision he had ever made – even in the course of this current investigation, which would certainly be saying something. ‘What kind is that then?’
‘The kind that will never see the light of day,’ she replied.
He waited for her to explain.
She screwed up her face. ‘How can I use this? It’s not a story.’
‘It seems like a story to me,’ Carlyle said, not convinced himself now. He felt a creeping embarrassment at his stupidity. Why was he even here? What was he thinking? Edgar Carlton was in his first week as prime minister. William Murray and Susy Ahl were both dead. No one cared about their deaths. Robert Ashton may or may not have been successfully avenged.
Who had chosen Carlyle as the one man to shine a light on this dark little corner of the past? He wasn’t even doing his self-appointed task very well. There wasn’t going to be any ‘closure’. All he was doing was digging himself into another hole.
She sat back and gave him a rather pitying smile. ‘That’s why you’re the policeman and I’m the journalist. A story is only a story if I can report it. No one can use this. The lawyers wouldn’t let us go anywhere near it.’
Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle sat in silence.
‘You think this security guy…?’
‘Miller.’
‘Yes, Miller. You think he murdered the aide and also his mother?’
Carlyle nodded.
‘And maybe that other guy… the one killed out near the airport.’
‘Allen?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s possible.’
‘Why would he have done that?’
‘Well, unlike the rest of them, I think Allen was ready to talk. Talk properly that is. He had agreed to speak to me once he returned to the country. If he had spilled the beans, then that would have been a problem for all of them.’
‘But you can’t prove any of this, otherwise you’d nick Miller.’ The word ‘nick’ was delivered with a childlike relish.
‘That is correct,’ Carlyle admitted.
‘So you dangle it in front of me,’ she smiled broadly, ‘hoping that I can stir up some trouble.’
‘But publicity is the very soul of justice,’ he said primly.
‘How profound,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Where did you pick that up from?’
It took Carlyle a second to dredge the name from his memory. ‘Jeremy Bentham – he was a philosopher.’
‘I know who he was,’ Rosanna laughed, ‘but he never worked for the bloody BBC. And, anyway, I don’t think he meant that journalists should allow themselves to be used as a tool of revenge by frustrated coppers.’
Carlyle could only smile. She had him sussed out.
After a few seconds, she added, ‘And you could never arrest them, could you?’
Them being the Carltons.
‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Never in a million years.’
Her face lit up at the thought of it. ‘Although that would certainly be a story and a half. Nicked during your first week as prime minister! Who’d have thought old Edgar Carlton might be so interesting?’
Carlyle sighed. ‘No one will ever face any charges in relation to any of this. Ashton was too long ago, and the Murray problem has been solved to the satisfaction of everyone… except me.’
‘Exactly!’ She folded her arms in triumph. ‘See? I can’t run this story even if I wanted to.’
‘Can’t… or won’t?’ he asked petulantly.
She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Inspector, if I could stand this up, get interviews on camera, put it all together and get it past the lawyers, it would be a bloody miracle.’
‘But if you were a miracle worker?’
‘If I was a miracle worker, and I could get all the pieces to fall into place, sure I’d run it.’ She gave him another one of her coy smiles. ‘A grizzled old detective like you might think that I’m a bit of an airhead…’
Grizzled? He frowned. She was teasing him now, and he quite liked it.
‘… not that I would care, but I am a journalist. I’m a friend of Edgar Carlton sure, but my professional reputation is worth much more than any friendship. A story is a story and I will be a journalist for a lot longer than he is prime minister. I’m not in the business of burying things.’
‘I understand,’ he nodded, poised to spring out of his chair, suddenly keen now to be on his way.
‘But I’m not in the business of flogging a dead horse, either.’
Carlyle looked out at the monitors in the newsroom. Edgar had disappeared back inside his new home, and the screens were now showing some cartoon.
‘Like I said,’ Snowdon continued, ‘it’s got no legs. Even if I could run a piece, which I can’t, who’s going to follow it up? At best, I might get a mention in a couple of newspapers that hate the Carltons anyway. Who cares? Their powerful allies in the media will simply rubbish such “smears”. So the boys may have got up to a bit of high jinks at university. So what? Isn’t that what boys are supposed to do?’
They were distracted by a tired-looking man tapping on the window, signalling that he needed Snowdon. She nodded at him and held up her right index finger to signify that she would be only another minute.
‘I need to go and record a trailer,’ she explained, standing up.
‘Of course,’ Carlyle finally got out of his chair. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘No problem. However, I think you’re being a bit naive, Inspector, and frankly that’s a bit of a surprise.’
Was that a compliment? Or an insult?
‘Still,’ Snowdon continued, ‘I’m going to do you a favour, a big favour.’ Tentatively, she lifted Murray’s mobile phone from the desk and began pressing some buttons. Then she looked up at him like a schoolteacher who was about to tell a none-too-bright pupil how best to avoid flunking his exam. ‘This case is closed, right?’
‘Yes.’
She waved the phone at him. ‘This evidence is not part of any official report?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t copied this? Or sent it to anyone?’
‘No.’ It was easy to slip in the lie among a collection of truths. Casually patting his jacket pocket, he reassured himself that his pay-as-you-go mobile was still there. The one to which he’d already sent a copy of William Murray’s video nasty.
‘Or posted it on YouTube?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’
‘OK, good.’ Snowdon picked up the handset from her desk and pulled up Murray’s video. For a second, Carlyle caught a glimpse of Xavier Carlton’s contorted face. Then Snowdon hit the delete button, and the screen immediately went blank. Standing up, she tossed him the phone. ‘That’s sorted, then. Take my advice, Inspector, and just forget that you ever saw it.’ Stepping from behind the desk, she took him by the arm and ushered him out of her office and through the newsroom, heading for reception. Catching the eye of her producer, who was hovering nervously, she shouted, ‘Just coming!’
At the door, she turned to Carlyle and pulled an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of his jacket. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I really appreciate you thinking of me.’
‘My pleasure,’ he mumbled.
She grinned. ‘In the meantime, that’s another favour… another two favours… you owe me.’
‘Favours?’
She counted them off on her fingers. ‘One for providing the initial introduction to Edgar, one for deleting that stuff on the phone, and one for not telling our prime minister that you wanted me to run the story and thus destroy his honeymoon period with the voters.’
An uncomfortable look crossed Carlyle’s face.
‘Don’t worry.’ She took him by the arm. ‘Remember, I need stories
… exclusives, particularly crime stories. Crime reporting has not been one of our strengths in recent years. It’s an opportunity for me to make a splash, and you can help me with that. You can also help me broaden my range of contacts within the police.’
‘I understand,’ he said rather wearily.
‘Good.’ She was pleased to discover that this rather slow pupil was finally beginning to show some promise. ‘I think we’re going to have a beautiful relationship.’
I’m fucked, he thought.
‘Yes! Come on!’
Xavier Carlton felt as if he was finally getting his mojo back. A couple of good nights’ sleep, and the prospect of no more electioneering for the next five bloody years, had done wonders for his spirit, not to mention his libido. Later in the day, he would be off on his first official trip as foreign secretary. First, however, he had to finish servicing young Camilla or Cressida, or whatever the hell her name was. He grimaced at the sight of the young party worker bent over the desk, with her Boden crinkle cotton skirt bunched up around her waist and her knickers discarded on the floor, while thrusting as hard as he could.
‘Yes!’ She mimicked him, without much enthusiasm.
Xavier tugged on the girl’s hair, forcing her to turn and face him, so that he could enjoy the mixture of confusion and boredom in her eyes. You’ll never have much of a career in porno movies, he thought, slapping her hard on the buttocks.
‘Faster!’
‘Yes! Yes!’ She thrust backwards with such vigour that it almost knocked him off his feet.
‘For God’s sake!’ Slipping out, Xavier closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the smell of shit. Smearing the girl’s bodily waste along the length of his shaft, he started stroking himself vigorously. After a few moments, he brought up an image of Yulexis, on her knees, tickling his balls while she sucked him off like an angel on crack. Almost immediately, he felt himself quiver uncontrollably. Pushing himself back inside the girl, he lent forward and started pawing at her chest.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’
‘Was that good, Xavier? Better than me?’
He opened his eyes. The real Yulexis was standing before them, a very nasty-looking kitchen knife in her hand and hatred blazing in her eyes. As she raised the weapon, Xavier thought that he could finally make out the increased curve of her stomach. Had she refused to go to Harley Street? Or had he simply forgotten to make that appointment for her abortion?
As he struggled to recall, Yulexis hammered the blade into his chest. There was a sickening crack as she forced the steel through his breastbone. With the knife stuck firmly in his chest, Xavier collapsed, a confused expression on his face, blood rapidly staining his shirt. But I was thinking of you, screamed a voice in his head. I was thinking of you!
The girl looked pained rather than scared. Standing up, she pulled down her dress and involuntarily passed wind. Yulexis wrinkled her nose at the stench of excrement, but said nothing. Blushing, the girl looked at Xavier’s crumpled body lying on the floor.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked.
‘I truly hope so,’ said Yulexis, carefully feeling her bump. ‘It’s the very least that the sick bastard deserves.’
After escaping from Snowdon, Carlyle wandered aimlessly up Marylebone High Street. Stopping at a cafe, he ordered a takeaway latte. From a radio behind the counter came a round-up of the day’s news. After the soap opera of the election, it was back to business as usual. The world was not going to dramatically change.
The presenter rushed through the stories, as if not wishing to delay the adverts.
‘The aide to Prime Minister Edgar Carlton, who accidentally drowned in an election night tragedy, has finally been officially identified.’
But William Murray did not even merit a name check.
‘And Spandau Ballet are to regroup for a series of concerts in the autumn.’
Spandau fucking Ballet, Carlyle, thought. Jesus! What is the world coming to? He thanked the girl who handed him his coffee, took a careful sip and smiled. For once it was extremely hot, just how he liked it.
Out on the street again, his phone rang. Seeing Joe’s number on the screen, he punched the receive button. ‘Hi.’
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ was Joe’s opening gambit.
‘I’ll believe anything.’ Carlyle laughed.
‘I’ve just had a call from Commissario Edmondo Valcareggi…’
Carlyle took a mouthful of coffee and felt it scald the back of his throat. ‘Oh yeah?’ he coughed.
‘Apparently Ferruccio Pozzo wasn’t Ferruccio Pozzo.’
‘The liposuction guy?’
‘Yeah, the one who was killed in prison.’
‘But Valcareggi said he had DNA…’
‘The lab messed up, apparently. Either that or someone fiddled with the test results.’
‘So,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘the guy we nicked – who was he, then?’
‘No idea,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘But Valcareggi reckons that the real Pozzo is going to be in London next week. He wants us to help him arrest him.’
Carlyle gave this some thought as he watched a very pretty girl in a very flimsy T-shirt and no bra stroll slowly past him, walking a very small dog on a very long lead. Only by gritting his teeth and summoning up the willpower of ten men did he resist the temptation to turn round and gawp at her backside as well.
‘What do you think?’ asked Joe.
Carlyle unclenched his jaw. ‘Tell him to fuck off.’
Ending the call, he turned round. The girl was already gone. Smiling to himself, he walked into Paddington Street Gardens and squeezed into the small space that was free on a bench in the shade of a tree. Slowly drinking his coffee, he thought about the phone in his pocket with a copy of William Murray’s video nasty on it. Would he ever do anything with it? He had no idea. Would it make any difference to anything, even if he did share it with the world?
His mind went completely blank.
Finishing his coffee, he tossed the empty cup into a nearby waste bin. A car pulled up at a nearby red light, The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ blasting from its stereo. Singing along under his breath, Carlyle watched a young boy happily chasing a pair of pigeons across the grass, oblivious to the couple snogging enthusiastically right in front of him. Behind their heads, a poster stuck to the outside of a phone box proclaimed ‘Capitalism Isn’t Working’. Inside the booth, the selection of cards offering a wide range of services from ‘Japanese schoolgirls’, ‘Indian models’ and pre-op transsexuals suggested otherwise.
After a short while spent contemplating all of the city’s bounty, Carlyle left the shade of the tree, heading for home. Feeling the sun on his back and the stone beneath his feet, he smiled.