The Circus (12 page)

Sitting back in his chair, Joe looked through the window that offered a view across the empty newsroom. The place looked like a DIY warehouse filled with row after row of desks and computers, their screens illuminated by the strip lighting suspended from the ceiling. The overall effect was profoundly depressing. It made Charing Cross police station look like a palace.

‘Before we start,’ Bellamy interrupted the sergeant’s musings, ‘I have to tell you that I won’t be able to deal with any detailed questions about Duncan Brown or his work or about the hacking inquiry.’

Joe turned back to face the Editor. ‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both. You can, of course, ask me anything you like. However, if we stray into . . . difficult territory, one of our lawyers will have to be present.’

Joe nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘You have to realize that the amount of discretion I have here is severely limited. Indeed, if my boss knew you were here now, she would be very unhappy.’

‘Maybe I should speak to your boss.’

‘Maybe you should,’ Bellamy agreed. ‘But you won’t get anywhere near Sonia Claesens without an army of lawyers getting in your way. Not to mention Trevor Miller stomping all over you.’

Trevor Miller? Joe thought. Fucking hell, what’s he got to do with this? Play dumb, he told himself. In the inside pocket of his jacket his mobile started vibrating – for the third time in the past minute. For the third time in the past minute, he ignored it. ‘Who’s Trevor Miller?’

‘Hah!’ Bellamy thumped the table in amusement. ‘You don’t know much, Sergeant, do you?’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Joe smiled, careful not to rise to the bait. ‘So, what can you tell me about Duncan Brown?’ he asked. ‘Did
he
look after himself?’

‘I suppose so . . . as much as anyone here does, anyway.’ Bellamy carefully replaced the green cap on his bottle of water as he paused for a moment’s reflection on his dear departed colleague. ‘The important thing to realize is that Duncan was a good lad, a solid citizen.’

‘Why would anyone want to stab him to death, then?’

Bellamy ran a hand through his silver locks. ‘As you can imagine, Sergeant, I have given that some considerable thought.’

‘And?’

‘No idea,’ Bellamy laughed. ‘I genuinely don’t know.’

‘But—’ The phone started vibrating again. ‘Fuck.’ Joe pulled it from his pocket and saw Carlyle’s name on the screen. ‘Apologies. Excuse me a second, I need to take this.’

Bellamy gave a gracious nod and turned his attention to the screen of the computer standing on his desk.

‘Where are you?’ the inspector asked without preamble.

‘I’m in Docklands.’

Carlyle harrumphed. ‘What are you doing in fucking Docklands?’

‘It’s where Duncan Brown worked,’ said Joe, trying to hide his irritation. ‘I’m talking to his boss.’

‘Well get your arse back to Charing Cross, tonto pronto,’ Carlyle grunted.

‘But—’

‘We’ve got work to do.’

‘But—’

‘Simpson says we have to focus on Mosman.’

‘But—’

‘No more fucking
buts
. See you back at the ranch asap.’

Bloody Carlyle, Joe thought, irritated. Always swanning around in his own little world, acting like he was the only one trying to shovel shit. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay.’

‘Good. See you soon.’ Without another word, the inspector ended the call.

Bellamy looked up from his screen and smiled. ‘Problem?’

‘We’ll have to talk later, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m always here.’

‘Good to know.’ Joe flicked through a mental checklist in his head. ‘In the meantime, I will send someone to check through Brown’s desk and computer. It would also be helpful to have a list of his contacts.’

Grinning, Bellamy waved a hand towards the newsroom. ‘We have a hot-desking system here. Everyone moves around all the
time, so we won’t be able to show you a specific desk or computer terminal.’

‘Great.’

‘But I’m sure that the IT people will be able to sort something out – once our lawyers have okayed it.’

‘Fine. We’ll be in touch.’ Joe jumped to his feet. Having just been beaten up by his boss, he wasn’t going to let some mere hack take the piss. ‘Don’t bother getting up. I can see myself out.’

Still holding the Greggs plastic bag containing his lunch, a now very hungry Carlyle skipped up the front steps of Charing Cross police station. Reaching the top, he felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. With some reluctance, he pulled it out.

‘Inspector, it’s Julian Richardson here.’

‘Who?’

‘Julian Richardson.’ The young man sounded pained at having to repeat his name. ‘From St John’s Wood.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the inspector irritably, belatedly recalling that Richardson was the sergeant placed in charge of logistical coordination for the Mosman case. ‘What do you want?’ If he didn’t get something to eat in the next five minutes, there was every chance that the inspector would go into total meltdown.

‘I have just spoken to Melvin Boduka, the lawyer acting for Horatio Mosman’s parents. He says his clients will be able to see you this afternoon.’ Richardson reeled off an address near Park Lane.

‘Okay,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Tell them I’m on my way.’ Ending the call, he stepped through the automatic doors. He would nip down to the canteen, scarf down his lunch, leave a list of things for Joe to be getting on with and then head back out.

‘Inspector!’ Half-turning, Carlyle tried to keep walking even as he smiled at the desk sergeant. ‘How’s it going, George?’

‘Could I have a minute?’

‘Er . . .’

George Patrick gestured in the direction of a thin, angry-looking, middle-aged woman who was standing in front of the desk. On first glance, Carlyle thought that she seemed vaguely familiar, but then so did lots of people. ‘This lady could do with some assistance,’ George explained.

‘Sorry,’ Carlyle tried to look sympathetic, ‘but I’ve got to go and—’

‘I’ve been waiting to speak to someone for almost an hour now,’ the woman said huffily, eyeing the bag containing the inspector’s lunch. She stepped towards him. ‘It’s a very serious matter.’

Burying his nose in some convenient paperwork, George Patrick tried not to laugh.

‘And anyway,’ continued the woman, ignoring the sniggering desk sergeant, ‘don’t you know who I am?’

‘You talk, I’ll eat.’ Ignoring the look of displeasure that flitted across Margaretha Zelle’s face, the inspector tore open the cellophane packaging, pulled out his sandwich and took a large bite.

Sitting back in her chair in the almost empty canteen, Zelle cradled a glass mug of jasmine tea. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who I am?’

Trying not to speak with his mouth full, the inspector made a non-committal gesture. The truth was that it had come to him on the way down to the basement. Margaretha Zelle was an over-exposed London celebrity. Not so long ago, he had read about her latest exploits in one of the trashy magazines that his wife brought home with alarming regularity.

Born in Antwerp in the late 1970s, Zelle was a member of that rarest breed, famous Belgians. Known, in no particular order, for being a model, singer and animal lover, she had lost an arm in a climbing accident on the Neige Cordier peak in the French Alps. Her ex-husbands included a banker, a semi-famous actor and a former England football manager. An acrimonious divorce
from the last had resulted in her being awarded £8.3 million in a highly publicized court settlement.

Washing the sandwich down with a mouthful of coffee, Carlyle unceremoniously started on the Belgian bun. Pouting, Zelle picked up a copy of
Metro
that had been left by a previous diner and started pointedly reading a story about a government adviser who claimed that some police officers were barely literate.

Swallowing the last of the bun, Carlyle took another mouthful of coffee. ‘Ah,’ he muttered to himself, ‘that’s better.’ If not exactly full, he was no longer starving. Zelle was still pretending to read the scathing article. Maybe he could grab a Mars bar – or maybe not. Helen would definitely not approve.

A question suddenly came into his mind. ‘Do you happen to know why a Belgian bun is called a Belgian bun?’

‘What?’ Zelle stared at him blankly. Despite the fierce countenance, she was a good-looking woman. Tall, thin and blonde, she had high cheekbones and only the faintest of lines around her sharp blue eyes.

‘Never mind.’

Tapping the newspaper with her prosthetic hand, she gave a grin. ‘It says here that police officers are, quote “barely literate” unquote because the entry standards are so low. Reading, writing and maths skills have fallen significantly.’

Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest, Carlyle thought, but what concern is it of yours? ‘I might not be able to read or write,’ he said gruffly, ‘but my timekeeping skills are still up to scratch.’ He pointed at the clock on the far wall. ‘I really do have to get going soon, so tell me what the problem is and let’s make it quick.’

The grin widened, making Zelle look even more attractive in a dangerous type of way. ‘My, my,’ she teased. ‘We are sensitive, aren’t we?’

Fuck it, thought Carlyle, I will have that Mars bar. And a double espresso to go with it. ‘You’ve got five minutes. Remember to keep it simple though, given how stupid us cops
are.’ Then, getting to his feet, he bolted for the confectionery display and came back almost immediately clutching his prize.

‘My publicist suggested I should come.’

That’s not a line you hear every day, Carlyle thought, chomping on the Mars bar.

‘My phone’s been hacked.’

‘Mm.’ As the last piece of chocolate disappeared into his maw, the inspector realized that he should have gone for the king-sized bar.

‘It needs to be investigated.’

Finishing his coffee, Carlyle screwed up the Mars wrapper and dropped it into the empty mug. He told himself firmly that he wasn’t going to lose his temper. ‘There’s a special task force looking into this whole issue. You should go and talk to them.’

‘Don’t try and fob me off!’ the woman snapped. ‘I’ve been waiting upstairs for ages.’

‘I’m sorry that you had to wait,’ Carlyle replied evenly. ‘All I’m trying to do is ensure that you get to talk to the right people.’

‘A journalist called me last week,’ she continued, ignoring what he had just said. ‘He was able to quote verbatim from phone messages that Sam had left for me.’

‘Sam?’ Carlyle asked, curious despite himself.

‘Sam Grove.’ Grove was the former England football manager – Mr Zelle number three, or maybe it was number four. Either way, marriage to Margaretha, combined with a run of shockingly bad results, was enough to make him public enemy number one up until the point where he was ceremoniously sacked.

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t you follow football, Inspector?’

He shrugged.
Proper football fans don’t support England, they support their club
. ‘I’m a Fulham fan.’

Not knowing what to make of that, she ploughed on. ‘Anyway, I told this journalist: “If you do anything with this story I’ll go to the police”.’

‘And what happened?’ Carlyle already knew the answer but asked anyway.

‘The bastard ran the story last weekend.’ Zelle hoisted a massive red Chloé python-skin tote bag on to the table and untied the flap. Carlyle watched in silence as she pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed him a half-page cutting. ‘This is it.’

Squinting, Carlyle scanned the article. Under the headline
MAD MARG BLOWS HER TOP
was a not very flattering picture of Zelle wearing a bikini on a Caribbean beach. The ‘story’ itself involved an argument over money; just a précis of the kind of routine domestic row that any couple might have. As a ‘story’, it was utterly boring. No wonder newspapers were dying on their feet.

Rereading the piece, Carlyle noticed the byline and realized that the article had been written by Duncan Brown.

He looked at Zelle. ‘You spoke to Duncan Brown?’

‘So, you
can
read, then,’ Zelle said petulantly. ‘And I didn’t even see your lips moving.’

God give me strength, Carlyle thought morosely. ‘When exactly did he call you?’

Zelle gazed into the middle distance. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ she said, before reeling off a number of possible dates. ‘I think it was the Wednesday and I’d just come out of the gym. But you can check my phone records.’

Yes, Carlyle thought, I suppose we can. ‘Did you ever actually meet him?’

‘No!’ Zelle made a moue. ‘I only spoke to the nasty little rodent once on the phone. That was it.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle glanced again at the clock. The day was slipping away from him but the Mosmans could wait a little longer. After all, he hadn’t committed to turn up at their lawyer’s office at any precise time. Turning his gaze back to Zelle, he tried to smile. ‘What we need to do now is this . . .’

‘Shouldn’t you be in uniform?’ Louise Greco studied the warrant card carefully before handing it back to the WPC. The pretty young officer had arrived in her office only ten minutes ago, but already she had created a significant glitch in Greco’s tight schedule.

When you were headmistress of St Marylebone C of E Secondary School, the bureaucracy was never-ending. Greco pined for the time – long gone – when her days hadn’t been chopped up into thirty-minute blocks, each of which was completely filled with a range of wearisome tasks.

Greco checked her watch. As of right now, she had a letter to write to all parents of Key Stage 3 students regarding the use of social networks and mobile phones, as well as drafting an invite for the White Paper Consultation meeting. And the Pupil Achievement Team meeting was due to start in less than fifteen minutes. In short, the headmistress simply didn’t have time for some girl who looked like a refugee from the Sixth Form Common Room waltzing into her office and demanding to be allowed to interview various pupils.

Maude Hall smiled sweetly. She had been in the MPS for barely nine months, but already she understood well enough that most people were naturally suspicious of the police. ‘It’s my day off.’

‘So . . .’ Greco peered over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses and did a double-take; the girl had a tiny diamond stud in her
left nostril. The thing was so small that it looked like a spot. Surely you can’t wear things like that when you are in the police? Greco pondered. Even if you are off duty?