The Circus (16 page)

‘And he’s also got Clegg’s name.’

‘You are fucking kidding me!’ The inspector’s face turned an unpleasant shade of red until, for a moment, it looked like his head might actually explode.

‘And he’s even got this address.’ Fearing that his boss was about to rush over and throttle him, Joe took a couple of precautionary steps backwards. ‘I know,’ he said, holding up both hands. ‘I know, I know, I know. Someone’s blabbed. But we are where we are. He’s going to be here in ten minutes. What do you want me to tell him?’

After a succession of deep inhalations, Carlyle’s face slowly began to return to something approaching its normal colour. ‘Just go and speak to the bloody concierge. I’ll deal with Bernie myself.’

Carlyle intercepted the journalist at the front door of Clegg’s apartment building. Bernard Wynstanley Gilmore was a bear of a man: six foot two and twenty stone, he had a shock of black
hair and an unkempt beard flecked with grey. His Depeche Mode
Sounds of the Universe
sweatshirt was covered in stains of an indeterminate nature, and his jeans were torn at both knees.

‘How’s it going, Bernie?’

‘Inspector.’ The journalist greeted him, wheezing as if he’d just climbed ten flights of stairs. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course not,’ Carlyle smiled.

‘Why not?’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it a crime scene?’

‘No.’ At least not yet anyway. Carlyle gestured down the road, towards Ganton Street. ‘Let’s go to the Shaston Arms.’

‘Mm.’ Gilmore thought about that for a moment, patting his belly as he did so. ‘D’ya think they’ll have Tyrell’s crisps?’

‘I’m sure they do,’ Carlyle said, leading the way.

Bernie Gilmore looked genuinely hurt. ‘They didn’t have any Tyrell’s.’

‘Ah well.’ Never a connoisseur, the inspector smiled as sympathetically as he could. As far as he was concerned, one bag of crisps was pretty much the same as another. It wasn’t as if the pub didn’t have any kind of crisps, so surely the hack could make do.

Gilmore ripped open a bag of Thai Sweet Chicken and another of Sizzling King Prawn and laid them on the table. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took a sip of his Jameson’s and waited while the journalist sampled the different flavours. Listening to the happy buzz of the conversations around them, he considered how he should play this meeting.

After washing the crisps down with a couple of gulps of Greene King IPA, Gilmore placed his pint glass on the table and happily wiped some crumbs from his beard. ‘Ahh!!’

‘Good?’ Carlyle finished his whiskey. He should have asked for a double. Already he felt like another.

‘I think I prefer the Sweet Chicken,’ Gilmore said solemnly. ‘Anyway, what’s the story?’

‘That remains to be seen.’

Gilmore lifted the glass back to his mouth. ‘Hardly.’

‘Pardon?’

‘As you well know, Inspector, these days,
wait and see
is never an option.’ Gilmore paused to demolish the rest of his beer. ‘If you’re going to ask me to just sit on this, there’s no chance. Pretty girl, a top student, goes missing in the middle of the big city? It seems very surprising that the police haven’t gone public on it already. Meanwhile, the parents, as you would expect, are worried sick. So, what are you waiting for?’

What do you know about the parents’ worries?
As far as Carlyle knew, Gilmore didn’t have any kids. Even if he did, it was a fair bet he never got to see them. Being an in-your-face, muckraking journalist was a 24/7 gig; it did not sit easily with family responsibilities. ‘We don’t actually know that the girl is in danger.’ He kept his voice low, his tone even. ‘So far, this is just a missing person inquiry.’

‘Is that so?’ Gilmore raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. The Missing Persons Bureau hasn’t heard of her.’

‘Okay,’ Carlyle grimaced. ‘Maybe – and this is not for quotation – we’re a bit behind on the paperwork.’

Folding his arms, Gilmore sat back in his seat. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not interested in giving you a hard time.’

Carlyle shook his head disbelievingly. ‘No?’

‘No, really, I’m not. But the point is, I’ve got more than enough material to go with this story. I’ve spoken to the parents, and to the best friend. By all accounts, Hannah was a smart kid.’

‘
Is
,’ Carlyle corrected him, hoping that he was right.

‘Very smart,’ Bernie continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Her parents were already dreaming of a scholarship at Stanford. That’s an American university.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘Silicon Valley and all that.’

‘You can hardly blame them,’ Bernie mused, ‘what with tuition fees here going through the roof. Who’d want to scrape together nine grand a year to send their kid to some shitty polytechnic that no one’s ever heard of?’

‘Do they still have polys?’ Carlyle asked.

Bernie thought about that for a moment. ‘Maybe they changed their names,’ he offered finally. ‘Still, no match for the Ivy League, though.’

‘No,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘So the boyfriend was obviously a bit of a fly in the ointment when it came to the grand plan.’

‘True.’

‘Teenage hormones,’ Bernie shrugged. ‘They’re a killer.’

A thought struck Carlyle. ‘Did you tell the parents about Clegg?’

‘You really are off the pace on this one, aren’t you?’ Gilmore shot him a pitying look.

Fuck, the inspector thought, as he realized that he would have to talk to Mr and Mrs Gillespie asap. That was something else to look forward to.

‘So you did tell them?’ Carlyle asked again.

‘Well, I’m not going to let them read about it in the paper, am I? I’ve even got a photo of young Hannah posing with the Mayor.’

‘Christian Holyrod?’ Carlyle felt himself shudder. ‘When did
he
manage to find his way into the story?’ He had a sudden nasty thought. ‘He hasn’t been shagging her too, has he?’

‘No, no, no.’ Bernie tutted in disgust. ‘She was introduced to him at a Peer Workers’ Outreach event. Hannah is a member of the Link Up Crew.’

What the hell are you talking about? Carlyle wondered.

‘The Link Up Crew,’ Gilmore explained, ‘are kids who are supposed to go out and spread the word about the Mayor’s good deeds, informing young Londoners on what’s happening in the capital and sending their views, opinions and feedback to City Hall. It’s all part of the Mayor’s policy of engagement with the youth of today – trying to stop the little buggers looting sneakers next time there’s a riot.’

‘What a load of old crap,’ Carlyle snorted.

‘Quite. But the fact that Hannah signed up to take part shows she’s trying to be a good corporate citizen. In other words, she is not just some feckless chav.’

‘No one ever said that she was,’ Carlyle replied defensively.

‘No, but equally, she’s not the kind of middle-class kid with connected parents for whom the forces of the state would be deployed in the blink of an eye without any of this
let’s wait and see
stuff.’

‘Eh?’

Giving up on the social commentary, Bernie spelled it out. ‘Maybe you could be doing a bit more.’

‘Like what?’

‘You tell me. You’re the policeman.’

‘Thanks for pointing that out.’

For a few moments they sat in uneasy silence, until Gilmore gestured to Carlyle’s empty glass. ‘Want another?’

The inspector let out a deep sigh. ‘Why not?’

Returning from the bar, Gilmore handed Carlyle his whiskey. ‘Got you a double this time.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You look like you need it. I saw how the last one didn’t touch the sides.’

‘There’s a lot going on.’

‘There always is.’ Gilmore sat down heavily, dropping a packet of Flame-Grilled Steak crisps on to the table. ‘Dinner,’ Bernie said succinctly, noting the policeman’s dismay.

‘Fair enough.’ Lifting the glass to his lips, Carlyle took a modest mouthful, letting the Jameson’s slide across his tongue.

Gilmore sat back, waiting for the negotiating to begin.

‘Look,’ said Carlyle, returning his glass to the table, ‘I know that we might be playing catch-up . . . but I can trade.’

Now it was the journalist’s turn to shake his head. ‘Not your style.’

That was true enough. It was well known that the inspector was not a great one for cosying up to journalists. Here and now,
however, it looked like he was going to have to make an exception. ‘Circumstances change.’

Gilmore contemplated his new pint for several moments. ‘I’ve got the girl, the boyfriend and the worried parents,’ he said, not looking up. ‘That’s everything I need; more than enough, in fact.’ Carlyle nodded, letting him say his piece. ‘What’s more, it’s an exclusive.’

The inspector patted the phone in his pocket. ‘It wouldn’t be for long if I gave it to someone else.’ But it was a feeble threat, and they both knew it.

‘What would be the point of that? It would hardly solve your problem.’

‘I’m also working on Horatio Mosman . . .’

‘Big deal!’ Gilmore scoffed. ‘Everybody knows that. And it’s been done to death already.’ Opening his new packet of crisps, he arched an eyebrow. ‘No pun intended, of course. And anyway, I am perfectly well aware that you have no progress to report.’

‘Then there’s the Duncan Brown case.’

‘Mm . . .’ Gilmore dropped a handful of crisps into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘That may be a little bit more interesting. What have you got so far?’

‘You’ll have to wait.’

‘A bird in the hand, Inspector.’

Looking around, Carlyle lowered his voice. ‘I will give you a full heads-up on both Mosman and Brown – in due course. Also, if anyone else starts sniffing around the Gillespie story I will let you know straight away, so that you can still get it out there first.’

Gilmore took another crisp from the packet and contemplated it carefully. ‘You have my mobile number?’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t forget to use it.’

When he returned to Clegg’s apartment, Carlyle was surprised to find WPC Maude Hall there, talking to Joe.

‘How did it go?’ Joe asked.

‘He’ll give us a little time,’ Carlyle replied, not wanting to go into the details. ‘Did you get anything of use from the concierge?’

‘Nah,’ Joe said. ‘The guy says that Clegg travels a lot; hasn’t seen him in the last week or so. He doesn’t recognize the girl – says he hasn’t seen her coming or going from the flat.’

‘Or doesn’t want to let on,’ Carlyle grumbled.

‘Either way, it’s the same situation.’ Joe gestured towards the WPC. ‘Anyway, Maude’s come up with something interesting.’

‘On Mosman,’ Hall clarified, ‘not this.’

‘Okay.’ Carlyle was more than happy to accept good news wherever he could find it. He looked her up and down: out of uniform she looked so very young. And was that a stud in her nose?

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes?’ He belatedly restored eye-contact.

‘Zoe Mosman told you that she was an art historian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s not quite the whole story. She is, in fact, Creative Director for the Government Art Collection.’

‘That’s the thing Sir Michael Snowdon was talking about,’ Joe reminded him.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘the bikini picture. But is that of any significance?’

‘I think so,’ said Hall. ‘The picture that was pinned to Horatio’s shirt was a view of Covent Garden, painted by a Flemish painter called Joseph van Aken in the 1700s. The GAC bought it back in 1929 and the last record of it being on display was in an exhibition put on by the British Embassy in Lagos in 1986.’

Carlyle looked at Joe and Maude in turn. ‘How did you find this out?’

‘It’s all easily accessible,’ Hall smiled, ‘if you know where to look.’

‘Good. Well done.’ The inspector turned to Joe. ‘So, it looks like we need to go and have another word with Mrs Mosman.’

‘Yes.’ His sergeant looked eager at the prospect.

The inspector thought about it for a moment longer. ‘But maybe I should talk to Sir Michael first.’

Trevor Miller shovelled the last forkful of Cumberland sausage into his mouth before pushing away his empty plate with a satisfied sigh. Wondering what he could stuff down his gullet next, the Prime Minister’s Senior Security Adviser noticed that his dining companions had barely touched the food on their plates. Sonia Claesens had ordered the caviar omelette (sixty quid!) and Simon Shelbourne the haggis with fried duck eggs (only a tenner). Twenty minutes waiting for their orders to arrive, and then the two of them spent another ten minutes pushing the food around their plates, waiting for Miller to finish eating so that they could finally get down to business. The bill would come to more than a hundred quid and all they would actually get out of it was a cup of herbal tea.

It all seems like a terrible waste of good food, Miller thought idly. But what did he care? It wasn’t like he would be picking up the tab.

Smearing a slice of white toast with butter and adding a layer of Dundee rough-cut marmalade, Miller took a large bite, before washing it down with a mouthful of coffee. Detecting more than a hint of impatience in Sonia’s eyes, he quickly squashed the rest of the toast into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Finishing his coffee, he placed the cup back on its saucer and pushed his chair an inch or so away from the table, signalling that the eating part of the proceedings was at an end.

‘Very nice breakfast,’ he smiled, holding in a small burp.

An officious-looking waiter appeared at the table. Sonia Claesens glared at him balefully and he scurried away.

‘Amazing service in this place,’ Shelbourne mused. ‘And always so busy!’ He gestured to the people queuing at the door, waiting for a table to become available. ‘You’d never know that there was a recession on.’

‘And has been for the last six years,’ Claesens added somewhat resentfully.

Miller stared at them blankly. Small talk wasn’t his forte. ‘Mm,’ was all he could manage. Amazingly, he still felt rather hungry. He wondered if he could have some more toast.

‘Of course,’ Shelbourne trilled, ‘I used to come here all the time – before I started working for Sir Chester, that is.’

Before you started having to get your expenses through the Met’s Accounts Department, Miller thought. The Warham would never have been his first choice for this meeting. The Piccadilly café-restaurant in the grand European tradition – a former car showroom with lots of Venetian and Florentine influences; pillars, arches and stairways all over the place – was too busy, too noisy and too showy for his own taste. Looking around, it seemed that everyone else was busily checking out their fellow diners; or tapping away on their BlackBerrys and iPads while holding desultory conversations. It was a place to be seen, rather than somewhere for a discreet tête-à-tête. There was no semblance of privacy. A journalist working for Claesens had even been banned for prowling the tables, hassling the great and the good over their food in his relentless search for ‘exclusive’ stories. The venue made the veteran security consultant feel distinctly uncomfortable. It had been chosen by Shelbourne’s PA and Miller belatedly wondered if he should have insisted on somewhere else. By now, the fact that the three of them were breakfasting together was probably already a matter of record on some social networking site.