The Circus (32 page)

And that someone would doubtless be Rosanna Snowdon, Carlyle thought, and her
London Crime
show. He felt a jolt of adrenalin; things were finally falling into place.

‘But that meant that Anton was going up against both his employer and the company’s number-one client.’

‘So they killed him?’ Carlyle still wasn’t convinced.

Dom shrugged. ‘He went to the Princess Ottoline pub in Hammersmith to meet a contact, and ended up with a terminal headache.’

The inspector let out a long breath. ‘It’s all speculation.’

‘Absolutely. But you know Trevor Miller. You know Charlie Ross. Both of them are nasty bastards in the extreme. They had stumbled into a nice little business and wouldn’t want anyone to mess it up.’

Carlyle let his gaze lose focus as he stared out of the window, realizing that they still had a way to go to join all the dots. He thought of Anton Fox, Rosanna Snowdon and Maude Hall. ‘Do you think he could have killed them all?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

‘Trevor?’ Dom wrinkled his nose. ‘Why not? That fucking idiot is capable of anything – anything stupid, that is.’

‘Fu-uck! What a mess.’

‘Yes, but you might be able to get your man.’

‘How?’

Dom took another mouthful of tea. ‘I would lean on Simon Shelbourne.’

‘The Commissioner’s PR man?’

Dom nodded. ‘Before he became Editor of the
Sunday Witness
, he covered the crime beat for the paper. Bella says that he was close to Anton. She says that Shelbourne promised Anton fifty grand for some big story just before he died.’

‘What story?’ Carlyle demanded.

‘Dunno. What I
do
know, however, is that our Mr Shelbourne has been interviewed by Operation Redhead officers . . . twice.’

The inspector smacked his head. ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Bloody Chief Inspector Russell Meyer, why hadn’t he mentioned any of this?

‘Both times,’ Dom continued, ‘he denied having any contact with Fox.’

‘So why do you think
I
would be able to get any more out of him?’

‘Shelbourne is weak,’ Dom continued, ‘both physically and mentally. I could get Gideon to have a word with him. He’d crumble in less than five minutes. Tell you whatever you want.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle had to admit, the idea had much to commend it. As he contemplated Gideon getting to work on the ex-Editor, his phone started vibrating. ‘Hold that thought. In the meantime, keep on digging. See what else you can find out.’

‘Inspector?’ said a familiar gravelly voice. ‘It’s Charlie Ross.’

‘Charlie.’ Carlyle shot a glance at Dom.

‘Are you busy?’

‘I’m always busy. What can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering if we could meet up.’

On his way to see Charlie Ross, Carlyle took a detour in order to drop in at the Holborn police station on Lamb’s Conduit Street. He wanted to speak to Susan Phillips. In the event, he had to wait more than half an hour before the pathologist made an appearance. Sweeping through the reception at a clip, she headed straight for the entrance door, signalling with the slightest nod
of her head that he should follow. Carlyle chased after her, but she was going at such a pace that they were halfway towards Coram’s Fields before he caught up.

‘What are you doing here?’ Phillips snapped, not slowing down.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ Carlyle quipped.

‘John, now is really not the time.’ Skipping out in front of a taxi, she crossed Great Ormond Street and dived into the Starbucks on the corner, leaving him still standing on the kerbside. By the time he made it inside, she had already ordered a double espresso and a latte and was paying for them with her credit card. ‘Get a seat. I’ll bring the coffees.’

Stepping back outside, the inspector grabbed a small table that had just been vacated by a couple of tired-looking hospital workers. From his seat, he watched her through the window, chewing nervously on her thumb as she waited for their order. Given that Phillips was just about the most laid-back colleague Carlyle had ever known, it was clear that something must be up.

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle placed his hands behind his head and smiled to himself.

If something was up, that meant they must have found important new evidence.

‘Just don’t ask me anything about Maude Hall.’ Phillips took a mouthful of her latte as soon as she had handed Carlyle his espresso.

‘Thanks.’ The last thing the inspector needed was more caffeine, so he placed the small paper cup carefully on the table without taking a sip.

‘Because I know that it’s not even your case,’ said Phillips, lowering herself into the other chair.

‘No,’ he had to agree.

‘Not that you’ve ever let minor details like that stop you in the past.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It’s just the way I am, sorry.’ He knew
Phillips well enough. Despite the complaining, she would tell him what was going on in her own time.

‘Yes, well . . .’ Phillips looked around, before leaning across the table, tension etched on her face.

Fuck me, Carlyle thought, I’ve just walked into a John le Carré novel.

‘The shit has really hit the fan on this one,’ she whispered.

Or maybe not
. Le Carré’s characters always spoke so much more eloquently. All that public school and Oxbridge education; money well spent. He tried not to laugh at his own musings.

‘Poor Maude Hall put up a hell of a fight.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. She was an expert in self-defence.’

Phillips nodded. ‘We found traces of skin and blood under her fingernails.’

Carlyle knew where this was going, but he should let her tell it at her own pace.

‘And we’ve got a match.’

I’ve got the fucker!
He wanted to leap in the air and start running down the road, arms pumping in triumph. Instead, he restrained himself.

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Go on.’

Phillips did another sweep of the street, as if looking for spies. ‘We’ve got a match – to a guy who does security for the Prime Minister.’

‘Trevor Miller.’ Carlyle’s self-restraint buckled and he couldn’t resist dropping the name in first.

Phillips’s eyes narrowed even further. ‘You know him?’

‘Yeah. How did you make the match?’

‘Everyone who works in Downing Street has to go on a DNA database. It took us about ten seconds to find him.’

‘Trevor Miller fucks up again.’ He had to fight the urge to give Phillips a big kiss. ‘Nice.’

The pathologist finished the last of her coffee and tossed the paper cup into a nearby bin. ‘But why would he kill a police officer?’

‘Because he’s a total bastard. And a complete fucking moron.’ Carlyle was going to be late for his meeting with Charlie Ross and he didn’t have the time – or the inclination – to take Phillips through the whole backstory. ‘Who else knows about this?’

‘When the results came in, it had to go straight to the top. All the way up to the Commissioner.’

Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that. ‘When?’

‘I dunno, maybe an hour or so ago.’

‘Tell me at least that you haven’t put it on bloody Twitter.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Phillips chuckled. ‘The tweetathon’s finished.’

‘Thank God for that.’ The inspector thought things through for a moment. ‘I should give Simpson a heads-up,’ he said, making the call there and then. ‘And I need you to do me a favour,’ he added to Phillips, as he listened to Simpson’s phone ringing.

A dark look crossed the pathologist’s face. ‘But—’

Grimacing, Carlyle held up a finger as the Commander’s voicemail kicked in. ‘It’s me,’ he said curtly, ‘and it’s urgent. Bloody urgent. Call me as soon as you get this message.’

Returning his attention to Phillips, he began talking quickly, keen to override her likely objections to his latest disregard for protocol. ‘There’s a case that Fulham have been working on for a couple of years, concerning the death of a woman called Rosanna Snowdon.’

‘The TV presenter?’ said Phillips cautiously, not sure where the inspector was going with this.

‘Exactly. I want – I
need
you to check the evidence that they collected and do a read-across from Hall.’

Staring at the sky, Phillips slowly let the implications of what he was asking for sink in. ‘That’s going to be very tricky.’

‘I know.’ Fighting his own excitement, Carlyle waited for her to resume eye-contact. ‘But speak to a sergeant there called Fiona Singleton. Tell her I suggested it. She’s solid.’

‘Mm.’ Phillips looked dubious.

Carlyle gave her his most earnest stare. ‘I’ve been chasing this bastard for a long time, Susan. I want to get him for
everything
.’

‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Simpson’s phone was still going to voicemail. Without leaving another message, Carlyle put his phone away and scanned the bar of the Adam Tavern, just south of the Euston Road. It took him a few moments to locate Charlie Ross, sitting on his own in a booth at the back, nursing a pint of beer, and then the best part of ten minutes to get served at the bar. By the time he returned to Ross’s table with the drinks, the old sergeant’s previous glass was empty.

‘Thanks.’ Ross accepted the pint of Morse Ale and placed it on the table. Still holding his glass of Jameson’s, the inspector pulled up a stool.

‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle lied.

‘Your health,’ Ross mumbled, lifting the fresh glass to his lips for a modest sup.

‘So,’ Carlyle asked, keen to get down to business, ‘what did you want to talk about?’

Charlie tried – and failed – to do an impersonation of a guileless old man. ‘I just wanted to see where you are with your investigation.’

‘Don’t fuck me about, Charlie,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘I thought I was getting Trevor Miller’s head on a plate.’

‘Patience, patience. All in good time.’

Carlyle downed his whiskey in one. He wasn’t going to sit around and talk nonsense with this old bastard. ‘Trevor is living on borrowed time,’ he said, smacking the shot glass down on the table. ‘So, give him up –
if
you can give him up – and the better it’ll be for you.’

A shit-eating grin spread across Ross’s face. ‘I know about Anton Fox.’

‘Not that crap again.’

The grin ebbed away as Ross placed his glass on a beer mat advertising a gambling website.

‘We’ve been hearing all these stupid stories for years,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘That’s old news. Who cares who brained that stupid bugger?’

‘I also know who did Duncan Brown.’

‘Charlie, I know the whole story,’ Carlyle told him. ‘Not just Fox, not just Brown . . . but the whole fucking thing.’

‘You can know what you like,’ the old man growled, ‘but you have fuck all when it comes to actual evidence.’

The inspector said nothing.

‘Otherwise you’d have a fucking warrant,’ Charlie’s eyes narrowed, ‘and I’d be behind bars by now. Am I right?’

Busted
. All Carlyle could do was to try and brazen it out. There was no appealing to Ross’s better nature because the old sod didn’t have a better nature.

‘Please,’ he said finally, ‘don’t waste my fucking time. We are talking about multiple murders here – and by former police officers, for Christ’s sake. Trevor goes down, you go down too, along with anyone and everyone associated with Wickford Associates and God knows who else. Either you cooperate now or you will die in jail.’

Leaning forward, Ross jabbed a finger towards the inspector’s face, the anger clear in his eyes. ‘Don’t threaten me, sonny. You don’t know shit. Without me, you have nothing – and Miller will slip through your hands yet again.’

A voice inside the inspector’s head told him to stay calm. He would deal with Charlie Ross in due course. In the meantime, he had to stay focused. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, letting out a long breath. ‘What do you want?’

‘Me?’ Sitting back on the banquette, Ross folded his arms. ‘I don’t want anything. Why should I? At my age I’m untouchable.’

‘So why are you doing this?’

‘Because, given what has happened, I want to fuck Trevor up just as much as you do. This is supposed to be my retirement.
Now I’m having to run about here, there and everywhere, trying to clear up all his shit while he ponces about like he’s God’s bloody gift.’

The inspector wanted to believe what Ross was saying, but maybe the old bugger was setting him up. Or maybe he was just a bored old man who wanted some attention and someone sitting with him in the pub. ‘So where is Trevor now?’

‘Somewhere safe.’ Ross took another mouthful of beer. ‘Waiting for me to tell him what to do next.’ He clocked the look of concern that flashed across Carlyle’s face and grinned malevolently. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still in the country – for now. He knows that things are going tits-up big time though. If we don’t move fast, he’ll try and do a runner for sure.’

‘So when do I get him?’ Carlyle asked, sounding way too eager.

‘When the time is right,’ Ross replied vaguely.

‘And when will that be?’

‘When I bloody say so.’ He nodded towards the bar. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you go and get me another pint.’

Licking his lips, Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker eyed the generous glass of Martell XO clutched in the Prime Minister’s hand. I’ve come all the way over to your club to tell you in person about this, he thought, so the least you could do is offer me a bloody drink.

Sadly for the Commissioner, hospitality was not high on Edgar Carlton’s current agenda. As a waiter approached, the PM shooed him away with an imperious wave of his free hand. ‘How many people know about this?’

With a look of dismay, the Commissioner watched the flunky retreat. ‘Not that many. The officer in charge was smart enough to bring it straight to me.’

‘Mm.’ Edgar knew that wouldn’t count for much: news like this would leak faster than the
Titanic
after it had hit the iceberg. Some bugger will have tweeted the news by the time I sit down
for dinner, he thought grimly. If they haven’t already. ‘And there’s no doubt about all this? We’re sure Miller’s guilty?’

Still trying to catch the waiter’s eye, Sir Chester replied, ‘Yes. The evidence, from what I understand, is fairly compelling.’