The Circus (37 page)

‘Did her husband know about the affair?’

‘Ivor Mosman,’ Zelle sighed, ‘is not a man of any great passion. He’s a bit of a wimp, really. Altogether very English.’ She thought about that for a moment. ‘With a tiny dick – I can vouch for that.’

Carlyle didn’t want to know about that.

‘I think,’ Zelle continued, ‘that he decided at an early stage that he could just ignore what was going on. I’m sure it bothered him, but he could live with it. In my experience that’s quite common; a lot of people just decide to put up with things.’

That particular situation seemed rather a lot to put up with, but the inspector said nothing.

She noticed the scepticism in his face. ‘Maybe it was more than that. Maybe he found it convenient, especially as the kids grew
older. The couple lived fairly separate lives. After all, Zoe was financially independent. Indeed, I know for a fact that she bankrolled his business for a while, when things were tough. But as a marriage it was fairly hollow.’ She shook her head. ‘They’d had separate bedrooms for years.’

‘Mm.’

‘Marriage is tough,’ Zelle said ruefully, and then she grinned. ‘A man in your life is like a car – you need to change them every couple of years.’

The inspector was wondering quite how to respond to this when the door reopened and a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Margaretha! We’re ready. They’re all waiting for you.’

‘All right, all right,’ Zelle grumbled. ‘I’m coming.’ Getting to her feet, she slipped off the Puffa jacket. ‘Prince Percy’s Perfect Peanuts,’ she mumbled under her breath ‘They’re be-
yond
tasty!’

‘What do you think about Dario?’ Carlyle asked her, as she reached the door.

Zelle didn’t miss a beat. ‘I think he’s easily the biggest bastard I ever met.’ She said it quietly but with feeling. ‘If you’re looking for someone who might have killed Zoe, I would start with him.’

‘For you.’

Simpson eyed the party-sized tin of peanuts, which the inspector had just placed on her desk, with a mixture of suspicion and disgust.

‘Apparently, Prince Percy’s are all the rage if you are hosting a drinks party,’ the inspector explained innocently.

Ignoring the nuts, she fixed him with a wary look. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Mosman,’ he said cheerily.

‘You mean the case that you were supposed to be prioritizing?’

‘The case that I
am
prioritizing.’

‘Oh?’ Simpson frowned. ‘Did I miss an arrest? Can we put another tick in the “case-solved” box?’

Ignoring his boss’s sarcasm, Carlyle told her, ‘The guy we
think is responsible is called Dario Untersander, a Swiss national. He and Zoe Mosman go way back. The suggestion is that she did a bit of escorting to pay her way through university and—’

Simpson held up a hand. ‘Are you saying that she was a hooker?’

‘Grey area.’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘When she was younger, it seems that there were lots of parties and expensive holidays paid for by rich boyfriends of various ages and tastes. Was she on the game? It’s a matter of semantics. The point, however, is that it was at this time she met Untersander.’

‘And who told you all of this?’

‘A reliable source,’ Carlyle said. For the purposes of this conversation, he was prepared to stretch his definition of
reliable
to include someone as flaky as Margaretha Zelle. ‘Someone who has known both of them reasonably well.’

Simpson grunted, unconvinced.

‘Anyway,’ Carlyle ploughed on, ‘Mrs Mosman and Untersander had a sexual relationship which apparently was continuing, sporadically, despite both of them since being married to other people.’

Simpson gave him a
Get on with it
look.

The inspector took a deep breath. ‘Sooo . . . the theory is this. Mosman stole a significant number of middling-quality paintings from the Government Art Collection for Untersander to sell under the counter in his gallery. Then the government decides to do an audit, so that it can start flogging some of the pictures itself. Mosman and Untersander are naturally worried about their little scam being uncovered. They argue about what best to do and have a falling-out. Untersander first threatens Mosman through her son, then he kills her.’

It didn’t sound any more convincing than when he’d run it past Joe earlier. In fact, second time round, it sounded even flimsier.

‘And you can put Mr Untersander at either crime scene?’

‘No.’ Carlyle shook his head. ‘He used a hitman.’ Simpson began to say something else, but he held up a hand to cut her off. ‘We have a series of phone calls and we have the hitman – at least, we have the top half of him.’ Simpson’s eyes rolled heavenwards as he explained about his trip down to the river. ‘We are now waiting to see if we can get an ID.’

‘And Untersander?’

‘All lawyered up and sitting tight.’

For a moment they sat in unhappy silence.

‘In reality,’ Simpson said finally, ‘you’ve got bugger all.’

‘It’s going to take some time,’ Carlyle admitted. ‘But, then again, look at the Snowdon case. There are times when you have to be patient.’

‘Speaking of Snowdon, Simon Lovell is due to be released any time now. Have you spoken to Rosanna’s parents yet?’

‘Next on the list. I assumed you’d want the update on Mosman first.’

‘Good news would have been better, John.’

The inspector spread his arms wide. ‘It is what it is.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Closing her eyes, Simpson began massaging her temples with her fingers.

‘What we really need,’ Carlyle said gently, ‘is to track down some of these missing paintings.’

‘Yes . . . so here’s what we’ll do. You keep on with your enquiries and I will speak to Specialist Crime.’

‘Good idea,’ Carlyle nodded, pleased that she’d taken the bait.

‘I’ll get them to put the Arts and Antiques Unit on the case.’

Then if we continue to get nowhere, Carlyle thought happily, we can transition the investigation over to them. ‘That,’ he beamed, ‘makes perfect sense.’

Standing in a corner of the packed State Dining Room, Edgar Carlton took a mouthful of Penfolds Yattarna Chardonnay as he watched Sir Gavin O’Dowd, less than fifteen feet away, holding court before an attentive group of government ministers.
‘Look at him,’ he muttered unhappily. ‘The way he carries on, you’d think
he
was the Prime Minister.’

Might be better if he was, Christian Holyrod thought. Stopping a passing waiter, the Mayor held out his glass for a refill. ‘You’re not jealous of a soon-to-be-retired bureaucrat, are you? This time next week he’ll be standing knee-deep in some bog studying blue tits or whatever.’

‘I’m not jealous at all,’ Edgar harrumphed.

‘You just sound like it, then.’ Chortling at his own joke, the Mayor swallowed a large mouthful of wine.

‘That man’s nickname may be GOD,’ Edgar whined, ‘but that doesn’t mean he has to act like one.’

Holyrod put his free hand on his esteemed colleague’s arm. ‘Edgar,’ he said, keeping his voice low despite the general hubbub, ‘it’s the man’s farewell party.’ He gestured around the throng. ‘By this time tomorrow no one here will remember his bloody name, never mind his nickname.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So, stop carrying on like a teenage girl.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are,’ said Holyrod, smiling through clenched teeth. ‘You need to develop a sense of perspective.’

‘This job is just
so
demanding,’ Edgar complained. ‘It never stops.’

Who’d have thought it?
The Mayor suppressed a smile.

‘You never get any time to yourself. I can’t afford to get burnt out. I really need to chillax.’

‘No,’ said Holyrod firmly, ‘that is one thing you
don’t
need to do. There’s more than enough of that going on around here as it is. Everyone already thinks that you are far too—’ he was about to say ‘lazy’ but quickly corrected himself, ‘
easygoing
. You’re the Prime Minister, after all. If you’re not well on the way to a nervous breakdown, people will assume you can’t be taking the job seriously enough.’

‘These days, I can’t even go down the Cock and Bottle for a
nice foaming pint of Spitfire Ale without a dozen snappers running around, trying to catch me out.’

‘Well,’ Holyrod grinned, ‘if you hadn’t abandoned your youngest child in the pub one Sunday morning, people might be a bit less interested in what you get up to at weekends.’

Edgar winced at the memory. Leaving a five year old in the boozer didn’t get you any Parent of the Year Award. It was front-page news and Anastasia had been furious. If they had been living on a council estate, he would have already had a knock on the door from Social Services. ‘It was an easy mistake to make,’ he mumbled. ‘I thought she was with her mother. Anyway, no damage was done.’

‘Mm.’

‘It could happen to anyone. People leave their kids in different places all the time – in supermarkets, DIY centres, lots of places.’

‘Not when they’ve got six bodyguards in tow.’ The Mayor knew that he shouldn’t be winding Edgar up like this, but he simply couldn’t resist.

‘Bloody Close Protection Officers,’ the PM wailed, ‘they’re totally useless. What would happen if my bloody life was actually in danger? Anyway, we sent the buggers packing and got a new lot in.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes.’ Edgar smiled malevolently. ‘The others have been demoted to traffic duty in the Orkneys or something. Teach them a damn good lesson.’ Suddenly energized, he waved an angry finger at the Mayor. ‘No one loses one of my kids.’

‘No.’

‘Anyway, we can’t allow any more of this nonsense. We need to get a grip.’

‘Quite,’ Holyrod nodded. ‘By the way, did you see the poll in
The Times
this morning? You’re trailing by twelve percentage points.’

‘Of course I bloody saw it!’ Edgar exclaimed. ‘But it’s just one bloody poll. We’ll be fine. Twelve points is nothing at this stage.
However crap the voters think we are, they know the opposition is worse.’

‘It’s a point of view, I suppose,’

‘Stop being so negative, Christian.’

‘Just remember, the result is by no means in the bag,’ the Mayor said slyly. ‘If it was, I would have taken your job by now.’

‘Good to know that we’re all in it together.’

‘Just so you’re aware.’

Finishing his drink, Edgar looked around for somewhere to deposit the empty glass. ‘From what I hear, London’s more than enough for you to handle already. You can’t even run the bloody police properly.’

‘At least,’ Holyrod shot back, ‘my Head of Security isn’t a suspected killer on the run.’

‘
Ex
-Head of Security,’ Edgar corrected him. ‘And he wouldn’t still be at large if your people were capable of catching him.’

‘That’s all in hand.’

‘All in hand?’ Edgar let out a shrill laugh. ‘So where is he, then? And it’s not just that, is it? I hear that Operation Redhead itself is on the brink of collapse.’

Holyrod gave a shrug. ‘It appears that Chief Inspector Meyer couldn’t keep it in his trousers. In true provincial style, his wife caught him in flagrante in a Travelodge with one of his colleagues, a detective inspector called Valette. She didn’t take it at all well apparently; proceeded to beat up poor old Meyer quite badly.’

‘The wife, you mean?’

‘Yes,’ Holyrod tittered. ‘Seems like she’s into kickboxing, or something like that. As far as I know, he’s still in hospital.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘The girlfriend wanted to have the wife charged with GBH, but was persuaded that would not be a good idea.’

‘Good God, no. The media would have a field day. On top of everything else, it would make the police look like complete idiots.’

‘Quite. Anyway, it seems as if that particular own goal has been avoided.’

‘And Meyer?’

‘As soon as he’s well enough to sign a letter of resignation, he will be standing down – for personal reasons.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Edgar shook his head. ‘And to think he was my appointment. I really have been so badly advised on these things.’

‘Never mind,’ said Holyrod. He gave the PM a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘You can hardly be blamed for the man’s irresponsible libido.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Edgar handed a passing waiter his empty glass, declining a fresh one as he did so.

‘And look on the bright side. By the time we get a replacement, and the whole inquiry thing gets going again, it will be after the General Election.’

Edgar’s expression lightened up somewhat. ‘Good point.’

‘Speaking of libidos,’ Holyrod grinned, ‘how is the lovely Yulissa?’

Edgar’s face darkened again. ‘She’s becoming a bit of a pain in the arse, to be honest. The latest thing is that she wants a seat in the House of Lords.’

Sipping his wine, Holyrod stared thoughtfully at his shoes. ‘Well, she’d certainly liven the place up a bit. And it would be very handy if you fancied a quick bunk-up in the Derby Room.’

‘Ha, ha,’ was the hollow response. Edgar glanced at his watch. ‘Enough of this chatter. I need to go and say a few carefully crafted words about GOD’s impending departure.’

By the time he looked up it was too late. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I was wondering when you would get here.’

Oh fuck
.

‘John bloody Carlyle – God’s gift to the Metropolitan Police Service. Better late than never, I suppose. Come on in.’

Taking a step into the Snowdons’ living room, the inspector took a moment to compose himself. Sitting on the sofa, Veronica Snowdon looked even more pale and sickly now than he remembered. Barely acknowledging his arrival, her eyes remained firmly fixed on her other visitor. Resting his ample arse against the dining table, Trevor Miller stood, arms folded, with a smug grin on his face. In his right hand he held a Glock 19, silencer affixed to the short barrel, which was pointing towards the ceiling in a rather dissolute James Bond-type pose. He was wearing jeans and a brown Kappa hoodie; the overall effect was that of a monster five year old.

A monster five year old brandishing a loaded weapon.

So much for me being the bearer of good news, Carlyle thought glumly.