London Calling (27 page)

‘Who?’

Don’t over-egg it
, he thought. ‘The guy who was killed at the Garden Hotel,’ Carlyle reminded her. ‘You came to our press conference.’ He gestured at the continuing throng. ‘Not quite as big a deal as this.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Snowdon nodded, ‘Carole Simpson. The superintendent is a very impressive woman. It must be great for you to be working with her.’

Carlyle said nothing.

‘Anyway,’ said Snowdon, moving on, ‘what brings you here?’

Carlyle realised that there was no point in trying to bullshit his way out of it. ‘I’m looking for a quick word with Mr Carlton.’

She smiled at him, in a very disconcerting way. ‘Ah, yes, that would be in relation to the Merrion Club, I suppose.’

Seeing the discomfited look on Carlyle’s face, she reined in the smile and returned her beautifully manicured hand to his shoulder to give him a reassuring pat. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. Who am I going to tell? Your superintendent has everyone in line on this one. And if the papers don’t run it, the BBC isn’t going to touch it with a bargepole. We would never have the stomach for a legal dispute like that. Anyway, it is not the kind of publicity that Edgar needs right now. So, tell me, how is your investigation going?’

‘It’s going,’ Carlyle replied tersely, unable to manage a smile of his own. He glanced quickly around the room. The scrum of journalists was slowly thinning out, so Carlton himself would be off soon. Carlyle would have to try to grab his chance while he could.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t managed a chat with Edgar before now,’ she prodded.

Carlyle said nothing.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking his arm, ‘I’ll introduce you.’

In front of them, the PR flunky was trying to close it all down. ‘That’s it for this morning. Thank you all for coming. If you have any further questions, please call our press office.’ The remaining journalists ignored him and kept on hurling questions at his boss.

Rosanna pushed her way through a couple of cameramen until she was almost facing Carlton. ‘Edgar!’ she cried, stepping deftly in front of the German reporter and planting a kiss firmly on Carlton’s cheek.

‘Rosanna! How nice to see you,’ Edgar replied warmly, before kissing her on both cheeks. Carlyle was amused to see him firmly squeeze her backside at the same time.

‘You were on good form this morning,’ she remarked.

‘Thank you.’ Edgar glanced at Carlyle, who was hovering at Snowdon’s shoulder like a lost schoolboy, and casually removed his hand from her left buttock. ‘Do you need an interview?’

‘No,’ Rosanna replied, ‘I think we’ll take a clip of the bit where you talked about your “iron will to repair the shattered hopes and dreams of a generation”.’

‘Very good.’

Grabbing Carlyle by the arm, she dragged him forward. ‘I wanted to introduce you to a friend of mine.’ She took a half-step to one side. ‘Edgar, meet Inspector John Carlyle.’

The German reporter didn’t notice the cloud pass over Carlton’s face as he turned towards the policeman. It passed in the brief moment that it took Edgar Carlton to set his jaw, but Carlyle caught it. Nice to be welcome, he thought, resisting the urge to get out his badge and start flashing it about.

‘The inspector is investigating the death of Ian Blake,’ Rosanna continued.

‘A terrible business.’ Carlton bowed his head slightly.

‘I was wondering if I could have a couple of minutes of your time,’ Carlyle said, smiling.

‘Absolutely,’ said Carlton, smiling back.

‘I just wanted to ask—’

Carlton held up his hand. ‘We will have to do this later, because I’m afraid now is just impossible. I’m already behind schedule and, as you can, imagine, we’ve got a lot to get through today.’

‘Just a few minutes would be much appreciated,’ insisted Carlyle gently.

Carlton gestured to his flunky, who had by now ushered all the journalists out of the room. ‘Speak to Mr Murray here, and we will get something in the diary. Today is a desperately busy day, but I’m sure that William can arrange to get you a slot sometime this week.’

‘Well …’ Carlyle started to protest, but Carlton had broken eye contact and was already moving off. Clearly, as far as he was concerned, the policeman no longer existed.

‘Come on, Rosanna,’ Carlton said, taking her arm, ‘you can escort me to my next appointment.’

‘See you later, Inspector,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

Once they were gone, Carlyle stood facing the flunky. He looked about twelve years old and wore an expression that suggested Carlyle was about as welcome as a piece of shit on his well-polished shoe.

‘William Murray.’ He held out a limp hand. ‘I’m one of Mr Carlton’s special advisers.’

‘And what does that mean?’ Carlyle asked.

‘I’m sorry?’ Murray looked confused.

‘What do you do?’

‘I advise,’ the boy said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

‘Advise on what?’

‘On whatever comes up.’

Carlyle gritted his teeth, realising that he had to get out of there before he tried to strangle this little tosser.
Focus on the matter in hand,
he told himself.
Keep breathing. Stay neutral. Don’t let this little shit wind you up.

‘So when can I have ten minutes with Mr Carlton?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Murray sniffed.

‘But he said …’

‘I will need to consult with the PA in charge of Edgar’s diary and then I’ll get back to you.’

Carlyle handed Murray a card. ‘My boss told me that I would receive Mr Carlton’s full co-operation.’

Murray briefly turned the card over in his hand, before dropping it into his pocket. ‘You can be assured of our full co-operation. We are the police’s biggest supporters.’

Glad we cleared that up
, thought Carlyle. ‘Let me know a time as soon as possible.’

‘Of course. But, remember, there is an election going on.’

He had expected a card from Murray in return, but none was forthcoming. ‘This is just a matter of routine,’ Carlyle said, ‘but it is nevertheless important. People have died, and this is a murder investigation. I have a job to do, just the same as you do. Just the same as Mr Carlton does. If you delay my enquiries any further, I will start making a considerable fuss.’

‘A considerable fuss?’ Murray smirked. ‘We wouldn’t want that, Inspector. Not at all.’

‘Good,’ was all Carlyle could think of saying.

‘Don’t worry,’ Murray said, ‘we will be in touch.’ With that he skipped away, leaving Carlyle to find his own way out.

TWENTY-SIX

While Carlyle was getting the brush-off in London, Joe Szyszkowski was sitting down to a cup of tea with Paul Hawley, assistant lecturer in Medieval History at the University of Cambridge. They were sitting in Starbucks on Vimeiro Road, in the centre of the city. The place was fairly empty and they had managed to find a pair of very comfortable armchairs by the window. Across the road stood the imposing front gates of Wellesley College. They were closed for the summer holidays and as a result the place appeared devoid of life.

Paul Hawley looked like a slightly more careworn but friendlier version of his forex-trading, drug-dealing brother Clement. His hair showed streaks of grey, with just the first signs of a receding hairline at the temples. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin and looked as if he had not enjoyed any sleep for a month.
Maybe it’s all the DIY
, thought Joe.
Or maybe it’s that Serbian girlfriend?

Paul took a sip of his Chai tea. ‘So, Sergeant, how do you come to know Clement?’

‘We deal with him professionally,’ said Joe, ‘from time to time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Don’t worry, this is not about him.’ Joe sniffed at his own Zen tea – ‘an enlightening blend of the finest green teas infused with mint and lemongrass, to calm the mind’ – and wondered whether a mocha might not have hit the spot better. Along with a cinnamon swirl for that perfect caffeine-sugar rush.

‘That’s a relief.’

‘He seems fine,’ Joe added, ‘but ultimately it’s a very tough business that he’s involved in, and there’s a lot to be said for getting out while you’re ahead.’

‘That’s a fair point,’ Hawley said evenly. ‘I’ll mention it to him. He’s coming up here this weekend.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘So,’ said Hawley, relaxing now that the preliminaries were over, and he felt reassured that his role in the policeman’s current investigation was just, well, academic, ‘how can I help you?’

Joe leant forward. ‘We want to know about the Merrion Club.’

‘What’s to know? It’s just a bunch of rich kids who don’t have any brains or any manners – like clones of Lord Snooty who keep turning up year after year.’ Hawley sighed theatrically. It was the sound of a man who had spent the best part of two decades writing a thesis on medieval drinking habits. ‘It was ever thus.’

‘Do you actually know any of them?’

‘Well, technically, there isn’t any Merrion Club at the moment. The current crop of über-alpha males have all left to join the army or make their squillions in the City. Those few that are left will take over when they come back from their summer in the Hamptons, or wherever, and they will then oversee a new intake.’

‘Have you ever taught any of them?’

‘As a research student, I ran a couple of introductory undergraduate courses for several years. There have been a few attending my classes, but only one or two. Medieval history isn’t the type of subject these boys generally go for.’ He thought about that for a second, then let out a harsh little laugh. ‘In fact, there isn’t any type of subject boys like that really go for.’

Joe made a sympathetic face, but it was himself he was now feeling sorry for. He wondered if Paul Hawley could ever manage to just stick to the point. This man’s lectures must be a real draw.

‘The number of graduates that we, as a country, churn out every year has doubled over the last decade, but it’s amazing how academia still very much remains the preserve of thick rich people.’ Hawley was working himself up into a state of indignant anger. ‘People like me are just an irritation while we pass through the system.’

Joe pointed out through the window at the college standing across the road. ‘Are they always based over there?’

‘Yes, the club is always housed in Wellesley. That way it is the most elitist club in the most elitist college. The senior members always come from there. They occasionally co-opt outsiders, but that’s quite rare, I think.’

Joe wasn’t getting much yet for his thirty-five-pound train fare, but he ploughed on. ‘What kind of scandals has the club been involved in?’

‘They don’t really do scandal, Sergeant.’ Hawley shook his head. ‘That is the whole point. What you or I or Mr and Mrs Smith from Acacia Avenue might consider “scandalous” is considered de rigueur for these people. That’s what the club is basically for. It is a way of showing us that they don’t have to play by the rules. Meaning the rules that the rest of us have to obey. If you can’t sufficiently annoy the little people, you’re not fit to become a member.’

‘Where would I be able to find out more information about the club down through the years?’

‘How far back do you want to go?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Joe warily, not wanting to give too much away. Even Mr Medieval Boozing must be aware of the current crop of ex-Merrion celebrities. If he started gossiping around town, the investigation could still find its way into the press. ‘Maybe thirty years or so.’

‘There’s a student newspaper called
Grantebrycge.’

‘What?’

‘Gran-te-bry-cge … it’s what Cambridge was called, back in the Middle Ages.’ Hawley spelt it out, letter by letter, so that Joe could scribble it into his notebook. ‘The paper has been going since just after the First World War. It comes out every two weeks during term time. How specific is the information you’re looking for?’

‘I don’t really know.’

‘A fishing exercise?’ Hawley smiled. ‘Well, you might get lucky. Some American internet company started digitising the magazine archive as a PR stunt last year. Some of it might be online, but I don’t know how far they’ve got.’ He pointed along the street. ‘Their offices are just down the road. God knows if there’s anyone around at the moment, though.’

‘I’ll check it out, thanks.’ Joe took one last look at his Zen tea and decided to leave it. ‘Let me know if anything else comes to mind.’

The offices of
Grantebrycge
were housed in what looked like a small shop on a side street running towards the station. In the window was a copy of what Joe presumed was the front page of the latest edition, which was by now more than a month old. There was a website address above a cover feature about undergraduate hookers, headlined ‘Students for Sale’. More than half the page was given over to an image of a statuesque blond, wearing little more than her underwear, climbing out of a Porsche. Both her face and the car’s number plate had been pixelated out. In the top left-hand corner of the illustration it said: ‘As posed by a model.’ Joe scribbled down the email address and made a mental note to check out the ‘special investigation’ that was promised on pages four and five, once he next got online. Standing with this nose up against the window, he peered further inside. The place looked empty. He tried the door, which was locked.

Hovering outside the newspaper office, Joe watched a pretty blond girl walking up the road in his direction. From a distance, she looked similar to the model in the picture. However, there was no sign of any Porsche-driving punter on the mean streets of Cambridge that afternoon.

For want of anything better to do, he called Carlyle, but the inspector’s mobile was going straight to voicemail. Joe didn’t want to leave a message admitting that he’d found out next to nothing. Hoping that Carlyle was having a better day than himself, he wondered how long he would have to wait for a train back to London.

The blonde, meanwhile, had reached the
Grantebrycge
office. To Joe’s surprise, she stopped and smiled at him. In his experience that was not what pretty girls normally did.