The Circus (28 page)

‘That,’ Carlyle smiled, ‘is what I need some help in working out.’

A horn blared in the distance and the sounds of a passing argument came up from the street below. Lost in thought, Dom
stared out of the window at the grey Soho sky, as a plane whined overhead on its approach to Heathrow. All the reassuring sounds of the city.

Carlyle checked his BlackBerry. He was slightly disgruntled to find that no one had sent him a message since he’d last looked.

‘You should leave it alone,’ Dom said finally. ‘Let the Redhead guy . . .’

‘Meyer?’ Carlyle put the BlackBerry away and looked up.

‘Yeah. Let Meyer deal with it. Don’t own other people’s problems. Don’t be ruled by your ego.’

‘What?’

Getting to his feet, Dom began pacing backwards and forwards in front of the window. ‘You’ve been obsessed by Miller all through your career.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Yes, you have – ever since that bloody Shoesmith woman sued him for sexual assault.’

Carlyle was surprised that Dom remembered her name but he kept his mouth shut.

‘I told you at the time, you should have just said you saw nothing.’

‘Look the other way, you mean?’

‘Ye-es. And it’s exactly the same now as it was back then. Trevor Miller is not your problem, so leave him alone.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Carlyle angrily.

‘Be careful, Johnny boy. Remember – you’re getting old. These days, I’m not sure I’d be able to offer you alternative employment.’

‘Hah!’ Carlyle laughed. It had been a running gag down the years that Dom had a place for Carlyle in his organization, should the inspector ever leave the Force. They both knew though, that it was something that would never happen.

Dom spread his hands wide. ‘Behind the carefully constructed exterior of a useless fat cunt, Trevor has always been quite a shrewd operator. Whatever he’s been up to, he’s made sure that
he has contacts, and that his back is covered. Now he works for the bloody Prime Minister, for fuck’s sake!’

‘He’ll crash and burn in the end,’ said Carlyle grimly.

‘Exactly!’ Dom did a little jig of triumph. ‘So sit back and enjoy the fucking show. It’s like the old Japanese proverb . . .’

Fuck me, Carlyle thought, here we go now with the bloody proverbs. On the TV, Zelle had finished her testimony. Her place in front of the Committee had been taken by a middle-aged suit he didn’t recognize. The clock in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen told him it was time to go.

‘If you sit by the side of the river long enough, you will see the body of your enemy floating past.’

‘Thanks for that.’ Carlyle stood up. ‘So will you help me or not?’

Dom laughed. ‘You’re not going to sit on the river bank?’

‘No.’

‘What a big fucking surprise,’ Dom cackled.

‘It’s been thirty years already.’

‘You never fucking grow up, do you?’

‘You going to help me?’

Dom held up his hands in surrender. ‘Don’t I always?’

‘Thanks.’

‘No promises – but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘
Boss, it’s me. What exactly do you want me to do on this Hannah Gillespie thing? I’m worried that it’s dragging on and we are just not getting anywhere. She’s still checking her voicemails, so that’s kind of okay, but she’s not responding to any of them. With the benefit of hindsight, people are gonna say there’s just not enough people on the case. At this rate, we’re not going to find her. And Simpson’ll go mad if we end up getting sued by the parents. Give me a call
.’

‘What do you want
me
to do about it?’ Carlyle grumbled to himself. It was late and he simply didn’t have the energy to respond to Joe Szyszkowski’s voicemail, not least because he didn’t have any answer.

‘Dad, you’re on TV!’

‘What?’ Carlyle ambled out of the kitchen with a cup of green tea in his hand. By the time he’d flopped down on the sofa next to Helen, the news had moved on from his presser to a story about a new lion cub in the London Zoo.

‘Missed it,’ Alice grinned from her armchair. ‘You looked old.’

‘Thanks,’ Carlyle groaned.

‘And knackered,’ Helen added for good measure.

‘How kind of you to say so.’

Alice stood up. ‘I’m off to listen to some Clash.’ Bending over, she kissed her father on the forehead. ‘Maybe you should take a holiday.’

‘Maybe I should.’

‘Anyway, I hope you find that girl.’

‘Thanks.’

‘
Will
you find her?’ Helen asked him, once Alice had gone.

‘Sure,’ said Carlyle, blowing on his tea, ‘one way or another.’

Wearing nothing but a towel, Trevor Miller sat in a booth in the Treasures of Heaven sauna on the Euston Road waiting for ‘Melissa’ to come and give him his executive deep-tissue Swedish massage. Struggling to get into the right frame of mind, he looked up at the TV that hung from the ceiling above the bed. Rather than the usual porn, it was showing the local news. The cable feed must be down again, he thought sourly, picking up the remote control. He was just about to change channels when a shot of Charing Cross police station appeared, quickly followed by pictures of a press conference hosted by a familiar face.

‘That cunt Carlyle,’ he grunted to himself, watching as his one-time nemesis made an appeal for finding a missing teenager. At least it wasn’t about the Duncan Brown fiasco.

A shot of a plain-looking girl in her school uniform flashed up on the screen, along with a phone number. Then back to some closing shots of the presser. Suddenly a woman appeared on the platform and whispered something to the inspector. Recognizing her immediately, Miller’s eyes narrowed. ‘What was your name?’ he asked himself, thinking back to their brief meeting in the Balmoral Club at the end of his lunch with Simon Shelbourne. ‘Jenny – Jenny . . .
Southerton
.’ He was pleased with himself for remembering. ‘Is that right? We’ll have to see.’

As he was making a mental note to check out the name that the woman had given, the door opened and a tired-looking brunette in hot pants and a London 2012 Union Jack T-shirt entered. Without saying a word, she placed a large bottle of Johnson’s Baby Lotion on the table by the bed. Removing Miller’s towel, she looked down and smiled. ‘Looks like we’ve got a bit of work to do there, sweetie.’

After pushing out a rather fruity fart, Miller scratched his arse. That’s what I’m paying you for, he thought.

Wrinkling her nose, the girl pointed to the bed. ‘Better lie down for me and we’ll get started.’

Alice and Helen had already gone to bed. Sprawled on the sofa, Carlyle was working his way steadily through
Return of the Last Gang in Town
, the monster biography of The Clash which Alice had picked out for him at Holborn Library. It was slow going – Helen had already twice extended the loan period – but he was making steady progress. Deep in the messy detail of the recording of
London Calling
, he became conscious that his mobile had started vibrating its way across the coffee table. With a deep sigh, he put the book down and picked up the phone.

‘Carlyle.’

‘Inspector, it’s Melvin Boduka.’

With his head full of thoughts of rock’n’roll, the inspector struggled for a moment to place the name.

‘The Mosmans’ lawyer,’ Boduka reminded him. ‘Sorry to be ringing you so late.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Carlyle, sitting up. ‘What can I do for you?’

There was a pause. ‘Mrs Mosman would like a meeting.’

‘
Mrs
Mosman?’

‘That’s what I said,’ Boduka replied testily.

The inspector leaped up and began prowling the room. ‘She has something to tell me?’

‘Yes.’ The lawyer didn’t sound too happy about it. ‘I am not party to the details, but she has indicated that she now believes she may be able to help you further in your investigation.’

About bloody time, Carlyle thought. He could feel the adrenalin buzz building in his system. ‘She wants to meet now?’

‘No, no, I was wondering, could you come to our offices in the morning?’

‘Now would be good,’ Carlyle replied, trying to take control of the situation.

Boduka was having none of it. ‘She suggested the morning.’

‘Fine, fine. What time?’

‘How about ten?’

‘Okay.’

‘That’s agreed, then. We will see you tomorrow.’ Without another word, Boduka rang off.

‘
Yes!
’ Tossing the phone on the sofa, Carlyle adopted a Joe Strummer-type pose, clenching his fist in triumph while hopping from foot to foot.

Progress at last.

As he continued his little jig, Helen suddenly stuck her head round the living-room door, a sleepy scowl on her face. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sorry.’ Carlyle stopped jumping around like an idiot and retrieved his phone.

‘Come to bed,’ she commanded, disappearing back down the hall.

‘Okay.’ Looking at the handset screen, he noticed the message icon and frowned. That wasn’t there earlier, he was sure. Hitting 901, he waited for it to play.

‘
Inspector, this is Harris Highman. We were recently introduced by Sir Michael Snowdon. I would be very grateful if you could give me a call at your earliest convenience
.’

Immediately, Carlyle hit 5 to call Highman back, only to get a recorded message telling him that the callback facility was not available for that number. ‘Bollocks!’ Stumbling into the kitchen, he pulled open a succession of drawers until he found a pen. Then he played the message again, writing down the number on a copy of yesterday’s
Standard
. Punching in the numbers, he listened to Highman’s phone ring, knowing in his gut that it would inevitably go to voicemail.

When it did, he kicked the fridge in frustration.

‘
Mr Highman, it’s John Carlyle here. Apologies for missing your call. Try me again at any time
.’

From down the hall he could hear the complaining tones of his wife. ‘John, for God’s sake! It’s late. Stop playing with your bloody phone.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Dropping the phone into the back pocket of his jeans, he headed for bed.

‘Harris?’

Highman looked up from his reading – a
Frieze Magazine
article on Italian photographer Luigi Ghirri – to see Zoe Mosman standing in the doorway of his office. It was after 10 p.m. and the first time he had seen her in the place since the horrific incident with her boy. The idea that she was, technically speaking, his superior, made Harris shudder with disgust. He had never felt comfortable around her and now, after her bereavement, it was worse. Families, they were so . . . problematic.

‘Zoe,’ he mumbled, trying to look sympathetic. ‘How are you?’

She gave him a wan smile. ‘Bearing up.’

‘I was extremely sorry to hear about what happened to Horatio.’ Irritatingly, his phone started ringing in his pocket. He killed the call without even checking to see who it was.

‘Thank you.’ She dropped her gaze to the floor.

‘I’m sure that you’ve had to listen to a lot of people say that recently.’ Unsure of how to handle this, he stayed behind his desk.

‘Yes, but it is still kind of you to say it, Harris.’

What else am I going to say? he wondered, suddenly feeling irritated at having been put on the spot.

‘I thought I might come in tonight and catch up on some paperwork,’ Mosman explained. ‘I hoped it might help to take my mind off things.’

‘I understand,’ Highman nodded. She’s losing it, he thought, more than a little put out that he no longer had the place to himself.

Mosman gestured along the hall in the direction of her own office. ‘I’ve got a bottle of ten-year-old Springbank in my desk. I thought I might have a glass. Would you care to join me?’

Not really, Highman thought. Gin had always been his thing, more than whisky at least. Even so, now was not the time or
place to be churlish about such things. Taking a deep breath, he forced an appropriately sombre smile on to his face. ‘Why not? That would be nice.’

Looking round the room, Highman estimated – not for the first time – that Zoe Mosman’s office had to be at least twice the size of his own. However, where his, stuffed full of books and papers, had the look and feel of an absent-minded academic’s lair, hers was largely empty. Even with a selection of family photographs scattered across the various bookcases, it retained the antiseptic air of a doctor’s consulting room. All that would change, of course, when he moved in here. He looked down at the glass of Springbank in his hand. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ice, by any chance?’

‘No, sorry.’ Seated behind her desk, Mosman lifted her own glass to her lips. She was about to say ‘Cheers’, but under the circumstances, thought better of it. For appearances’ sake, Highman took a mouthful of the whisky. Swallowing quickly, he tried not to make a face.

‘You don’t like it?’ That was one of the many annoying things about Zoe Mosman; she had always been able to read him like a book.

‘No, no,’ he coughed. ‘Very nice.’

Putting down her glass, Mosman sat back in her chair and lifted her stockinged feet on to the desk top, increasing Highman’s level of discomfort still further. Beside the big toe of her left foot, he noticed a tear in the stockings.

‘So,’ she said, wiggling her toes in what frankly seemed a rather provocative manner, ‘how is your audit of the collection coming along?’

‘Well, um . . .’ He lifted the glass back to his mouth, then thought better of it. ‘I would say that it’s coming along as well as can be expected, under the circumstances.’

‘Under the circumstances?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s good. You must be pleased.’

‘Yes, I think we have made reasonable progress. There is light at the end of the tunnel now. In fact, the whole thing is almost complete.’

‘I see.’ Taking her feet off the desk, Mosman sat up in her chair. ‘And what will your conclusions be?’

‘My conclusions?’ Highman stared again into his glass. ‘Well, I really think that I would like to wait until the whole thing is finished before—’

‘Come on, Harris,’ she snapped. ‘I have more than enough on my plate right now without having to worry about what you’re cooking up.’