London Calling (25 page)

‘So it was a drugs-related killing?’

Dom raised his eyes to the heavens and said nothing.

‘What’s the name of this “muppet”?’ Carlyle asked, gulping down another mouthful of lager.

Dom finished his pint. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Did this guy really do it?’

‘Absolutely.’

Carlyle frowned. ‘Evidence?’

‘Guthrie’s blood is on his clothes. Along with his own now, of course.’

Carlyle put his glass carefully on the table and looked Dom in the eye.’You didn’t …?’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid!’

‘So why are you telling me this?’

‘It needed sorting. You don’t need … you don’t want to know the details. This way, everybody wins: You look good, while keeping my name out of things, and I get kudos on my side for putting this business to bed, police investigation included. The message gets out that this thing is over, a score draw, and the streets are that little bit safer again for the Great British public.’ He waved his empty glass at Carlyle. ‘One for the road?’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘And just how am I supposed to have come across this info?’

Dom grinned. ‘Sources, old boy. Informants. Just make sure you don’t have to go in there yourself. I’m told that the stink really is something terrible.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘My pleasure.’ Dom got up and gestured in the direction of the bar. ‘Sure you don’t want another one?’

Carlyle shook his head. While the shit expert went inside, he sat biting his lip, trying to keep in check his annoyance at being patronised. This was all bollocks. No way was he going to end up with any glory. He was a police constable, for fuck’s sake. Dom was really dropping him in it, and treating him like an idiot to boot. There was no chance he could get away with closing a murder case in just a matter of hours and not find himself questioned very closely about it. If he didn’t come up with a decent explanation, he would be under investigation himself. He couldn’t even think what a decent explanation might be.

After a little while, Carlyle decided that there was only one thing for it. He stood up and walked round the side of the pub to an old-fashioned red phone box that he’d noticed on the way in. Stepping inside, he dialled 999. Putting on a hopeless Irish accent (that being the only one he felt he could do), he relayed the details to a bored-sounding girl, mentioning the Browning BDA in the hope that would help convince her that this was more than just another nutter calling in with a useless tip. That was as much as he could do. Ultimately, they could check it out, or not; he couldn’t really give a fuck.

Finishing the call, he walked back to the table, while Dom was steadily draining his second pint.

Carlyle didn’t sit down. ‘I think we better get going now.’

‘No problem. I’ll drive you back.’ Dom emptied his glass and stood up.

‘Thanks.’ Carlyle took a final mouthful of his own beer, which has lost its cold edge and now felt warm and flat. ‘Let me just take a leak first.’

TWENTY-THREE

Their usual meeting place was one of a string of properties Dominic Silver now owned in central London. Over the last couple of decades, he had steadily built up a London portfolio that was worth easily north of £20 million, even after the recent market crash. This one was a small Georgian house on Meard Street, a short pedestrianised alley between Dean Street and Wardour Street, in the heart of Soho. It was set back from the pavement, behind a wrought-iron gate, with a small plaque on the door that said
NO PROSTITUTES HERE
. Carlyle pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. A voice on the intercom said, ‘Come right to the top.’

The house was home to Gideon Spanner, a former paratrooper who was currently Silver’s number one bodyguard, debt collector and personal trainer. Carlyle found both men in a large room that covered almost the whole third floor. It was empty apart from a sofa and two armchairs, which were positioned facing a fifty-inch Panasonic plasma TV screen. Carlyle stood in the doorway, eyeing the two men watching a boxing match. The fighters were really going for it and the commentary was reaching fever pitch. There was a station logo in the corner of the screen, but he didn’t recognise it, probably another one of those premium sports channels he didn’t subscribe to. Carlyle knew next to nothing about boxing, but this bout clearly wasn’t live. It looked like a tape of an old fight from the 1970s or the 1980s.

‘Drink?’ Dom looked up from the screen long enough to wave his glass in Carlyle’s direction.

‘What is it?’

‘Guavas, mangoes and goji berries. Not bad.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘In the kitchen, downstairs. Help yourself.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, go on.’ Dom nodded at the screen. ‘This is nearly finished.’

It took Carlyle five minutes to find the kitchen and pour himself some juice. When he came back, he plonked himself in the free armchair, and they all watched the boxing in silence. After a couple more rounds, one of the fighters called it a day.

Dom muted the TV and turned to Carlyle. ‘Leonard-Duran Two, generally considered one of the greatest fights in history.’

Carlyle made a non-committal kind of noise in response.

Dom looked at it him. ‘You know what I’m talking about?’

‘Not really,’ Carlyle admitted.

‘Sugar Ray Leonard and Roberto Duran – the artist and the street fighter. Both of them were great, great fighters. They had three famous contests, back when we were kids. This was the second and the most famous one.’

‘The
No Más
fight,’ said Gideon, who may not even have been born when the fight actually took place.

‘
No Más
meaning “No more”. That’s what Duran was supposed to have said when he quit in the eighth round.’ Dom gestured at the screen with his chin. ‘Duran denies saying it, but it’s such a good story.
No Más
– what a great ending. No one was going to let the truth get in the way of a story like that.’

‘Interesting,’ was all Carlyle could think of to say. Other people’s passions invariably left him bemused.

‘Anyway,’ said Dom, ‘it’s nice to see you, John. You’re looking well.’

‘Thank you,’ Carlyle replied, bowing his head slightly. ‘You too.’ And it was true. Dom was one of those annoying guys who looked better in his late forties than he did in his early twenties: richer, healthier, more relaxed. Carlyle wished that he could say the same about himself. Dom’s cheeky-chappy demeanour had been long since jettisoned, replaced by a professional/academic look that was underpinned by a degree in Business and Management from Queen Mary College on the Mile End Road. Dressed in Comme des Garçons, with rimless spectacles, greying, shoulder-length hair, and some flattering lines around his eyes, he was currently on top of his game.

Finally finishing his trip down boxing’s memory lane, he gave Carlyle his full attention. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Carlyle, smiling.

‘As always.’ Dom turned to Gideon. ‘The inspector and I go back a long way.’

Gideon kept his eyes on the silent screen. ‘Uh-uh.’

‘Yes,’ Dom smiled, ‘John is one of my earliest comrades. We’ve worked together a lot over the years.’

Carlyle said nothing. Dom was right, up to a point. They had known each other for a long time and the relationship was both stable and cordial. It wasn’t complicated but it wasn’t clear either. Neither of them would necessarily have wanted to create it from scratch if it didn’t already exist, but they could both see its advantages … as well as its disadvantages.

Dominic Silver had left his old picket-line mates like Carlyle a long way behind. He had built up his business slowly, one step at a time, wherever possible avoiding conflicts and solving problems without needlessly resorting to violence. As the years turned into decades, his reputation grew. In a business where to survive two years was rare, to have survived two decades was a miracle. He had never been arrested, never mind convicted of any offence. In the last few years, he had reached his peak, settling comfortably in the third or fourth tier of the capital’s drug-related entrepreneurs. Near the top but not aiming for the top. This was not a bad place to be, reasonably comfortable and avoiding the problems facing those above him and those below him. His operation was turning over maybe low millions each year, with clients including a swathe of minor celebrities and some of the newer entries in
Who’s Who
. Before the recession took hold, he even had a couple of corporate clients, major City financial institutions who bought on account.

Business school had shown Dom how to build up a portfolio of assets and diversify risk. With all of his property and other investments, drugs probably now accounted for less than a third of Dom’s income. However, it wasn’t the kind of business you could easily retire from. Similarly, despite the risks, Carlyle could not easily walk away from their relationship which, after all this time, was almost as much personal as professional. Dom, like Carlyle, was a family man. He’d had the same girlfriend for more than twenty years and, as far as Carlyle knew, they enjoyed a happy, monogamous relationship, one which had been blessed with five kids. The families knew each other well, and Alice had played with the Silver kids plenty of times over the years.

Carlyle drained his glass of guava, mango and goji. Dom was right; it was good. ‘I’m in the market for some information.’

‘Obviously.’ Dom sat further forward on the sofa and eyed Carlyle intently. ‘What kind of information?’

‘I’m interested in five men specifically. Their names are George Dellal, Ian Blake, Nicholas Hogarth, Harry Allen and Sebastian Lloyd.’ Hewasn’t yet ready to mention Holyrod and the Carltons.

Dom made a show of thinking about that for a few seconds. ‘This is the thing you were on the TV for last week?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Not making much progress, then?’ He grinned. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘The usual. At least some of them use drugs, cocaine mainly and a bit of ecstasy. Where do they get them from? Who do they like to indulge with? What else do they get up to? Any interesting peccadilloes?’

‘Interesting peccadilloes?’ Dom laughed. ‘We all have some of those.’

‘You get the picture.’

‘Sure. Give Gideon the list and we’ll see what we can find out.’

‘I appreciate it.’ Rummaging through his pocket, Carlyle found a piece of paper, a receipt for a sandwich he’d bought the day before. While he scribbled down the five names, he thought about whether there was anything else he could get from his host. Things needed to be pushed along a bit, so he showed a little more of his hand. ‘Do you ever supply the concierge at the Garden Hotel?’ he asked, without looking up.

Dom glanced at Spanner and turned back to Carlyle. ‘Alex Miles? Yeah, now and again. Only the odd bit of business, though, nothing major. He likes to use different people. He wouldn’t make “my top hundred clients” list.’

‘Blake was the stiff found in his hotel last week.’

Dom made a face to signify:
OK … and?

Gideon Spanner meanwhile kept staring blankly into space.

‘Blake was a fairly high-end drug user,’ Carlyle continued, ‘the type of guy who might buy from the likes of you through someone like Miles.’

‘There’s lots of those,’ Dom smiled. ‘Just leave it with us. We’ll doubtless dig up something. We usually do.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll walk you down the stairs.’

At the front door, Dom followed Carlyle out into the street. ‘How’s the family?’

‘Fine,’ Carlyle said. ‘You?’

‘Good. The eldest two are at secondary school already.’ He grimaced. ‘The fees? Bloody hell!’

‘Tell me about it. Alice is at City in the Barbican now.’

‘That’s an excellent school.’

‘Yes, it is. We’re very pleased.’

‘How can you afford that?’

‘Good question.’

‘If you ever—’

‘No, no,’ Carlyle interrupted quickly. He wasn’t going down that road again. ‘We’re fine. She’ll get a scholarship soon … I hope.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

Would Carlyle ever take Dominic’s cash? It didn’t get any less tempting as the years went by. He’d discussed it with Helen a few times, in a
What if?
kind of a way. But it was never a serious possibility. They knew that if he ever crossed that line, he could never go back. The bottom line was that it wasn’t worth it, since it would be incredibly stupid to risk everything just for money. Never say never, of course, but things would have to become truly desperate.

Dom moved the conversation quickly on to less choppy waters. ‘We should get the kids together over the summer hols.’

‘Helen would like that. She’s always worried about Alice not having enough company, being an only child.’

‘Excellent.’

Dom wasn’t always this chatty, so Carlyle thought he might as well do a bit more fishing. ‘How’s business? Getting squeezed by the recession?’

‘Nah … well, maybe. Like you, I’ll never be out of work. It might be tough for a while, though, as I’m a discretionary spend.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Yeah, sometimes,’ Dom laughed. ‘But, I’ll tell you this, we’ve just turned off easy street and on to shit street. The good old days are over. The easy money has run for the hills and the dirty money is getting dirtier. Things could get quite nasty for your average punter.’

‘Sure.’
A sociology lesson from a drug dealer
, Carlyle thought.
That’s just what I need.

‘You think about it, no more buying a house in London, watching the price going up, and then thinking you’re Warren Buffett. We’re off on a bumpy ride: industrial unrest, unemployment, stagflation – back to the bad old days of the seventies and eighties. You remember them?’

Yes
, Carlyle thought,
I do indeed
.

Dom was off again on one of those monologues he’s perfected over the years: ‘Back to the days of power cuts, the rise of the National Front – or, rather, the bloody BNP,’ Dom continued. ‘Back to the days of mortgage rationing, holidays in Southend rather than Jamaica.’