London Calling (34 page)

She looked at him carefully. ‘But maybe they deserve to die.’

A lot of people deserve to die
, Carlyle thought. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Someone has to judge them.’

‘No, they don’t.’ He strove to sound reasonable. ‘They haven’t yet been arrested or charged with any crime.’

‘That means nothing,’ she pouted.

‘Life is not about right and wrong,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s about who gets to choose. You don’t get to choose … neither do I, for that matter.’

‘You have to set your sights higher than that, Inspector. Remember Jeremy Bentham: “Publicity is the very soul of justice. It is the keenest spur to exertion, and the surest of all guards against improbity. It keeps the judge himself, while trying, under trial.”’

Carlyle was lost. ‘Who?’

‘Jeremy Bentham. He was a philosopher and jurist who lived two hundred years ago.’

‘Ah.’ Carlyle didn’t have a clue who she was talking about. Philosopher and jurist? The only Jeremys he could think of were a couple of TV presenters.

‘At UCL they still have his skeleton on display,’ she grinned, ‘dressed in his own clothes, and with a wax head on top.’

‘Lovely.’

‘It’s what he said he wanted.’

‘Maybe I’ll go for something similar myself,’ Carlyle joked, ‘but in the foyer at New Scotland Yard.’

All trace of her smile vanished as the lawyer inside took over. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time here,’ she said sharply, ‘so let’s cut to the chase. What evidence do you actually have?’

I wish people would stop asking me that
, thought Carlyle. ‘The investigation is proceeding in a fairly normal manner,’ he replied lamely.

‘So how can I actually help you?’ she asked neutrally.

‘Are you assuring me that you had absolutely nothing to do with the deaths of Hogarth, Blake and the others?’

She stared at him blankly. ‘I’m telling you that those types of questions will require the presence of my lawyer.’ She took a second business card from the mantelpiece and handed it to Carlyle.

He looked at the name on it. ‘Different firm?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘At our place, we don’t have anyone who specialises in … this type of thing. And, anyway, it is not something that you really want to discuss with your colleagues.’

‘No.’

Arthur the Labrador reappeared, looking for another biscuit. Susy Ahl gave the dog a big smile and idly patted his back. ‘Are you arresting me?’

‘No.’

‘Not yet?’

‘Not yet.’

The smile grew bigger. ‘No evidence?’

Carlyle said nothing.

She headed towards the door. ‘I need another drink. Can I get you anything?’

‘No,’ said Carlyle, ‘I’ll be going now. Just one final question: are you planning on leaving the country on any more business trips?’

Under the effects of the wine, she took a few moments to mentally flip through her diary. ‘I am due back in Dubai in something like ten days’ time. Let me know soonest if that’s not allowed.’

‘I will. We may also ask for your passport. And, we might need to take your fingerprints and a DNA sample.’

‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ she said, waving an ever so slightly inebriated hand in his direction, ‘I know that you have a job to do, and I will not impede you in any way.’

‘Thank you.’

Her eyes suddenly focused on him sharply. ‘But I won’t do your job for you, either.’

She then showed him to the front door. Standing there on the doorstep, she turned to him and said: ‘What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, Inspector?’

Exhaling deeply, Carlyle thought about it. ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing really springs to mind. I suppose I’ve been quite lucky.’

‘You can’t really judge me, then, can you?’

‘No, that’s true. It’s not my job to judge, though, is it?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘It’s not,’ he said firmly. ‘All I would say is that, even when terrible things happen, the world doesn’t stop turning. That may sound callous, but it’s the truth. If you’ve still got a life, get on with it. Don’t crucify yourself. Don’t become a victim. No one else really gives a toss.’

‘Good night, Inspector,’ was the only reply he got.

He heard the front door click as, this time, she closed it properly.

As he walked back down Stevenage Road, the procession of planes above his head continued unabated. Lost in thought, Carlyle paid them no heed.

THIRTY-TWO

The restaurant Kami no Shizuku, translated ‘Drops of God’, aimed to provide diners with a thoughtful, almost spiritual environment that would ensure the emotional calm required to spend thousands of pounds on a single meal. The celebrated Italian designer Simone Mestaguerra had chosen the finest natural materials to provide the place with a sophisticated image of timeless luxury that kept just on the right side of decadence. Drawing on the aura of a medieval monastery, the main dining area was a serene space detached from the wearisome realities of the everyday world. Exactly the right marble, the perfect limestone, the best hardwoods, they had all been sourced from around the globe to create a template for perfection.

Owner Kanzaki Carew thought about Mestaguerra’s €250,000 consultancy fee and uttered a silent prayer for his salvation. This evening, however, the timeless luxury didn’t make the place look any less empty. Business was slow, whereas this time last year it could have easily taken diners up to four months to secure a table. Back then the joke had been that reservations were so sought after that they were traded on the futures market. Well, no one was joking now: this market, like so many others, had collapsed.

Like everyone else, Kanzaki had become a victim of the recession. The private dining-room bookings from American finance houses had completely dried up over the last few months. The lunchtime trade – made up largely of City wives, media creatives, spin doctors and entrepreneurs – had similarly evaporated. And the days when bankers would spend tens of thousands on wine during a meal – a common enough occurrence for Kanzaki to have then instituted a house rule that the food was always free when the wine bill climbed beyond twenty thousand pounds – were a very distant memory indeed.

With a nervous sadness, he glanced at a framed bill displayed behind the cash register and vowed to take it down. It was undoubtedly bad karma. The highest bill ever charged in Kami no Shizuku’s history now mocked the penury of the present. It had been run up by a dozen bankers at the height of the boom, celebrating the closing of a monster deal by indulging in a nine-hour beano. The bill had once excited him and he could still recite it from memory, like his very own Lord’s Prayer:

Four bottles of 1995 Dom Pérignon at £6,750 each;

A magnum of Mouton Rothschild 1945 at £20,000;

Three bottles of 1982 Montrachet at £2,400 each;

A 1945 Pétrus at £15,600, a 1946 Pétrus at £11,400;

A 1947 Pétrus at £13,300; and

A 1900 Château d’Yquem at £10,700.

The tip alone had come to thirteen thousand pounds – half of which had gone straight into Kanzaki’s own pocket. The bankers had all been regular customers, but six of them had since been sacked. Of those still in a job, two were now working in Hong Kong and another two in Dubai, while another was trying his luck in Mumbai. Only one of them was still managing to keep his head above water in the bombed-out London market, and he, Kanzaki reflected bitterly, hadn’t been seen in the restaurant for more than three months.

Kanzaki knew that this record bill would never now be beaten. Indeed, no one would get anywhere close. Tonight, for example, none of his diners would end up spending much more than three thousand, tops. That kind of return was just not enough to keep the place going, and he now bitterly regretted splashing out more than three hundred thousand pounds on refurbishing his kitchen earlier in the year. At the top of the market, he had employed forty cooks; now they were down to less than half that number and he had plans to let another five go. Two of his three sommeliers had also departed, along with half a dozen other front-of-house staff. It distressed him to let his people go – they were a great team, professional, knowledgeable and charming – but he had no choice. The carefully stocked wine cellar would soon be quietly shipped out to Switzerland and sold. Plans to roll out Kami no Shizuku as a global brand, backed by a Chinese or Indian investor, were now totally dead in the water. With every quiet night that passed, Kanzaki was increasingly resigned to closing the place. There was no point in hanging on. Another two months like this and the costs would start seriously eating into whatever money he’d made for himself in the better years.

Sitting in the restaurant’s VIP section, Joshua Hunt watched Kanzaki Carew pacing the floor, and felt a stab of sympathy for his restaurateur friend. Joshua looked at the empty tables all around them and did some quick calculations in his head. The place had to be losing at least fifty grand a week, so it couldn’t be long before it closed. Joshua gave it two months, tops. He didn’t like to see Kanzaki suffering but, of course, life went on. Ultimately, it wasn’t Joshua’s problem. There would still be plenty of other places to choose from.

He felt a stab of pride that he himself could make money regardless of the economic situation. Whether the market was going up or down made no difference to Joshua and his computer programmes. His company, McGowan Capital, had run three of the best-performing investment funds in London for each of the last four years. This year, thanks to a timely move out of equities, property and oil and into gold, government bonds and, above all, cash, there was a good chance that they would win the top three places by some considerable margin.

Glancing at his Omega Seamaster, Joshua failed to stifle a yawn. The dinner seemed to have gone on for hours, so it was a relief when his two guests had finally called it a night. Now that he had been liberated from the client and his wife, he was in no hurry to leave. The abalone with goose web had been a delight that he wanted to spend some time ruminating on.

He never came to Kami no Shizuku simply for work alone, but for the whole experience. Tonight, having dealt with business, the exquisite meal demanded an extended period of reflection. Even more importantly, his two-grand bottle of 1982 Château Lafite-Rothschild still had some wine left in, it and he certainly wasn’t going to waste it. He stared into his glass and smiled, before raising a gentle toast to his wife. ‘Thanks for putting up with that.’

‘What?’ Carole Simpson had already forgotten about the couple they had spent the last two and a half hours dining with. Rather, she was wondering about the wisdom of having chosen the sticky toffee pudding for dessert. It had been delightful, as always, but she shouldn’t have let Kanzaki talk her into it. Once consumed, it became just a pile of additional calories that she didn’t need. Despite her surroundings, she still saw herself very much as a regular police officer, and was therefore embarrassed by the amount of time she spent sitting on her backside behind a desk. Her attempts to keep in shape were tortuous enough.

‘Thanks for coming tonight,’ he said, pouring the last of the wine into his glass.

‘My pleasure,’ said Simpson. ‘Well, not really, but you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I do,’ her husband agreed.

‘Remind me. Who were they?’

‘Shane is a mid-level backer,’ said her husband casually. Mid-level meant someone who had put between fifty and a hundred million pounds into one of McGowan Capital’s funds. ‘He’s not nervous about the funds, which is just as well, considering he is locked in until next March, but he happened to be in town with his wife, and …’

Carole smiled. ‘And some reassurance and a free meal never do any harm when the stock market is in freefall.’

‘Exactly,’ Joshua agreed, suppressing a slight feeling of annoyance. He had explained all this to his wife at least three times in the preceding days, but by now he was used to her not paying much attention to his work. She seemed merely amused that he made so much money by pushing numbers across a computer screen. To a police officer it just didn’t seem real.

Her casual attitude didn’t really bother him, however, since he didn’t have much interest in her job either. They were more than secure financially, so there was no actual need for her to work. The way Joshua saw it, the police thing was less of a job now and more like a hobby. But neither of them had ever given thought to the idea that she might quit. The Job was a core part of her being, always had been, and he knew that she would never give it up voluntarily.

For a few minutes they sat in comfortable silence, while, not for the first time, Simpson eyed her husband with a mixture of bemusement and deep affection. How he had transformed himself from the rather unworldly Imperial College computer scientist that she had married into a razor-sharp financial investor, in ten short years, amazed her. She was just glad that the five-bedroom house in Highgate, the expensive restaurants, the needy clients and the political networking had not turned Joshua into a completely different person, robbing her of what she had seen in him in the first place. And it amused her that they could now mix in circles that were way beyond her previous expectations. Many of her social experiences were consequently way beyond the aspirations of even her most senior bosses in the Metropolitan Police. It was fun but it wasn’t what she had signed up for, and, if it all disappeared tomorrow, Simpson knew that she could happily go back to the way things had been before.