London Calling (39 page)

‘OK.’ Joe, whose experience of kicking doors in was much more current, jogged ten feet back along the corridor, then turned round at a crouch. ‘One, two, three …’ Springing forward, he charged the door head-down, looking like an enthusiastic baby rhino. Carlyle grimaced in expectation of the imminent crunch of bone against wood. But, with Joe just inches from his target, the door suddenly flew open.

Carlyle watched open mouthed as his sergeant steamed through the doorway, tripped over a small flight of steps and belly-flopped into the pool beyond, splashing alongside the face-down floater that the inspector instinctively knew had to be William Murray. A moment later, Trevor Miller stepped out from behind the door. Although soaked from head to foot, he showed no sign of being injured by his fall.

Bloody typical
, Carlyle thought, Miller lying face down in the pool would have been a decent result.

The security chief had a large white towel draped round his neck while vigorously drying what remained of his hair with another. ‘Well done, Carlyle,’ he grunted from somewhere behind the fabric. ‘Another crime scene compromised.’

‘Fuck you, Trevor,’ Carlyle snarled, ‘you’re under arrest.’

‘Am I indeed?’ Miller tossed the used towel on the floor and picked up a fresh one from a pile stacked on a white plastic chair nearby. ‘For what?’

Carlyle said nothing. What had he just seen? Murder? He was sure of it. He was equally sure that he couldn’t prove it – even before one considered the queue of people who would be ready to cover it up.

‘You really haven’t learnt anything, have you?’ Miller sneered. ‘Even after all this time, you stupid, stupid little shit.’ Towelling himself down as best he could, he stepped towards the door, tossing the wet towel at Carlyle. ‘Come anywhere near any of our people and we’ll fucking crucify you. It’s case closed. This has finally been dealt with, no thanks to you.’ He jabbed a meaty finger towards Carlyle’s face. ‘Ironically, you might even get a bit of glory if you play your cards right. I’ll at least let you have that.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Carlyle snarled, but he was struggling to put on a brave face. Already, he could see how it would all play out.

The meaty finger retreated into a clenched fist. ‘Don’t fuck it up again,’ Miller smiled. ‘Remember which side you’re on.’ Then, pushing Carlyle out of the way, he squelched out through the door and disappeared along the corridor.

‘Give me a hand, boss!’ Joe called as he struggled to get himself out of the pool.

Ignoring him, Carlyle turned and left.

THIRTY-SIX

Edgar Carlton threw a large glass of Rémy Martin XO down his throat, followed quickly by another. Feeling suitably relaxed, he plastered what he hoped was a confident smile on his face and stepped out of No 10 Downing Street to address the world. Gripping the lectern that had been placed out in the street, he acknowledged the assembled journalists corralled behind barriers on the pavement, and waited for the flash photography and the whirr of camera motors to die down. Clearing his throat, he fixed his gaze on a point just above the tallest head in the throng, and launched into his statement:

‘Her Majesty the Queen has asked me to form a new government, and I have accepted. I came into politics because I believe deeply in public service. I love this great country of ours and I think that its best days still lie ahead. I want us all to work together to help to build a society with stronger families and stronger communities. We should remember the words of St Francis of Assisi when he said: “Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.” I believe that together we can provide that strong and stable government that our country needs based on those values – rebuilding family, rebuilding community and, above all, rebuilding responsibility in this country. These are the things I care about. These are the things that I will now start work on delivering. Thank you very much.’

Before he had even finished, the hacks began hurling an avalanche of questions at him. Turning quickly away, Edgar fled back inside.

Carlyle sat in a small office, looking out over the empty newsroom: an open-plan arrangement of desks and monitors, with a small studio set in the far corner. On maybe twenty separate screens, he could see images of Edgar Carlton proclaiming his victory on the steps of Downing Street.

‘How did you make the connection?’

‘Huh?’ Carlyle returned his gaze to Rosanna Snowdon. On the desk in front of her lay William Murray’s mobile phone, recovered from the Carlton brothers’ hotel suite. She eyed it nervously, as if it was radioactive.

‘Between father and son? What made you realise that William Murray was Robert Ashton’s kid?’

‘It just came to me,’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘I was sitting in a pub as the polls were closing. Edgar appeared on the TV screen, and William Murray was at his shoulder. Then it hit me …’

‘And his mother was covering up for him?’

‘Yes. We don’t know the precise balance of power in that relationship, but they were in it together.’

‘Madness.’

‘Was it?’ Carlyle exhaled. ‘If someone did that to my family, well …’

Rosanna drummed a perfectly manicured fingernail on her desk. ‘Are you actually condoning murder, Inspector?’

‘No,’ he said stiffly, quickly descending into a bit of jargon in order to mask his opinions. ‘But at least you can put together the pieces and, at the very least, begin understanding the motivation of the perpetrators. That is not the same as condoning it.’

‘It’s an amazing story …’

‘It certainly is,’ Carlyle agreed.

‘… but I can’t use it.’

She looked up at Carlyle, with a pained expression. ‘Why have you brought me this?’

‘I thought you wanted an exclusive,’ he said evenly.

She gestured at the mobile. ‘Not this kind of exclusive.’

Carlyle shifted in his chair. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be the brightest decision he had ever made – even in the course of this current investigation, which would certainly be saying something. ‘What kind is that then?’

‘The kind that will never see the light of day,’ she replied.

He waited for her to explain.

She screwed up her face. ‘How can I use this? It’s not a story.’

‘It seems like a story to me,’ Carlyle said, not convinced himself now. He felt a creeping embarrassment at his stupidity. Why was he even here? What was he thinking? Edgar Carlton was in his first week as prime minister. William Murray and Susy Ahl were both dead. No one cared about their deaths. Robert Ashton may or may not have been successfully avenged.

Who had chosen Carlyle as the one man to shine a light on this dark little corner of the past? He wasn’t even doing his self-appointed task very well. There wasn’t going to be any ‘closure’. All he was doing was digging himself into another hole.

She sat back and gave him a rather pitying smile. ‘That’s why you’re the policeman and I’m the journalist. A story is only a story if I can report it. No one can use this. The lawyers wouldn’t let us go anywhere near it.’

Feeling like a complete idiot, Carlyle sat in silence.

‘You think this security guy …?’

‘Miller.’

‘Yes, Miller. You think he murdered the aide and also his mother?’

Carlyle nodded.

‘And maybe that other guy … the one killed out near the airport.’

‘Allen?’ Carlyle shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s possible.’

‘Why would he have done that?’

‘Well, unlike the rest of them, I think Allen was ready to talk. Talk properly that is. He had agreed to speak to me once he returned to the country. If he had spilled the beans, then that would have been a problem for all of them.’

‘But you can’t prove any of this, otherwise you’d nick Miller.’ The word ‘nick’ was delivered with a childlike relish.

‘That is correct,’ Carlyle admitted.

‘So you dangle it in front of me,’ she smiled broadly, ‘hoping that I can stir up some trouble.’

‘But publicity is the very soul of justice,’ he said primly.

‘How profound,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Where did you pick that up from?’

It took Carlyle a second to dredge the name from his memory. ‘Jeremy Bentham – he was a philosopher.’

‘I know who he was,’ Rosanna laughed, ‘but he never worked for the bloody BBC. And, anyway, I don’t think he meant that journalists should allow themselves to be used as a tool of revenge by frustrated coppers.’

Carlyle could only smile. She had him sussed out.

After a few seconds, she added, ‘And you could never arrest them, could you?’

Them
being the Carltons.

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Never in a million years.’

Her face lit up at the thought of it. ‘Although that would certainly be a story and a half. Nicked during your first week as prime minister! Who’d have thought old Edgar Carlton might be so interesting?’

Carlyle sighed. ‘No one will ever face any charges in relation to any of this. Ashton was too long ago, and the Murray problem has been solved to the satisfaction of everyone … except me.’

‘Exactly!’ She folded her arms in triumph. ‘See? I can’t run this story even if I wanted to.’

‘Can’t … or won’t?’ he asked petulantly.

She leaned forward in her chair. ‘Inspector, if I could stand this up, get interviews on camera, put it all together
and
get it past the lawyers, it would be a bloody miracle.’

‘But if you were a miracle worker?’

‘If I was a miracle worker, and I could get all the pieces to fall into place, sure I’d run it.’ She gave him another one of her coy smiles. ‘A grizzled old detective like you might think that I’m a bit of an airhead …’

Grizzled?
He frowned. She was teasing him now, and he quite liked it.

‘… not that I would care, but I
am
a journalist. I’m a friend of Edgar Carlton sure, but my professional reputation is worth much more than any friendship. A story is a story and I will be a journalist for a lot longer than he is prime minister. I’m not in the business of burying things.’

‘I understand,’ he nodded, poised to spring out of his chair, suddenly keen now to be on his way.

‘But I’m not in the business of flogging a dead horse, either.’

Carlyle looked out at the monitors in the newsroom. Edgar had disappeared back inside his new home, and the screens were now showing some cartoon.

‘Like I said,’ Snowdon continued, ‘it’s got no legs. Even if I could run a piece, which I can’t, who’s going to follow it up? At best, I might get a mention in a couple of newspapers that hate the Carltons anyway. Who cares? Their powerful allies in the media will simply rubbish such “smears”. So the boys may have got up to a bit of high jinks at university. So what? Isn’t that what boys are supposed to do?’

They were distracted by a tired-looking man tapping on the window, signalling that he needed Snowdon. She nodded at him and held up her right index finger to signify that she would be only another minute.

‘I need to go and record a trailer,’ she explained, standing up.

‘Of course,’ Carlyle finally got out of his chair. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘No problem. However, I think you’re being a bit naive, Inspector, and frankly that’s a bit of a surprise.’

Was that a compliment? Or an insult?

‘Still,’ Snowdon continued, ‘I’m going to do you a favour, a big favour.’ Tentatively, she lifted Murray’s mobile phone from the desk and began pressing some buttons. Then she looked up at him like a schoolteacher who was about to tell a none-too-bright pupil how best to avoid flunking his exam. ‘This case is closed, right?’

‘Yes.’

She waved the phone at him. ‘This evidence is not part of any official report?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t copied this? Or sent it to anyone?’

‘No.’ It was easy to slip in the lie among a collection of truths. Casually patting his jacket pocket, he reassured himself that his pay-as-you-go mobile was still there. The one to which he’d already sent a copy of William Murray’s video nasty.

‘Or posted it on YouTube?’

Carlyle shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’

‘OK, good.’ Snowdon picked up the handset from her desk and pulled up Murray’s video. For a second, Carlyle caught a glimpse of Xavier Carlton’s contorted face. Then Snowdon hit the delete button, and the screen immediately went blank. Standing up, she tossed him the phone. ‘That’s sorted, then. Take my advice, Inspector, and just forget that you ever saw it.’ Stepping from behind the desk, she took him by the arm and ushered him out of her office and through the newsroom, heading for reception. Catching the eye of her producer, who was hovering nervously, she shouted, ‘Just coming!’

At the door, she turned to Carlyle and pulled an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of his jacket. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I really appreciate you thinking of me.’

‘My pleasure,’ he mumbled.

She grinned. ‘In the meantime, that’s another favour … another two favours … you owe me.’

‘Favours?’

She counted them off on her fingers. ‘One for providing the initial introduction to Edgar, one for deleting that stuff on the phone, and one for not telling our prime minister that you wanted me to run the story and thus destroy his honeymoon period with the voters.’

An uncomfortable look crossed Carlyle’s face.

‘Don’t worry.’ She took him by the arm. ‘Remember, I need stories … exclusives, particularly crime stories. Crime reporting has not been one of our strengths in recent years. It’s an opportunity for me to make a splash, and you can help me with that. You can also help me broaden my range of contacts within the police.’

‘I understand,’ he said rather wearily.

‘Good.’ She was pleased to discover that this rather slow pupil was finally beginning to show some promise. ‘I think we’re going to have a beautiful relationship.’

I’m fucked,
he thought.

‘Yes! Come on!’

Xavier Carlton felt as if he was finally getting his mojo back. A couple of good nights’ sleep, and the prospect of no more electioneering for the next five bloody years, had done wonders for his spirit, not to mention his libido. Later in the day, he would be off on his first official trip as foreign secretary. First, however, he had to finish servicing young Camilla or Cressida, or whatever the hell her name was. He grimaced at the sight of the young party worker bent over the desk, with her Boden crinkle cotton skirt bunched up around her waist and her knickers discarded on the floor, while thrusting as hard as he could.