‘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.
‘Yes!’ She mimicked him, without much enthusiasm.
Xavier tugged on the girl’s hair, forcing her to turn and face him, so that he could enjoy the mixture of confusion and boredom in her eyes. You’ll never have much of a career in porno movies, he thought, slapping her hard on the buttocks.
‘Faster!’
‘Yes! Yes!’ She thrust backwards with such vigour that it almost knocked him off his feet.
‘For God’s sake!’ Slipping out, Xavier closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the smell of shit. Smearing the girl’s bodily waste along the length of his shaft, he started stroking himself vigorously. After a few moments, he brought up an image of Yulexis, on her knees, tickling his balls while she sucked him off like an angel on crack. Almost immediately, he felt himself quiver uncontrollably. Pushing himself back inside the girl, he lent forward and started pawing at her chest.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’
‘Was that good, Xavier? Better than me?’
He opened his eyes. The real Yulexis was standing before them, a very nasty-looking kitchen knife in her hand and hatred blazing in her eyes. As she raised the weapon, Xavier thought that he could finally make out the increased curve of her stomach. Had she refused to go to Harley Street? Or had he simply forgotten to make that appointment for her abortion?
As he struggled to recall, Yulexis hammered the blade into his chest. There was a sickening crack as she forced the steel through his breastbone. With the knife stuck firmly in his chest, Xavier collapsed, a confused expression on his face, blood rapidly staining his shirt. But I was thinking of you, screamed a voice in his head. I was thinking of you!
The girl looked pained rather than scared. Standing up, she pulled down her dress and involuntarily passed wind. Yulexis wrinkled her nose at the stench of excrement, but said nothing. Blushing, the girl looked at Xavier’s crumpled body lying on the floor.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked.
‘I truly hope so,’ said Yulexis, carefully feeling her bump. ‘It’s the very least that the sick bastard deserves.’
After escaping from Snowdon, Carlyle wandered aimlessly up Marylebone High Street. Stopping at a cafe, he ordered a takeaway latte. From a radio behind the counter came a round-up of the day’s news. After the soap opera of the election, it was back to business as usual. The world was not going to dramatically change.
The presenter rushed through the stories, as if not wishing to delay the adverts.
‘The aide to Prime Minister Edgar Carlton, who accidentally drowned in an election night tragedy, has finally been officially identified.’
But William Murray did not even merit a name check.
‘And Spandau Ballet are to regroup for a series of concerts in the autumn.’
Spandau fucking Ballet, Carlyle, thought. Jesus! What is the world coming to? He thanked the girl who handed him his coffee, took a careful sip and smiled. For once it was extremely hot, just how he liked it.
Out on the street again, his phone rang. Seeing Joe’s number on the screen, he punched the receive button. ‘Hi.’
‘You’re not going to believe this,’ was Joe’s opening gambit.
‘I’ll believe anything.’ Carlyle laughed.
‘I’ve just had a call from Commissario Edmondo Valcareggi…’
Carlyle took a mouthful of coffee and felt it scald the back of his throat. ‘Oh yeah?’ he coughed.
‘Apparently Ferruccio Pozzo wasn’t Ferruccio Pozzo.’
‘The liposuction guy?’
‘Yeah, the one who was killed in prison.’
‘But Valcareggi said he had DNA…’
‘The lab messed up, apparently. Either that or someone fiddled with the test results.’
‘So,’ Carlyle sighed, ‘the guy we nicked – who was he, then?’
‘No idea,’ Joe said cheerfully. ‘But Valcareggi reckons that the real Pozzo is going to be in London next week. He wants us to help him arrest him.’
Carlyle gave this some thought as he watched a very pretty girl in a very flimsy T-shirt and no bra stroll slowly past him, walking a very small dog on a very long lead. Only by gritting his teeth and summoning up the willpower of ten men did he resist the temptation to turn round and gawp at her backside as well.
‘What do you think?’ asked Joe.
Carlyle unclenched his jaw. ‘Tell him to fuck off.’
