THIRTY-FIVE
Standing at the bar of the Royal China Club, a seafood restaurant on Baker Street, Carlyle scanned the front page of that morning’s
Having been summoned to the club by Commander Carole Simpson, he was anticipating a major bollocking. After almost half an hour, he had read the
The dining room was full of diners and the noise-level was high. Carlyle sat with his hands on his lap, avoiding eye-contact. Blowing gently on her tea, Simpson adopted an air of serenity.
A drink would be nice, Carlyle thought. He looked around hopefully but the waiters knew better than to offer him anything and steadfastly refused to catch his eye. Deciding that his boss’s inscrutable act had gone on for long enough, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. ‘Thanks for getting me out of jail.’
Simpson replaced her cup carefully on its saucer and signalled for the bill. ‘What exactly happened over there?’
‘Well. .’ Carlyle proceeded to give her the same story he had told to the Swiss police — throwing in a few extra irrelevant details to give some colour and the suggestion of candour.
Simpson listened impassively. When Carlyle had finished his little story, she said nothing for a few moments. He could sense the debate going on inside her about whether to call him on his dishonesty or whether just to let it slide. The bill arrived, and Carlyle eyed her corporate credit card enviously as it was slipped into the machine. After typing in her PIN and taking the receipt, Simpson looked him directly in the eye. ‘It was a bloody nightmare,’ she said, almost keeping a smile from creeping across her lips. ‘In the end, I had to get the ambassador himself involved.’
‘I thought it was the consul,’ Carlyle grinned.
‘You think it’s funny, John,’ she admonished, ‘don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Going over to Switzerland — how can anyone cause trouble in Switzerland, for God’s sake? It’s the place where you go to die! — and creating just about the biggest international incident since World War Two.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘For goodness’ sake, how do you manage it?’
‘I was simply executing a warrant,’ Carlyle said humbly.
Sticking her credit card and the receipt safely in her bag, she leaned over the table and lowered her voice. ‘Just as long as you didn’t execute a member of the ruddy royal family.’
‘No, no.’ Carlyle stiffened. ‘As I said, I had nothing to do with that.’
‘Nothing? Are you sure?’
‘Completely,’ he nodded solemnly. ‘As you know, I was assaulted myself.’
‘Don’t try and play the victim with me, Inspector,’ Simpson said tartly, ‘it simply doesn’t suit you. Those two goons you put in hospital have hired some ambulance-chaser over here in London. This isn’t going to go away quietly — the Met is facing an embarrassing civil suit.’
‘It won’t be the first time,’ Carlyle replied sullenly. He’d had enough of acting the penitent soldier, and wondered if there was going to be a point to this meeting.
‘I have had to tell the authorities, both here and in Berne, that you will be disciplined very harshly.’
Here we go, Carlyle thought. ‘Which means what?’
‘Which means,’ she said slowly, ‘that you had better keep a very, very low profile for a very, very long time.’
Carlyle stared at her.
‘Amazingly,’ said Simpson, ‘despite causing chaos abroad and a tabloid media frenzy here at home, there are still some people who think you have done a good job.’
Carlyle felt his stomach rumble. There were two small chocolates that the waiter had brought with the bill. He grabbed one. ‘Some people as in you?’ he asked, stuffing it in his mouth.
‘No.’ Simpson shook her head. ‘I think that you have been very unprofessional.’ She handed him the final chocolate. ‘Not to mention economical with the truth.’
Caryle bit into the other one. It was easier to lie with something in your mouth. ‘I have told you what I know,’ he said, with a small shrug.
‘Anyway,’ said Simpson, obviously knowing when she was flogging a dead horse, ‘Sir Ewen Mayflower seems to have taken quite a shine to you.’
‘He didn’t mention the vase, then?’
Simpson gave him a funny look. ‘What?’
Carlyle coughed. ‘Nothing.’
‘He says that there are people in Buckingham Palace — ‘‘very high-up people’’, were his precise words — who are very pleased with your efforts.’
‘What?’ Carlyle laughed. ‘You think the Queen herself wanted Falkirk offed?’
‘I don’t know,’ Simpson grinned, getting to her feet, signalling that their little chat was at an end. ‘Maybe the Duke of Edinburgh?’
‘Yeah,’ Carlyle laughed, finally catching the eye of a waiter and gesturing to him for a menu. ‘I could understand that. You wouldn’t want to mess with that old bugger.’
THIRTY-SIX
Sitting at his desk in Charing Cross, the inspector aimlessly surfed the internet while studiously avoiding doing any work. If Simpson wanted him to keep a low profile that was fine by him. Picking up his mobile, he rang Helen. It was a while since he had taken his wife to lunch, and he fancied a burrito from the Mexican place near her office. But the call went straight to voicemail, and he hung up without leaving a message. If she didn’t call him back in time, he would grab a sandwich. Yawning, he returned his attention to the story of an Oscar-winning actress whose husband was being ‘linked’ with a tattoo model. ‘Tattoo model,’ Carlyle mused, marvelling at the girl’s picture. ‘Now that’s what I call a proper job.’
Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder, holding an oversized doughnut, covered in white icing, in front of his mouth. In his other hand he carried a page ripped from a magazine. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, waving the story at Carlyle, ‘from the
Carlyle was still captivated by the tattoo model. ‘My heart bleeds.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘Only in England could you try and claim someone worth more than sixteen billion quid was only worth two hundred and seventy million.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Imagine being down to your last two hundred odd mill.’
‘But she isn’t,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘That’s the point.’
‘I suppose.’ Taking a large, almost ceremonial bite of his doughnut, Joe sent pieces of icing flying all over Carlyle’s desk.
‘Hey!’ Carlyle squawked in protest.
‘Sorry,’ said Joe, in a manner suggesting that he was not sorry in the slightest.
