‘Not necessarily. You can switch it on but keep the wireless turned off. You can then access all the information already on the machine, though you won’t be able to send or receive any emails. That way businessmen can play with them on planes without causing a crash.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Carlyle listlessly. He’d had his own BlackBerry up and running for little more than three weeks now and he hadn’t quite managed to work that kind of facility out yet. He wasn’t the kind of guy to bother consulting the user manual: a gadget either worked straight away or it went in a drawer. With the BlackBerry, once he had worked out how to use the email and check the latest football news (not necessarily in that order), as far as he was concerned he was away. In his book, whatever else the machine did was over-engineering – the curse of the modern consumer electronics industry.
He stood up and took a step over towards the window. ‘This place feels like a hotel suite, or one of those serviced apartments. It doesn’t look like we’ll get much here. What did the people employed at his company have to say?’
‘The usual: shock, horror, surprise.’
‘Could it have been a colleague that killed him?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, but we’re still taking statements. Nothing much has jumped out, so far. There are only thirty-five people working there and we haven’t heard any suggestion of grudges. The victim was reckoned to be very straightforward: good with clients, good at networking, relatively good with junior staff. Not too pushy. Basically, he seems to have kept his work life and his private life separate. They knew he wasn’t married, otherwise he’s a bit of a blank sheet of paper.’
‘OK, go and have another chat with the Alethia people tomorrow morning and see what you can find out about his clients.’
‘No problem.’ Joe nodded. ‘They don’t start early, these folks, so I can take the kids to school for once. Anita will be chuffed.’
‘Nice,’ Carlyle smiled. ‘What about ex-colleagues?’
‘Doubtful. The company has only been going a few years, and none of the top people has left yet. Apparently, the way these things work is that you build up the business and then sell it off to someone bigger. You probably get tied in for a while, but then you can bugger off as soon as the cash hits your bank account. They haven’t got to that stage yet.’
‘What about the more junior staff?’
‘Again,’ Joe sighed, ‘nothing’s really come up. It’s the kind of place where the secretaries save a bit of money and then go backpacking in Australia. The others are all bright young things, very career-focused.’
Carlyle kept throwing out the questions as they popped into his head. ‘What was Blake doing before this job?’
‘Dunno. Still checking.’
‘Next of kin?’
‘Nope. Parents dead. No brothers or sisters.’
‘Partner?’
Joe gestured around the sparse room. ‘Apparently not.’
‘Neighbours?’
‘There are six flats in this building. We’ve managed to speak to someone in three of them so far. Two more are still being chased.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Give me something!’
Joe shrugged. ‘They didn’t seem that interested, to be honest. Apparently he’s been living here for about eight years, but that’s about it. Like the people at his work, they found him fairly quiet and polite.’
‘Car?’
‘Nice motor, an Audi Q7. It’s downstairs. There’s a garage in the basement.’
‘Has it been checked?’
‘Yeah. A preliminary search threw up nothing.’
‘What about cameras?’
‘None. Neither inside nor outside.’
Carlyle raised his eyebrows.
‘I know,’ said Joe. ‘Some of the residents thought it would lower the tone, apparently.’
‘Typical.’ Carlyle yawned. ‘Half a million security cameras all over London, and not one where we actually fucking need it.’
‘It’s always the way.’ Joe struggled out of the sofa. ‘We are where we are, then. Let’s call it a night.’
‘That’s a plan,’ agreed Carlyle, as he went back to thinking about what he might have for dinner.
The remote control missed the screen by about two feet and exploded on impact with the wall behind it, switching the television off as it did so. A few deep breaths saw the frustration subside, but only a little. From the moment she had appeared on the screen, it was clear that the Snowdon woman was one of those bimbo journalists who shouldn’t be let loose on anything more taxing than a Hello! magazine interview. Even then, it was a shocking performance: no background, no insight, no bloody context. No wonder more and more people were refusing to pay their licence fees.
Breathe!
How difficult could it be for these people to see what was going on?
Breathe!
On the other hand, these journalists only regurgitated whatever the police told them. If the police themselves were clueless, why should the journalists be any better?
Breathe!
There was no point in wailing about what had happened. If people couldn’t yet put the pieces together, they could always be given more help. Next time, it would be spelt out so clearly that even this bunch of idiots couldn’t miss it.
Eva Hollander stood in the kitchen with a large glass of Chateau Puysserguier Saint Chinian in her hand. Dominic Silver wasn’t too keen about his wife drinking before the children had gone to bed – he didn’t want them to see alcohol as something to be consumed as a matter of routine every evening – but he wasn’t going to make an issue out of it. Their five kids weren’t around to see Mummy’s teatime boozing, anyway. They had now fled to various parts of the house in order to avoid teeth brushing, face washing, bedtime stories, etc., etc. If he listened carefully, he could hear the sound of Modern Warfare 2, interspersed with bits of Abba. Everyone was safe and happy under one roof. Domestic bliss personified, it was the best feeling in the world.
Should he have a bowl of pasta? Or a bowl of cornflakes? Dom was still undecided as Eva tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Look,’ she was pointing at the small television screen fixed below one of the kitchen cupboards, ‘there’s John Carlyle.’
She turned up the sound and together they watched the rest of the news report. By the time it had finished, Dom had decided on the pasta.
‘He looked very grumpy,’ Eva observed, bringing the glass to her lips without taking a sip.
‘He always looks grumpy,’ said Dom, as he poked around in the fridge for some tortellini.
‘It sounds like he’s working on a particularly nasty case.’
‘That’s his job.’ Dom finally pulled out a packet of pasta and closed the fridge door. ‘He’s been doing it for long enough now. It’s his choice, and it always has been. It’s what he likes doing.’
‘I wonder how Helen and Alice are getting on,’ Eva mused. ‘We haven’t seen them for a while.’
Dom carefully opened the packet with a knife and dropped half the contents into a pan. ‘Give them a call,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Get them to come over sometime. I’m sure all the kids would love a play date.’
‘I think that was fine…’
