Carlyle ignored his rumbling stomach and focused on finishing off the article.
With the election looming, it seems that nothing can stop Edgar and Xavier Carlton from realising their political ambitions. According to a former colleague: ‘There was never any doubt that they were ultimately going to run the country.’ A bold statement, but an accurate one. If there ever was any doubt before, there isn’t now.
He closed the magazine and let his gaze lose focus. Nothing he had read made him feel any happier. What the hell was he going to do with these people? The Carltons wouldn’t want to be seen anywhere near his case, even if it turned out that they were right in the middle of it. People like that didn’t get to where they were by worrying about little things like a murder enquiry. At best, they would ignore him. At worst…? Well, who knew?
It was the ultimate no-win situation.
Having been made to wait for more than an hour, it was almost 7.45 p.m. when he was finally invited to enter Simpson’s office. The assistant had put her coat on and was ready to leave. This time round, she did not grace him with a smile, merely pointing in the general direction of her boss, while grabbing her bag and heading in the opposite direction.
As he walked through the door, he realised that he had never been inside this particular office before. However, if he had been looking for clues as to the content of her character, he would have been sorely disappointed. Aside from the furniture, it was spectacularly bare save for a photograph of a middle-aged man who Carlyle assumed was her husband. Sitting at her desk, scribbling some notes on a pad, she gestured him to sit with a curt wave of the hand, without even looking up. Prim, proper and poised, Carlyle thought she had the air of someone who had already done a full day’s work, thank you very much, and now had a top-notch dinner party to go to, offering the chance to mingle with people far more interesting than himself.
Five minutes later, once he had explained the situation, the same dinner party was off. As expected, Simpson did not take the news well. Listening to him in silence, she clasped her hands together as if in prayer, while gnawing on her lower lip. In fact, she seemed to have aged ten years during the short time that he had been speaking.
Carlyle thought she might burst into tears at any moment. All in all, that made him feel a lot better.
After taking a moment to compose herself, Simpson spoke. ‘John, you know how careful we must be here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You realise just how… sensitive this is?’
No fucking shit, thought Carlyle. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘My sergeant,’ Carlyle replied. ‘No one else.’
‘Good. It goes no further than that,’ Simpson said quietly, a steely determination colouring the words. ‘If the press get hold of this, I will have your balls… and Szyszkowski’s.’
Spare me the macho bullshit, thought Carlyle. ‘Understood,’ he replied, in his most clipped, no-nonsense manner.
She looked him up and down. ‘Do you have any idea who is doing this? Or why?’
It was a tricky question that called for a straight answer. ‘No.’
Simpson gave no indication of being surprised. ‘Well, maybe I should see what I can do to help you move this along, Inspector.’
‘That would be very kind. I would be most grateful for any assistance.’
‘Let my office reach out to the remaining Merrion Club members, appraise them of the situation, and then we can take it from there.’
My office? She even talks like a politician, Carlyle thought, not a policeman. He nodded and said nothing as he watched the light bulb coming on above Simpson’s head. It was clearly beginning to dawn on her that this case might not prove a total pile of shit after all. It could offer her the chance to do some favours for some of the most important men in the capital, and therefore in the country. And, if everything turned out well, another promotion beckoned.
‘Once I have made the initial contact,’ Simpson continued, ‘it will become easier for you to speak to them.’
Carlyle kept his expression neutral. ‘Thank you.’
‘These are very important men, so we have to approach them correctly.’
‘Of course.’
Simpson looked him up and down, searching for evidence of sarcasm or unreliability in one of her least favourite officers. Carlyle gave her none. Having laid down the rules of engagement, she switched tack. ‘On the plus side, at least the mayor and the prime minister and his brother will have their own security already.’
‘He’s not the prime minister,’ Carlyle pointed out evenly.
‘Yes,’ said Simpson, clearly put out at being pulled up. ‘A Freudian slip.’
‘Easy to make,’ Carlyle smiled.
‘Yes, indeed. He will be prime minister, of course. And sooner rather than later. Do you look at the polls?’
Carlyle made a non-committal gesture.
‘He’s got the biggest lead since polling began.’ She seemed quite excited.
‘I thought his lead was slipping,’ Carlyle said mischievously, vaguely remembering reading something about it in The Times that morning.
‘You always get the odd rogue poll,’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s a certainty.’
Carlyle looked at Simpson carefully: ‘That doesn’t make any difference, though, does it?’
‘To what?’
‘To the way we handle the case.’
‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘What it means is that the killer, if he is after these remaining gentlemen, is very unlikely to be able to get close to at least three of them. Out on the stump, in the public eye and surrounded by security, they’re pretty safe.’
‘Unless our guy changes his MO,’ Carlyle mused.
‘The thing to do,’ said Simpson, ignoring this thought, ‘will be to concentrate on the others… once I have spoken to them.’
‘Understood,’ he repeated.
‘Remember,’ Simpson said with some feeling, ‘there absolutely must be a media blackout on this. It cannot be allowed to… pollute the election. You know how the Met would get the blame. The mess would cover us all. Maybe we should get a DA-Notice out tonight?’
‘Good idea,’ said Carlyle, injecting a little false enthusiasm into his voice, trying to sound supportive. ‘But maybe that would be a bit over the top.’ DA-Notices were issued by The Defence, Press and Broadcasting Advisory Committee, requesting that editors not publish or broadcast items on specified subjects for reasons of ‘national security’. This present case might be a serious matter, but describing it as a national-security issue would be rather stretching it a bit. ‘A Defence Advisory Notice is probably inappropriate here, and this is not really a matter for the Press Complaints Commission,’ he continued, ‘but we could go through the Society of Editors. That’s what the Palace did a while back, when one of the young princes went to Iraq.’
‘Very brave of him,’ Simpson mused.
‘Far better for him than rolling around in the gutter outside some nightclub,’ Carlyle muttered, recalling one of the same young royal’s other hobbies.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now is not the time for any lack of focus, Inspector,’ Simpson said with smooth menace.
Carlyle ignored her tone and ploughed on. ‘Editors might accept a purely voluntary “understanding”, in return for special access later on.’
Simpson thought about it for a minute. ‘I would need to agree that with their people.’ Their people meaning the Carltons’ entourage.
This game is getting very complicated, Carlyle thought.
