‘No,’ Murray stood corrected. ‘It seems this guy Carlyle is in charge of the investigation.’
‘But she was the one made the running with the press?’
‘Yes,’ Murray nodded, ‘as far as we can tell.’
‘Edgar? Are you still there?’ It was Sebastian Lloyd, speaking from halfway up a mountain in Chile or Peru, or somewhere. Wherever it was, he was safe enough. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’
Edgar unmuted the phone. ‘Yes, sorry. Let’s wrap it up, then. Rest assured that we will deal with this problem at our end, and we will also make sure it’s dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible.’
There was silence for a few seconds, and then Harry Allen spoke: ‘That’s fine, Edgar, but just remember that we’re all in this together and there is more to worry about here than just your bloody career.’
‘It’s being dealt with,’ intervened Xavier huffily.
For the first time, it crossed Edgar’s mind that some of his so-called chums might not even care to vote for him. He shook his head impatiently and leant over the phone. ‘Xavier is right. It is being dealt with. And you are absolutely right, we are all in this together. So we must deal with this quickly, efficiently and in the best interests of the Club and its members. Good to speak to you all this morning, gentlemen. If we need to arrange another of these calls, William Murray will let you know. But, meanwhile, don’t worry. You can consider the matter resolved.’ Without waiting for any comeback, he ended the call with a quick stab of his finger. Closing his eyes, he slumped back into his seat.
‘That was fine,’ Murray ventured.
‘Yes,’ Carlton yawned, ‘but the last thing I – we – need right now is this kind of problem. I must get back on the campaign trail. I need to be out on the road, like Xavier and Christian.’
‘Yes,’ Murray nodded.
‘And we need to draw the public’s attention away from the polls.’
‘Yes.’
‘Better still, we need some new bloody polls.’
‘Yes.’
‘Ones that show us what we damn well want to see.’
‘Yes.’
Three days of narrowing polls meant that Edgar Carlton’s lead was slipping towards single digits, just as the election itself headed towards its penultimate week. Unbelievably, given their appalling track record, the other side was regaining some momentum. That had to be stopped – and fast. The last thing he could afford now that he was fighting for his political life, was to be dragged into a multiple murder case.
‘I wish we could have more confidence in the way the investigation is currently being handled,’ Edgar mused. Why the police needed to crank up media interest by holding a damn press conference was beyond him. Indeed it was galling beyond belief that these people were so unbelievably incompetent when it came to handling the media. But it was a fait accompli. ‘This Simpson woman, does she know about the… context of the case?’
Murray sucked in his cheeks, then exhaled. ‘No, I don’t think so. The police don’t seem to have put the pieces together yet. But, of course, we have to assume that they will get there in the end.’
‘What about this Carlyle chap?’ Edgar asked breezily. ‘Should we just get rid of him? See that it’s handed to someone else?’
‘I think that would be premature,’ Murray replied. ‘There’s no obvious need at this stage. If it becomes necessary, Simpson can easily take care of Carlyle.’
‘So, what about the good inspector? What do we know about him?’
The aide took another peek at his notes. ‘Well… he seems a bit of a strange one.’ He shuffled some papers. ‘He’s a Londoner, joined the police in 1979, has done various jobs at various stations, received several citations. But there’s nothing that impressive in his file, and his career seems to have flat-lined in recent years. You get the impression that he’s never been able to fit in that well. Wherever he goes, he seems to do OK for a while, but then every couple of years the wheels come off. After the latest such incident, it was made clear to him that he really should be thinking about retirement.’
This sounds good, thought Carlton. ‘What happened?’
‘For some reason, a few years back, he was put on Royal Protection Duty-’
‘Seems a strange decision. Do we know why?’
‘Probably just some administrative error. Anyway, on one particular occasion he was responsible for looking after a couple of the young royals while they were conducting their civic duties at Pomegranate.’
‘I know it well,’ Edgar nodded. ‘At least, I’ve been there a few times.’ Personally, he felt that the Chelsea nightclub in question was like a school disco with silly prices, but he had been there quite regularly since royal patronage had made it ultra-fashionable among his own set. After all, it was good to show that you could still get down with the kids. Getting his picture in the newspapers along with ‘the boys’ – the two young princes who alternated between playing at being soldiers and playing at being playboys – didn’t hurt either. And the fact that his wife Anastasia wouldn’t go near the place was another big plus.
‘It gets to three a.m.,’ Murray continued, ‘and Carlyle’s charges fall out of the club, blind drunk as usual.’
‘Well,’ Carlton said airily, ‘everyone’s entitled to some fun.’
‘Of course,’ Murray nodded. ‘But then one of the young chaps got into an altercation with a press photographer.’
Carlton yawned. ‘So far, so unremarkable.’
‘Yes, but the suggestion was that Carlyle was rather slow to step in and sort things out. It was even suggested that he let the snapper – a big chap who had been in both the South African army and the French Foreign Legion – give HRH a few hard slaps, before he dragged the boy away, covered in his own blood and vomit.’
‘Mmm.’ Carlton scoured the farthest regions of his memory. ‘I think I remember the pictures. It looked to me fairly much like a normal night out for His Highness.’
‘There was an investigation but nothing could be proved. The young royal in question wanted Carlyle kicked off the Force, but it was considered that might cause too much of a scene, particularly if the Police Federation got involved.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Carlton nodded, ‘the most obnoxious trade union in the world.’ He would make very sure that his own government did nothing to annoy them. Best to let sleeping police dogs lie, and all that.
‘In the end, Carlyle was simply yanked off royal duties and put back on the taxi rank, to wait for whatever else came along.’
‘So, he’s a bit of a republican?’ Carlton shook his head in disbelief. ‘How can a man like that become a policeman in the first place?’
‘It’s not entirely clear,’ said Murray. ‘Generally, he’s thought to be a bit too liberal for the police, or maybe just a bit too… cerebral.’
‘So you mean he thinks too much,’ Carlton frowned. ‘Great, that’s all we need. How in the name of sweet Jesus did we end up getting someone like him?’
Murray shrugged. ‘You’re always going to get one or two like that in an organisation as big as the police.’
Pouting unhappily, Edgar checked his watch. It really was time he should be getting along to the House of Commons. ‘Anything else we know about this Inspector Carlyle, other than the fact that he is completely unreliable? What’s his family situation?’ He gave Murray a stern look. ‘You’re probably now going to tell me he lives in a hippie commune with a gay lover called Gerald, who runs a basket-weaving collective.’
Murray made a face. ‘No, he has a wife and daughter.’
‘First marriage?’
‘Yes. The wife works for a liberal charity called Avalon. It sends doctors to the Third World, begs for money, moans about “imperialism”, that kind of thing.’
‘And the kid?’
‘She goes to City School for Girls in the Barbican.’
‘Good school,’ said Carlton, impressed. He himself had four children, two boys and two girls, and all were attending top-notch London schools. Public schools like City. ‘Public’ as in ‘private’. It seemed a very English way of using the language, hiding the reality behind the words.
‘Expensive,’ Murray commented.
‘I’m sure,’ Carlton shivered. The fees for his brood had been killing him even before the damn credit crunch
