had started kicking in. God knows what Mr Plod made of it, despite having only the one kid to worry about. ‘We thought about sending our girls to City a few years ago,’ he mused, ‘and the cost was pretty impressive even then. Presumably she is on a scholarship?’
Murray shook his head. ‘No, they’re paying full whack, for the moment at least. Apparently that school doesn’t hand out any scholarships before the age of eleven. I’m sure they’ll be trying to get one when the child is older, but they’ll have to cough up for a while yet.’
‘That must eat into the family budget, so it explains why he is not too interested in retirement. A police pension is not going to be anywhere near enough for our inspector, not if young…’
‘Alice.’
‘Not if young Alice doesn’t then deliver on the scholarship front. Imagine having to take her out of City School for Girls and drop her back into some local state school. What a nightmare! I’m sure Mrs Carlyle would never forgive him.’ He paused, reflecting, not for the first time, on the reality that domestic hegemony was far harder to achieve than high political office. ‘But good for them, anyway, for not taking the easy option. For being ambitious for their daughter. For being fans of private education. Maybe we can count on their votes, after all.’
TWENTY-ONE
Clement Hawley might be considered a Renaissance man for the early twenty-first century. He was a trader in the highly pressurised world of the London money markets, as well as running a lucrative sideline in recreational pharmaceuticals. This allowed him to deploy his considerable social and marketing skills while exploiting the synergies that existed between those two jobs. The boys in the City want to make money and do drugs, often in large quantities and at the same time, while Clement was at hand to help facilitate either, or both, of those ambitions.
Young master Hawley had stumbled out of the Sir John Lydon Imperial Grammar School for Boys in Canterbury more than fifteen years earlier, wandering the beaches of Thailand and Goa for a while before strolling into London’s booming financial services industry. There, in the bright, gleaming, non-judgemental, ultra-short-term, fuck-everything-and-then-fuck-it-again world of high finance, he found his metier through dealing in foreign exchange. He established a niche in obscure currencies like the Turkish lira, Lebanese pound and Israeli shekel. These had a tendency to gyrate wildly against the major currencies – namely the dollar, sterling and the Euro – with every car bomb and airstrike occurring in the Middle East, of which, of course, there were plenty. It didn’t matter what was going up or down because, as long as things were moving, you could trade. If you could trade, you could make a profit, which was good for your end-of-year bonus, or a loss involving someone else’s money.
Trading forex was a nice little earner, but it was nowhere near as profitable as the drugs Hawley sold on the side. His was an uncomplicated business, essentially providing grass, ecstasy and cocaine to between sixty and a hundred recreational users within his extended social set. Clement observed certain standards: he didn’t sell crack, the drug of choice for the truly degenerate, and he didn’t sell anything to those that he didn’t know, or to anyone who didn’t arrive at his table with a personal recommendation from an existing customer. Even without chasing every last pound, it was a very lucrative set-up, and Clement was comfortably clearing three hundred thousand pounds a year. Added to the money from his trading job, this sideline pushed his overall income towards half a million.
There were scores of dealers like Clement throughout London. For the police, most were a useful source of market intelligence, people to trade information with rather than to close down. Arresting them was pointless, since there was always someone else to fill the void. Better to make use of them out on the street.
Clement had been arrested just twice, once for being drunk and disorderly, the second time for possession. The first time, three years ago, he was taken to Charing Cross, where Carlyle, after a short but frank discussion regarding the six grand’s worth of ecstasy in his pockets, had him released without charge (but minus the drugs). The second time he was arrested, eight months later in Camden Town, Hawley declined his right to a phone call and asked for Inspector Carlyle, straight off the bat. All in all, Carlyle felt that he had built up a lot of credit at the Bank of Hawley, and now it was time to make a small withdrawal.
Hawley’s normal stomping ground was Brick Lane, in the heart of a run-down East London neighbourhood just east of Spitalfields Market, and less than five minutes’ walk from the Liverpool Street offices of the Australian bank where he worked. One of the poorest districts in the whole country, it was historically famous for housing successive waves of immigrants: the Huguenots, the Irish and the Jews. It gained a small but important mention in twentieth-century British history with the Battle of Cable Street in 1936, when anti-Nazis fought the British Blackshirts. More recently, it had become a centre of the Bangladeshi community and was now famous for its curry houses. It was not an area that Carlyle knew well but, constantly changing and full of hustle, bustle and hardship, it lay at the heart of what made London the heaving, restless metropolis that it was. As a Londoner, therefore, he felt that he could relate to it well enough.
Brick Lane had once been home to more than twenty pubs. With names like the Duke’s Motto, the Jolly Butchers, the Seven Stars and the Monkey’s Tackle, they had eagerly competed for the pound in the working man’s pocket. Now, with a decent round of drinks easily costing well north of thirty quid, just one of them, the Frying Pan, remained. The others had been turned into more profitable businesses: Indian and Chinese restaurants, cafes, a hairdresser’s shop, clothes shops, fast-food outlets, a canoe centre (who went canoeing in E1?), a money-transfer kiosk and a church for some religion that Carlyle had never heard of. There was also a travel shop offering Jack the Ripper tours – the Ripper being the leading local celebrity.
Landlords in the ‘wet trade’ had taken a right kicking in recent years, victims of falling custom, the smoking ban, higher taxes and ridiculously cheap supermarket beer. By the more nostalgically inclined, pub closures were seen as a symbol of the death of London’s community spirit. Carlyle, who was most certainly not nostalgically inclined, personally considered this a load of old bollocks. For the fastidious inspector, the demise of these hovels, offering crap service and plenty of second-hand smoke, had to be considered a good thing. As far as he was concerned, that fake East End bonhomie, mixed with an undercurrent of prejudice and menace, would never be missed. More than a hundred London pubs might have closed during every year for the last decade, but he still didn’t notice any great shortage. That meant that there were still plenty of options for the likes of Clement Hawley to go about their business.
Carlyle tried to think of the last time he’d been inside a pub, other than for the purposes of work. He reckoned it had to be at least three years. Probably so he could watch Fulham lose to some fellow no-hopers on one of the various subscription-TV services that he couldn’t afford at home.
Now, he deliberately chose a corner table far from the door, after eyeing the half-dozen or so other patrons scattered about the place, who were drinking pints of lager and studiously ignoring each other. There, Carlyle sat down and waited, nursing a glass of Jameson whiskey, straight with no ice.
Clement Hawley was fresh faced and energetic. He was also completely predictable. As soon as he walked in to the Frying Pan, he started scanning the interior for his regular clients. He clocked Carlyle immediately and did a sharp U-turn. Why he was trying to escape was anyone’s guess. They knew where he worked and they had already checked that he had turned up there today. And he would have to get back to his desk sooner rather than later, in order to close himself out of the trading positions he had taken that morning. It was far better for Clement that Carlyle spoke to him here in the pub, rather than back at the bank.
So why did he try to run? Perhaps it was the stash in his pockets. Perhaps it was his criminal DNA. Perhaps it was just sheer fucking stupidity. Whatever, he didn’t get very far. As Clement approached the door, Joe walked in off the street, flipped him round again, and gave him a gentle push in the direction of his boss. Carlyle smiled to himself. It was nice when these things went according to plan.
With a shrug, Hawley allowed himself to be ushered towards Carlyle’s table. He was probably pushing thirty- five but had retained his boyish good looks, and his own personal drug use was keeping the extra pounds at bay. From a few feet away, he could have almost passed for a new graduate starting out on his career in his first work suit. All in all, it was a good effort for a bloke who managed to hold down not one but two stressful jobs.
‘Inspector.’ Clement gave a meek wave.
‘Clement.’ Carlyle looked past his guest, and eyed the two City boys who had just appeared at the far end of
