the bar. They had finished buying their pints and were now giving Clement the once-over, trying to read the situation. Was he open for business or not?
Turning back to Hawley, Carlyle nodded towards the stool next to him. Clement knew what had caught Carlyle’s eye, but he fought the urge to sneak a glance at the punters. He ignored the stool. ‘I’m, um, a bit pushed for time.’
Carlyle let his hand tighten around his whiskey glass. ‘Sit!’ he growled.
Clement sat down and Joe took a seat next to him.
‘Looks like you’ve just lost some customers,’ Carlyle said, watching the duo drain their pints in double-quick time and head for the door. Maybe they could manage to get through the afternoon under their own steam, after all.
‘Yes, well,’ Clement smiled, ‘you know the score.’
‘I know the score,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘but do you?’
‘’Course I do, Inspector,’ the trader smiled. ‘I’m all yours. How can I be of assistance?’
‘First, empty your pockets and give the stuff to Joe. Then we need to have a quick chat.’
‘Inspector!’ Clement protested, his face scrunched up in pain, like an eight year old just reminded for the final time that it was bedtime. Nevertheless, he did as he was told. Joe shoved the stuff into his jacket pocket, without looking at it.
‘There’s no chance of a receipt, I suppose?’ When neither Carlyle nor Joe bothered to answer his question, Clement took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck for a few seconds. This type of police harassment was frustrating but, at the same time, it was factored into his overall business plan as part of the cost of doing business. When he turned back to Carlyle, the scowl had been replaced by philosophical calm.
Carlyle decided that they’d had enough preamble. ‘How’s your brother?’
‘Paul? He’s fine.’ Clement looked surprised, then worried. ‘Unless you tell me anything different.’
‘No, no,’ said Carlyle hastily. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Good,’ said Clement, relaxing slightly.
‘Is he still at Cambridge?’ Joe asked.
‘Yeah,’ Clement smiled, ‘he finally got a job. The shock almost killed him. Assistant lecturer or something.’
Paul Hawley was eight or nine years older than Clement. He had gone up to university in the 1980s and never left. Clement was proud of his brother in the way that everyone likes having an academic in the family. To people who didn’t know any better, it suggested intelligent genes.
‘Did he ever finish his PhD?’ Carlyle asked.
‘It only took him seventeen bloody years!’ Clement made a face. ‘ Drinking cultures in the early and middle Middle Ages. Published too – you can find it on Amazon, but I haven’t seen it in the bestseller lists yet.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have been bankrolling him for quite so long,’ Carlyle smiled. Clement had once revealed that he had been covering his brother’s costs to the tune of two thousand pounds a month.
‘Hah!’ Clement laughed. ‘That’s not going to change. He might have a job, but he’s still not making any money. Can you guess how much he’s earning?’
Carlyle shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Sixteen thousand a year!’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Joe.
Clement threw up his hands in despair. ‘Can you believe it? Sixteen grand. A fucking year! That’s not even the average wage, nowhere close. Why would you bother?’
Carlyle shook his head in genuine disbelief. Even he earned more than that, in fact a multiple of that. He tried to work the precise number out in his head, in terms of monthly income, but it was taking him too long, so he moved on. ‘I’m trying to find out about something called the Merrion Club. It’s a drinking society for well-heeled Cambridge students. I don’t suppose Paul was ever a member?’
Realising that they were not interested in him personally this time, Clement relaxed. ‘I’ve heard of the Merrion,’ he said, eager now to please. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret society, or anything, but Paul would never get invited to join something like that. It’s not something you just sign up for at fresher’s week. “Well-heeled” doesn’t quite do it justice, because it’s the creme de la creme de la creme. Paul’s not in that league. In fact, almost no one is.’
‘But he would probably have come across them?’ Carlyle persisted. ‘Might he know anyone who was a member?’
‘He might.’ Clement shrugged non-committally. ‘Cambridge is a small place. A very small place compared to London. Anyway, what do you want to know about?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Joe firmly. ‘We just want to go up there and talk to Paul. Nothing heavy, just to pick his brains. Can you tell him to be there to meet us?’
‘Sure,’ Clement shrugged. ‘Term finished last week, but he’s still there. He’s marrying one of his students, so they’re doing up their house.’
‘Isn’t that illegal?’ Joe asked. ‘Knocking off your students, I mean – not doing up your house. Isn’t it a violation of teacher-student ethics, or whatever?’
‘You would have thought so. But she’s switched her course from Medieval English to Media Studies, so it looks like he’s got away with it. She’s Serbian, twenty years younger than him, with a hell of a body. He’s a lucky sod.’
‘Rather him than me,’ said Joe.
Amen to that, thought Carlyle. Nice body or not.
‘You’ve got to be careful with East Europeans, though,’ Joe continued, graciously prepared to share the wisdom of a second-generation Pole who was married to an Indian. ‘The girls are fantastic, some of the best- looking babes in the world, but they don’t age well. They go from thirty to sixty in about three years. By the time she’s thirty-five, she’ll look even older than him.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll care by then,’ said Clement wistfully.
‘Give us Paul’s mobile number and we’ll give him a call to let him know when we know when we’ll be coming,’ interrupted Carlyle, boring of the chat. ‘And remember to tell him it’s not a big deal, just a few general inquiries. It will be nothing taxing. Not like an academic test.’
After Clement had gone back to the bank to churn a few billion of this and that, just in order to help keep the world’s currency markets in business, Carlyle sat in the corner of the Frying Pan pub, pondering what to do with the rest of his afternoon. Joe had returned to the station to book in Clement’s stash (every little helps for the year-end performance tables!) and prepare for making a court appearance in the morning. This had already been cancelled three times, but one never knew. Carlyle thought about heading for home, or maybe going to the gym. Realising he still had most of the whiskey in front of him, he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in one go. He thought about another but decided against it, heading for the door via a quick trip to the gents.
Stepping out into the street, he was assaulted by a grubby, muggy afternoon. He could already feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. A couple of streets away, someone was digging up the road, and the drilling just upped Carlyle’s discomfort level a notch further. Still trying to formulate a plan, Carlyle pulled out his ‘private’ mobile and switched it on. The Nokia 2630 was one of the cheapest, most ubiquitous pay-as-you-go models currently on the market. Carlyle had bought it for cash, and would top it up for cash at random newsagents well away from his usual haunts. He didn’t flash it around, and gave out the number to very few people. Even then, he changed both the handset and the SIM card every three or four months. This didn’t guarantee complete secrecy, but it meant that no one was routinely checking his calls. It allowed him some privacy, and for that the additional hassle and cost was worth it.
Crossing the road, he stood at the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street, and scrolled down the list of names. He stopped at ‘DS’ and hit the call button.
The response was immediate. ‘Yes?’
‘Dominic? It’s me.’ No one else called him Dominic.
‘What can I do for you?’ The tone was neutral, not exactly guarded but not welcoming either.
‘I’d like to have a chat.’
‘About what?’
