‘I’m just after some background information. Business-related, obviously, but nothing in any way related to you.’

‘Why not speak to your little pal Clement?’

Jesus, how could he know? Was he fucking psychic? ‘I already have. I’m just moving on up the food chain.’

There was a sigh at the other end, some muffled noises in the background. ‘OK, meet me at the usual place in an hour.’

They met Simpson in a discreet room on the fourth floor of Portcullis House, the?235-million office block for MPs, located across the road from the House of Commons, facing the north side of Westminster Bridge. This close to the election, the place was completely deserted. Gratifyingly, the superintendent seemed suitably desperate to do whatever they wanted from her. Straight off the bat, she had promised a media blackout ‘better than the prime minister’s when-’

Edgar stopped her with a gentle wave of the hand. ‘Everyone knew about that anyway,’ he sniffed,

‘Maybe in Westminster,’ she replied politely, ‘but it didn’t make the papers.’

Xavier snorted: ‘Who cares about it not being in the media, when all your peers know anyway?’

‘Yes,’ said Simpson, nervously standing her ground, ‘but the situation here is rather different.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Edgar smiled graciously.

Xavier watched his brother moving into campaign mode. He had seen it so many times before when they needed to build the ‘hired help’ up, not knock them down. It was now time to throw a bone to one of the little people.

‘You are absolutely right.’ Edgar’s smile grew wider still.

‘Indeed,’ Xavier nodded.

‘It is,’ Edgar continued, ‘in the absolute best interests of all concerned – especially the victims and their families – that this most unfortunate and difficult situation is dealt with quickly. A total information blackout, while the matter is resolved, would therefore be a good thing.’

‘Yes,’ Simpson agreed.

‘That should help your people catch this lunatic soon.’

‘I have already explained that to my people,’ Simpson concurred.

‘I am sure,’ Edgar said gently, ‘that our people will be able to help you, too.’

Our people?

Simpson made no comment at all when she was informed, in so many words, that William Murray would be dispatched to mark Carlyle’s card and report back to Edgar Carlton himself.

‘Your Inspector Carlyle,’ Edgar said casually, as they were finishing up the conversation, ‘he seems quite… unusual.’

Simpson finally lifted her head and tried her best to smile. It merely made her look constipated. ‘He has had some issues over the years, yes. To be frank, there are some who consider the inspector an inverted snob with a chip on his shoulder. He is not well liked and amongst ourselves…’ She paused, glancing at the two politicians, wanting to believe in their discretion.

‘Of course,’ Edgar said gently, ‘nothing that is said here today goes beyond the three of us.’

I’ve heard that, too, thought Xavier, smirking.

‘Well,’ Simpson continued, ‘I think it is reasonable to assume that he is now in the slow lane to retirement. As I am sure you know, he has had more than a few problems with authority down the years.’

‘That’s not really what we need here, is it?’ Xavier piped up.

‘No,’ Simpson agreed gently, addressing Edgar rather than his brother, which pissed Xavier off considerably. ‘But it would be more trouble than it’s worth to take him off the investigation at this stage. It might lead people to ask awkward questions.’

‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Edgar, shooting his brother a sharp look.

‘Anyway,’ said Simpson, ‘Carlyle has a reasonable track record when it comes to actually closing cases. There’s a chance that he will be able to wrap this business up quickly. If not, and if he takes a few wrong turns, it will be easier to have him replaced later.’

‘That all makes great sense,’ said Edgar Carlton sweetly. ‘Thank you for giving us such reassurance. We’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

TWENTY-TWO

Brixton, London, June 1987

Yawning widely, Larry Guthrie strolled down Mostyn Road on his way to the New World cafe round the corner. It was a beautiful day, temperature in the mid-twenties, with a slight breeze and the occasional cloud skipping across a sharp blue sky. It was the kind of day that should make you happy to be alive, but the weather currently didn’t interest Larry very much. It had been a late night and the seventeen year old could have done with more than a couple of extra hours in bed. Sleep, however, would have to wait. Right now, Larry was hungry. And he was also on a schedule. There was more work to be done this afternoon too, and his was not the kind of job that allowed you to throw a sickie and hide under the duvet. People needed their gear for Saturday night and therefore business would be brisk. Anyway, some pancakes and coffee would keep his tiredness at bay. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he wouldn’t get out of bed at all.

Looking up from his plodding feet, he glanced at two young boys playing on the swings in Mostyn Gardens. Only a few years ago and that had been him. In a few years’ time, if not sooner, this life of his would be theirs. Sticking his hands deeper into the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, Larry returned his gaze to the pavement and increased his pace. Eyes down, he didn’t see the man with the lengthening stride walking towards him. Nor did he see the man pull out a gun and aim it at Larry’s stomach.

When the gun went off, the noise was so shocking that Larry didn’t even realise he’d been hit. His hands went to his ears, rather than his guts. Then, once he went down, everything went silent. He could hear nothing but his beating heart and the blood pulsing in his temples. He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the gun that was now hovering barely six inches from his face. He wondered if he would be able to see the bullet approach. In the event, as the muzzle twitched again, there was only darkness.

Feeling like a spare prick at a whore’s wedding, Constable John Carlyle watched the forensics team going about their business and wondered what exactly he himself should be doing. For a while, he just stood there looking at the blood-splattered trainers of Larry Guthrie sticking out from under the dark green sheet that had been casually dropped over the boy’s body. Carlyle recognised the Nike high-top Dunks from a recent spread in The Face magazine, and he felt a stab of envy: the sneakers were way out of his price range. The favoured footwear of various local gangs, such as Young Thugs, the Cartel Boys, the Alligator Crew and the Superstar Gang, they weren’t even on sale in the UK yet, but had to be brought over from the United States at a cost of several hundred dollars a time. Carlyle looked on as a technician removed the trainers from Guthrie’s sockless feet and placed each one in its own evidence bag. At least he died with his boots on, he reflected, smiling grimly to himself.

One of the detectives standing over the body finally took offence at his idleness. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine,’ he shouted. ‘Get across the street and start knocking on some bloody doors.’ Reluctantly, Carlyle trooped off to report for duty with the sergeant who was out organising the canvassing of potential witnesses.

Ten minutes later, some old codger was bending his ear: ‘The area has become really terrible,’ the man complained. ‘It’s a war zone. Every night you can hear shouting and bawling. Gunfire, too, sometimes. Gangs of kids shouting in street slang. No one feels safe here. You’re constantly looking over your shoulder when you’re out and about. It’s the folk with young families that I feel sorry for.’ He pointed in the direction of the body. ‘How do you explain that to a six year old? It’s a disgrace and you people should do something about it.’

Carlyle stood there, nodding absentmindedly.

You people? Thanks.

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