In order to appear suitably impressed, Carlyle read the story a third time:
Student Suicide Tragedy
Family and friends of Robert Ashton are struggling to come to terms with the popular third-year Law student’s tragic death. Ashton, 21, jumped from the balcony of his room on the top floor of Darwin Hall on 3 March. According to media reports, a suicide note was subsequently found. The police have said that they are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident.
University friends were shocked by the terrible news. Some have reportedly claimed that Ashton was behaving strangely in recent months, but he had a one hundred per cent class-attendance record and tutors described his work as ‘outstanding’. His parents have issued a short statement celebrating ‘a wonderful loving son with his whole life ahead of him’ and thanking people for their support at this difficult time.
There will be a memorial service for Robert Ashton at St Mungo’s Church on Boot Street on 2 May at 4.30 p.m. The family has asked for no flowers, and anyone wishing to make a charitable donation is requested to support the NSPCC.
Carlyle took another bite of his wrap, saw that there was not much of it left, so stuck it all in his mouth.
‘Not going to win a Pulitzer Prize, this piece, is it?’
Joe ignored his boss’s sarcasm. ‘The police investigation was literally open and shut. The coroner’s verdict was “killed himself whilst the balance of the mind was disturbed”.’
‘That’s the standard verdict,’ Carlyle remarked. ‘What’s his connection to the Merrion Club?’
‘We don’t know,’ Joe replied. ‘He doesn’t seem to have been a member, but Paul Hawley said that that they sometimes co-opted lesser mortals.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Hawley, you mean? He wasn’t much use really: a bit of a moaner always straying off the point. He did put me on to the university newspaper, though.’
Carlyle thought about it all a bit more. ‘A suicidal would-be lawyer doesn’t seem much like proper Merrion material.’
‘No, not really,’ Joe agreed, ‘Of course, the whole thing could be a false trail.’
‘False or not, it’s the only one we’ve got. Is there anything else of interest about this guy Ashton that might be relevant?’
Joe shook his head. ‘There was nothing else I could find out today.’
‘Do we know if he had any previous problems?’
‘I don’t think so. He’d had no run-ins with the local police, at least.’
‘What about his academic record?’
‘Haven’t been able to check that out yet,’ said Joe. ‘But, if that article is anything to go by, it should have been fine.’
Carlyle finished his orange juice, and took the empty glass and plate back to the counter. He was still hungry, so he ordered a double espresso and a slice of fruit cake, before heading back to their table.
‘He was an only child,’ Joe continued. ‘Seems that his parents never got over it.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
‘The mother had a stroke a year later and the father spent years fighting colon cancer. He died in 1997.’
‘The poor bastard,’ said Carlyle, as he eyed a very attractive redhead, cheeks flushed from her workout, sauntering towards the exit. ‘The poor fucking bastard.’
‘Which one?’
‘The father.’ Carlyle paused to acknowledge the arrival of his coffee and cake. He took a mouthful of the latter, and continued: ‘Imagine losing your kid and your wife like that, so close together, and then getting fucking cancer.’
‘Maybe the stress brought it on.’
‘Quite possibly,’ Carlyle mused. He nibbled at the cake approvingly. It was dark, moist and heavy, just the way it should be. He dropped the rest of it back on the plate, just to stop himself scoffing the lot in one go. ‘What else did you find out in Cambridge?’
‘That’s about it.’ Watching Carlyle stuff his face was making Joe hungry, too. His wife had sent him a text earlier to say that she had made them a curry. He hoped that the kids had left him some, and wanted to get home to find out. ‘Everyone’s buggered off for the summer holidays. The “Come back in two months” signs are out.’
‘Well, hopefully, we’ve got what we need from up there already,’ said Carlyle, draining his coffee. ‘Well done, Joe. Not a bad day’s work.’ He stood up and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, searching for his wallet. ‘Now we think we know who this is about, maybe tomorrow we’ll find out why.’
‘Maybe the killer will send us a note explaining it all,’ Joe smiled.
‘His continued help would be very nice,’ Carlyle agreed. ‘After all, it’s just about the only way we’ve been able to make any progress in this fucking case, so far.’
Carlyle was brushing his teeth when he heard an electronic yelp from the bedroom. Still brushing, he wandered out of the bathroom and picked up the mobile from the small table on his side of the bed. Without checking who it was, he hit the receive button.
‘Yes?’
‘John? It’s Carole Simpson. Apologies for not returning your call earlier. I was caught up in a budget meeting that went on for more than six hours.’
‘No problem,’ said Carlyle, as he headed back into the bathroom and dropped the toothbrush in the handbasin.
‘So where are we now on the investigation?’ Simpson asked.
Carlyle spent the next couple of minutes filling her in on recent developments.
After he was done, she said: ‘Progress at last. Well done. It sounds like Joe Szyszkowski has done a good job here.’
Szyszkowski? Carlyle thought. That pseudo-Polish bastard? What about me? But he restricted himself to a clipped, ‘Thank you.’
‘And where do we go from here?’
Carlyle perched himself on the side of the bath. ‘As you can imagine, I really need to speak to the two Carltons and Christian Holyrod, now more than ever. I saw Edgar Carlton very briefly yesterday, but I still haven’t had a time arranged for a proper meeting. One of his advisers, a guy called Murray, is supposed to be getting back to me.’
‘I know William Murray,’ Simpson said, ‘or, rather, I’ve met him a couple of times. My husband says he’s one to watch – a potential rising star.’
‘Someone ready to cover up his boss’s dirty work?’ Carlyle suggested.
‘Someone who is very bright and has worked incredibly hard to get to the position where he is now,’ Simpson replied sharply. ‘Apparently he went to school at some troubled inner London comprehensive, but still got a first in Political History from Cambridge. He’s seen as a poster boy for the non-privileged wing of the party.’
‘Good for him,’ Carlyle sneered.
‘I will speak to Murray or someone in Edgar’s office, and get this moving,’ she said firmly, choosing to ignore the inspector’s petulance. ‘This has taken too long. I want to get it resolved as quickly as possible.’
‘Thanks.’ Carlyle was surprised by the note of determination in her voice. Maybe she was feeling some pressure as well.
‘In the meantime,’ she added, ‘we have to keep an open mind. The Merrion Club may end up having nothing at all to do with this case. Once you’ve spoken to them, let me know how it went.’
‘Of course.’
Carlyle ended the call and went back to brushing his teeth. He had barely finished that when his mobile went again.
‘Inspector Carlyle?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is William Murray.’
Jesus, that was quick, Carlyle thought. He assumed his most official tone. ‘Yes, Mr Murray, what can I do for you?’
