Having wandered back towards Piccadilly, Carlyle steered them into the excellent but normally largely empty News Cafe in the basement of the massive Seringapatam amp; Mysore bookstore on Lower Regent Street. Few of the people browsing the bookshelves upstairs even realised that the cafe existed. The food was a bit expensive, but you could borrow a magazine from the nearby racks for a free read while you ate. Carlyle particularly liked it because you could usually guarantee getting a table to yourself. He didn’t like being squeezed in between strangers while he was eating.
A copy of France Football caught his eye. It promised an in-depth interview with the French national coach, who apparently used astrology and tarot to help him pick his team. It was a bizarre thought, but no one would have batted an eyelid if their results hadn’t been so crap. Given that the magazine was in French, Carlyle wouldn’t be able to read it properly, but he would still be able to get the gist and look at the pictures. Perfect.
Magazine in hand, he was weighing up the relative merits of a Summer Bean amp; Herb Soup or a Chicken Avocado Salad, when his phone went. With a sigh, Carlyle pulled the handset from the breast pocket of his jacket and peered at the screen. It took him a second to realise that it was blank. It was Joe’s phone that had gone off, rather than his.
The sergeant was no happier at being interrupted than his boss was, and he pondered for a couple of seconds before deciding to answer it.
‘Hello?… Yes… Hold on a second.’ He tapped Carlyle on the shoulder and held out the phone. ‘It’s for you.’
Still pondering whether to go for the soup or the salad, Carlyle felt reluctant to take the call. ‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joe shrugged. ‘They didn’t say.’
Carlyle sighed. Sometimes his sergeant’s lack of curiosity seemed quite baffling. He took the mobile and stepped away from the chilled cabinet. ‘Hello?’
‘Why don’t you ever answer your damn phone? Do you want me to solve this bloody case for you, or not?’
Carlyle stepped further away from Joe. ‘I’m sorry, Dominic. We’ve been busy.’
‘Have you sorted this thing out yet?’ Dom asked, well aware what the answer would be.
‘No.’ Carlyle then remembered the message Dom had left on his voicemail. ‘How did you find out about the Merrion Club?’
‘Have you ever heard of something called Google?’ Dom grunted. ‘It’s really quite handy. I typed in the names you gave me, and it took me to the heart of this particular matter in about zero-point-zero bloody zero of a second.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle, embarrassed.
‘You could have just laid it out for me and saved us a bit of time.’
‘About zero-point-zero bloody zero of a second,’ he couldn’t help echoing.
‘Don’t be a smart-arse,’ Dom snapped. ‘I can’t be expected to help you if you go all Inspector fucking Clouseau on me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not like I’m going to blow your cover.’
‘No.’ Carlyle wasn’t in the mood for this conversation. He was hungry, and he didn’t want an argument.
‘Who am I going to tell?’ Dom continued. ‘I see even the papers are keeping a lid on this one.’
‘Thank God!’ Carlyle sighed. ‘So far, so good.’ He knew that the media blackout could only last for so long.
‘I couldn’t sell the story even if I wanted to,’ Dominic teased.
‘OK, you’re right. I’m sorry. I could have been more forthcoming. I should have mentioned it at the time.’
‘Apology accepted.’
‘So… what have you got?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Where are you now?’ Silver asked.
Carlyle explained his location.
‘Meet me in St James’s Square in twenty minutes. You can bring us some lunch.’
‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘Yes, it will,’ Dom said cheerily. ‘I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a pomegranate juice. Maybe a banana, as well.’
TWENTY-NINE
Trafalgar Square, London, March 1990
The woman was clearly in shock. She stood less than ten feet away, staring at him or, rather, through him, oblivious to the background roar of the crowd. Still gripping her Socialist Worker ‘Break the Tory Poll Tax’ placard, she was caught in a small sliver of no-man’s land between her fellow protesters and a group of police in riot gear, who were holding small, round shields in one hand and batons in the other. Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth, dripped off her chin and splashed on to the road. This being a very English type of riot, both sides politely ignored her. Feeling like a voyeur, Sergeant John Carlyle looked away.
He was on duty, but out of uniform. Over a Combat Rock sweatshirt, he wore a red body-warmer which had PRESS spelt out on the back in black marker pen. An expensive Nikon SLR camera hanging from his neck added to the effect. Working out of Paddington Green police station, Carlyle had been assigned to Counter Terrorism duties for two years now. He had turned up today at the anti-Poll Tax rally in Trafalgar Square to see if some of his charges – a ragbag collection of domestic terrorists, otherwise scumbags who had hitched their wagon to the Animal Liberation movement and the Class War anarchist group – had decided to join in the fun.
Looking out for thirty or so ‘names’ in the midst of this crowd, perhaps as much as one hundred thousand strong, wasn’t the most sophisticated form of surveillance ever undertaken by the Metropolitan Police. But, despite the likelihood that it was wild-goose chase, Carlyle had been curious to see how the day would develop. Everyone knew that not enough overtime had been put on the table to cope with this one, and with too few police available to be deployed, serious trouble was always on the cards.
And so it proved. By the time he had arrived, just before 6 p.m., the rally was well on the way to becoming one of the worst riots seen in the city for a century. Cars had been overturned and set alight; local shops and restaurants had their windows smashed and were forced to close; nearby tube stations were shut; and many streets had been cordoned off. People were milling around with nowhere to go and, since many had been drinking all day, violence was inevitable. The atmosphere was tense.
Standing on a traffic island in the middle of Duncannon Street, Carlyle watched a half-brick come flying through the evening sky, catching one unfortunate constable on the back of the head. Been there, son, thought Carlyle, done that. He watched the dazed officer being helped into the back of the ambulance by his clearly agitated colleagues, already knowing what would come next. Once the ambulance was on its way, the sergeant in charge gave the nod, and police on either side of him waded into the motley collection of demonstrators, with batons flying.
Carlyle saw men, women and even a couple of children go down under a hail of kicks and blows. Some were so close he could almost reach out and touch them as they fell. For maybe five minutes he just stood there watching, feeling a strange sense of detachment. He was finally woken from his daydream by seeing the woman with the smashed face. Picking his way through the melee, he headed away from the trouble, walking north towards Charing Cross Road.
From outside the National Portrait Gallery, he then watched a group of mounted riot police try to clear the corner of Trafalgar Square immediately in front of the South African High Commission. A group of about thirty youths was trying to fight back with wooden sticks pulled from placards, or metal poles extracted from nearby scaffolding. Further down the road, a building was now on fire. Having seen enough, Carlyle turned to leave, just as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Having fun?’ Grinning from ear to ear, Dominic Silver seemed rather overdressed for the occasion. In a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and an expensive-looking jacket, he appeared as though he was on his way to an
