over and the garden had largely emptied. Carlyle had the place pretty much to himself, aside from a bag lady asleep on a nearby bench and a couple of tourists who stood consulting a guidebook. ‘I don’t have that many celebrity contacts,’ he replied.
‘So that’s what I am?’
‘To me, everybody is another contact.’
She laughed. ‘Then I guess that’s something we have in common. How did your meeting with Edgar go?’
Christ Almighty, Carlyle thought. Did everyone know all of his business? In real time? He proceeded with caution. ‘It was fine. I saw him earlier today. He was very helpful.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. Thank you for introducing me the other day. It was very kind of you.’
‘My pleasure.’
Meaning: What are you going to do for me in return?
Carlyle ploughed on. ‘One thing I was wondering…’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you know him?’
‘Edgar?’ She seemed surprised by the question.
No, the bloody Queen of Sheba, he thought. ‘Yes.’
‘We go back a long way…’ He listened patiently to a pause, while she wondered whether what she said now might be significant. ‘I went to school with his wife Anastasia and his sister Sophia who is now Mrs Christian Holyrod.’
‘I see,’ said Carlyle. ‘Isn’t that all a bit, well, incestuous?’
‘Do you think?’ she asked. ‘It’s a very close social set, but that’s fairly common, I think.’
Carlyle tried a bit more fishing. ‘Mr Carlton is really quite impressive,’ he lied.
‘Oh, yes,’ she gushed. ‘I’ve known Edgar since I was eight or nine, and he really is a lovely man. Very charming and thoughtful.’
‘And Xavier?’ Carlyle asked.
‘Less of a charmer,’ she mused.
‘More impetuous?’
‘He’s more the kind of man to dominate you by force of will and the power of his emotions,’ she said, with a strange kind of relish. ‘He sweeps you off your feet.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘There’s a time and a place for both. Edgar’s the boss, of course, but I think they complement each other quite well.’
‘I can see what you mean.’
‘So how’s your investigation going?’
‘Nothing to report at the moment,’ replied Carlyle stiffly. ‘We are making progress.’
‘That’s a very straight bat you’re playing, Inspector.’
‘You wouldn’t really expect me to say anything different, though, would you?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘I wouldn’t. But you know that I want the exclusive when something big happens.’
‘Even if it’s a story that your friend Edgar wouldn’t like?’ Carlyle asked.
‘What?’ Her voice changed as the tone of the conversation went up a couple of gears. ‘Is Edgar a suspect?’
‘No, no,’ Carlyle said, hastily trying to backtrack. ‘But, inevitably, this case may throw up things that are embarrassing.’
‘Like what?’
‘Who knows?’ said Carlyle, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘The investigation still has to run its course.’
‘Well, when it does, I definitely want a heads-up, whatever the outcome.’
‘I understand.’
‘You have to remember two things,’ she said primly. ‘A story is a story, so it will get out somehow, and, just as important, I am a journalist first and foremost. I don’t burn my contacts. Rule number one from journalism school is that you always protect your sources.’
It sounded a well-rehearsed spiel. ‘You went to journalism school?’ he asked.
There was a pause. ‘No… but I respect the rules of the game. Therefore I respect you.’ She sounded quite annoyed at having to spell it out for him.
‘I’ll bear all this in mind,’ said Carlyle, happy to get off the subject.
‘Jolly good,’ she said, recovering her brighter tone. ‘You’ve got my mobile number. Give me a ring. It’s always switched on.’
‘I bet it is,’ Carlyle said with a smile.
With no other distractions, he finally had to get on with things. First, he called Joe Szyszkowski and told him to find out whatever he could about Susy Ahl. Then, in a newly found spirit of openness and co-operation, he called Superintendent Simpson to let her know what the day had so far revealed. For once, Simpson was not ensconced in a meeting.
His update to her, while leaving out any reference to Dominic Silver, was comprehensive. ‘This woman Ahl,’ he concluded, ‘appears to be the link between Ashton then and the Merrion people now.’
‘Do you think she can explain it?’ Simpson asked.
‘You would have to hope so. She – or somebody else – has been carefully leading us down this path of inquiry. There has to be an explanation.’
‘Is she a suspect, then?’
‘Maybe,’ Carlyle said evasively. The reality was that he had no clue. ‘We have no physical evidence. I want to see what she has to say first, and then we’ll take a view.’
‘All the same, let’s keep an open mind.’
‘Always,’ said Carlyle. ‘Are you intending to speak to Carlton about this?’
There was a pause. ‘I promised that I’d keep him informed.’
‘It would be a help if I could speak to the Ahl woman first.’
‘I understand.’
Was that a yes? Carlyle wondered. Promising, as always, to keep Simpson updated, he ended the call. His thoughts turned next to paying Ms Ahl a visit. He looked again at Dom’s piece of paper. In addition to a home address, it had a landline number and a mobile number. He tried them both. Each time he got voicemail. He didn’t leave a message on either. Presumably the woman had a job, so he decided to wait until the evening before paying her a visit at home. Reluctant to go back to the station, he called Helen and scored a few brownie points by promising her that he would head over to the Barbican and pick Alice up from school.
THIRTY-ONE
Fulham Palace Gardens, the grounds of the former official residence of the Bishop of London, lay just north of Putney Bridge in west London. It was barely a ten-minute walk from where Carlyle had grown up, on Peterborough Road. Even after becoming a policeman, he had lived at home for almost three years. His parents still lived there, in the same modest council flat in a small block called Sullivan Court. Tonight, however, he wouldn’t be paying them a visit.
Enjoying the last warmth of the summer evening, he watched the planes as they made their final descent into Heathrow, further to the west. Every two minutes without fail, another one appeared overhead, following the one in front, leading the one behind. Back when he was a kid, in the 1960s and 1970s, he couldn’t remember much about watching any planes, although there certainly must have been some.
Heading further away from the river, he slipped into Stevenage Road, passing Craven Cottage football ground on his left. Details of Fulham Football Club’s first pre-season game of the summer were posted on a wall by the
