James Craig - The Circus

Joe sighed. His handwriting really was terrible.

So, what about young Hannah? It was probably something and nothing. On his way over, he had checked whether the kid had turned up at a local A amp;E or police station. Nothing. She was probably just partying somewhere with a boyfriend that her parents didn’t know about.

The parents seemed a fairly nondescript pair. Their anxiety was real enough, however.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Roger Gillespie asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Joe held up a hand. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks all the same.’ Flipping his notebook closed, he replaced it in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘And thank you for your time. We have all the details and we will now see what we can do. I’ll be in touch as soon as possible. Of course, if Hannah does turn up, let us know straight away.’ A familiar look of dismay passed across the faces of both parents, and he offered them what he hoped might pass for a comforting smile. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ he added gently. ‘We see this kind of thing all the time. Maybe Hannah’s staying with a different friend and her mobile’s simply died.’

‘But. .’ Roger Gillespie wanted to protest, but he didn’t quite know how.

Joe beckoned to Hall. As the WPC jumped to her feet, he handed the father a business card with his mobile number on it. ‘Let us know immediately if — when — Hannah comes home,’ he repeated.

‘Yes.’ Gillespie stared intently at the card as if in search of something — hope, maybe.

‘Good.’ Stifling a yawn, the sergeant stepped towards the door. ‘Otherwise, I will give you a call later in the day for a catch-up.’ Ducking into the hall, he quickly opened the front door and disappeared down the communal stairs before they could think of anything else to ask him.

Sitting in the back booth of Il Buffone, Carlyle yawned expressively. The tiny 1950s-style Italian cafe was located on the north side of Macklin Street, in the north-east corner of Covent Garden, just across the road from his own small apartment in Winter Garden House. Daughter Alice had left for school and he was enjoying the rare opportunity for breakfast with his wife.

‘John!’ Helen gestured for him to cover his mouth.

‘Sorry, it was a loooong night.’ Inhaling her perfume — Chanel No. 5 Eau de Parfum — he meekly complied. She was wearing the Paul Smith polka-dot jacket — the one he’d splashed out on last Christmas — over a conservative pearl-coloured blouse, with a single button undone at the neck. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail and minimal make-up, he caught more than a glimpse of the girl he’d fallen for, all those years ago. I’m a lucky, lucky man, he thought, with a beautiful wife who puts up with me rolling in at all hours, looking like shit.

Catching him staring at her, she gave him a quizzical look. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he smiled. ‘I was just thinking how lovely you look.’ There was nothing he would have liked better than for them to finish their breakfast and head back to bed for another kip, and maybe something else. If only . .

‘You do look very tired.’

‘I look old,’ he grumbled.

‘No, just tired.’ Reaching across the table, she ran her hand through his hair. ‘With some extra grey around the temples, perhaps.’

‘Comes with the territory.’

‘You could always go and see my guy in Berwick Street.’

‘Ha!’ Carlyle studiously avoided thinking about how much Helen spent on her Aussie hairdresser in Soho.

‘Scott is really good.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not going to get it dyed.’

‘Okay, okay.’ His wife gave him a consoling squeeze on the arm. ‘How was it last night? What a terrible situation!’

‘It was all a bit of a mess, really.’ Explaining further what had happened, Carlyle was careful to imply that neither he nor Joe had been anywhere near poor Horatio Mosman when he departed this earth.

Listening attentively to her husband, Helen blew on her green tea before taking a cautious sip. When he had finished, she looked him carefully up and down, making it clear that she understood he was being economical with the actualite . ‘It sounds appalling even by your standards.’

‘It was fairly rough,’ Carlyle admitted, reaching for his own mug. With more than enough coffee in his system already, he had passed on his usual double macchiato and gone for a green tea like his wife. There was no way, however, he was going to pass on the outsized raisin Danish which Marcello, the cafe’s Italian owner, had placed on the table almost before they had sat down. Picking up a knife, he carefully cut the pastry into quarters. Popping one section into his mouth, he began chewing.

‘Who would want to blow up a teenage boy?’ Helen asked, nibbling on a slice of brown toast lightly covered in raspberry jam.

‘No idea.’

‘Will you catch them?’

‘No idea.’ Keen to change the subject, Carlyle gestured at the hardback book Helen had placed on the table. On the spine, the title MONEY HONEY was blocked out in capital letters. ‘Any good?’

‘So-so.’ Helen shrugged. ‘I borrowed it from someone at work.’

Carlyle grinned lasciviously. ‘Mummy porn, is it?’

‘No, no,’ Helen said. ‘It’s written by an academic who argues that women should exploit their erotic assets to get ahead.’

‘I thought they already did.’

She shot him a sharp look.

‘Joke,’ Carlyle said.

‘It’s just written to be provocative and get reviews,’ Helen told him.

‘Like that woman who wrote about her divorce?’

‘Exactly. It’s amazing how some people can generate ink.’

‘Meanwhile, writers like Lee Child get ignored by the literary snobs. After all, writing good stories and selling books — where’s the interest in that?’ Carlyle was himself a Lee Child man. He gestured once more to the book on the table. ‘So, how does one exploit one’s erotic assets then?’

‘It’s all about where you draw the line,’ Helen explained. ‘For instance, is it okay to marry a footballer for lifestyle reasons? Should prostitution be legalized?’

Prostitution is legal, Carlyle thought. Kind of.

‘Is surrogate pregnancy a legitimate source of income?’

‘Interesting questions.’

‘A lot of it is quite offensive.’

So why are you reading it then? Carlyle wondered, keeping his mouth clamped firmly shut.

‘Maybe,’ Helen sighed, ‘I’m just a prisoner of my post-feminist Puritan Anglo-Saxon antagonism to sexuality.’

He had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Good for you.’

She tapped the cover of the book. ‘I don’t think I’ll bother finishing it.’ Then after taking another sip of her tea, she asked, ‘Oh, by the way, did you read the thing in the paper about your celebrity friend?’

‘Which celebrity friend?’ Carlyle waved a hand airily. ‘I have so many.’

‘Rosanna Snowdon.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Marcello?’ Helen flashed the cafe-owner the kind of winning smile she no longer needed to waste on her husband. ‘Do you happen to have a copy of yesterday’s Standard ?’

Behind the counter, the old man wiped his hands on a tea-towel draped over his left shoulder. ‘Probably,’ he said, ducking into the back room. A few moments later he was back, newspaper in hand.

‘Thanks.’ Helen began flicking through the pages, reading off various headlines as she did so. ‘ “Madame Tussauds forced to employ guards to prevent tourists making offensive Hitler salutes next to a waxwork of the dictator”. . It was here somewhere.’ She turned another page. ‘Ah yes, here you go. “TV presenter death. Suspect arrested for a second time”.’