James Craig - The Circus

Folding the newspaper in half, she placed it on the table between them. Carlyle scanned the article. The gist of it seemed to be that new, unspecified forensic evidence had convinced the Crown Prosecution Service that they could now successfully place Rosanna’s stalker, Simon Lovell, at the scene of the crime.

‘Better late than never,’ Carlyle said.

‘If they’re actually right this time.’

‘Of course.’ He finished reading the article. Rosanna’s parents themselves had declined to comment but Lovell’s current lawyer — an ambulance-chaser by the name of Nigel Bradfield — was talking a good game.

‘The police and the CPS should be focused on trying to catch the real killer of Rosanna Snowdon,’ Bradfield was quoted as saying. ‘This attempt to railroad my client does not help anyone, including Rosanna’s family. The previous trial was stopped almost even before it had begun. This time we may well not even get to court. Simon Lovell has already been a victim of this investigation. His chances of a normal life have been severely diminished and we will be seeking substantial compensation in due course.’

‘Lovell did it, didn’t he?’ Helen asked once he’d finished reading the piece.

Carlyle placed the newspaper at the far end of the table. ‘No idea. You have to assume so. The CPS is very risk-averse, so I can’t believe they would come back for a second go at this guy if they weren’t supremely confident. I just hope they’ve got it right. Apart from anything else, it would be very cruel to get her parents’ hopes up again after all this time.’ He popped another quarter of the Danish into his mouth and washed it down with some more green tea.

Helen smiled. ‘It’s good, the way you and Joe go and visit them from time to time.’

‘It’s not a big deal,’ Carlyle grunted. Just then, his mobile started vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. Fishing it out, he studied the screen. ‘It’s Joe.’

Waving at Marcello for the bill, he hit the receive button. ‘Morning.’ Wedging the phone between his head and shoulder, he pulled out his wallet and handed Helen a tenner. ‘Where?. . Are you there now?. . Okay, I’m only five minutes away. I’ll be right there.’

Ending the call, he jumped to his feet.

‘Problem?’ Helen asked.

‘Yeah. It’s certainly all happening today.’ Leaning across the table, he gave her a kiss on the top of her head, then scooped up the plate containing the remaining quarters of his pastry. ‘Marcello,’ he asked, ‘can I have a bag to put these in, please?

‘I’m guessing that it wasn’t natural causes.’

‘London’s leading detective. .’ Susan Phillips gave him a cheery wave with a latex-gloved hand.

‘So they say,’ Carlyle answered, pleased to see a friendly face at a crime scene for once. Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for almost twenty years; she was a quick, no-nonsense operator and he enjoyed working with her. He gestured towards the pair of legs protruding from under the rubbish. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know yet. We’ve worked all the way from the front gate right here to the truck but haven’t picked up anything useful so far. I’m going to have to get in there.’

Carlyle grimaced. ‘Rather you than me. The smell’s bad enough from here.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Phillips stepped away from the back of the refuse truck and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her left wrist. A couple of assistants hovered in the background, awaiting instruction. ‘At least I’m dressed for the occasion.’

Yes you are, Carlyle thought. Slim and blonde, Phillips had a healthy glow that even her present surroundings could not diminish. In a pair of Converse All Stars, skinny jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt, she could easily have passed for early thirties rather than mid-to-late forties. All in all, she was rather glamorous. . for the Met.

Phillips caught him checking her out and grinned. ‘You like Nirvana, Inspector?’

‘Nah.’ He shook his head, embarrassed at being caught gawping for the second time this morning. ‘A bit after my time, really. Punk was more my thing — The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers. .’ Shut up , warned a voice inside his head, you’re showing your age . ‘. . and The Jam.’

‘Mm.’ She gestured vaguely across the depot. ‘Not really punk, were they, The Jam?’

‘That’s Entertainment’ started playing in his head and he laughed to himself. ‘Not really, I suppose.’

‘More like Mod revivalists.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Anyway, Joe’s up in the office, running through the CCTV footage.’ From under the next truck along, a squirrel appeared and eyed them both inquisitively.

‘No nuts here, mate,’ Carlyle told him.

‘What?’

Carlyle pointed towards the squirrel, but it was already gone.

Phillips gave him a funny look. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He couldn’t be bothered to explain.

‘How’s the family?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘The usual.’ Phillips shrugged. ‘I’ve been going out with a doctor for a few months.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Yeah.’ She stared off into the middle distance. ‘Nice guy. His ex-wife is a pain in the arse though.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle had little sympathy. If you insisted on making your private life as complicated as possible, aggravation was inevitable.

Picking up on his obvious lack of interest, Phillips abandoned the topic of her love-life. Stripping off her latex gloves, the pathologist pulled a BlackBerry from the back pocket of her jeans and started typing away on its keyboard with her thumbs. Looking up, she caught the quizzical look on the inspector’s face. ‘It’s a twenty-four-hour tweet,’ she explained. ‘The PR department thought it would be a good idea if we tweeted live from our crime scenes so as to provide the public with some insight into what we do.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Hands on hips, Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens.

‘You should check it out,’ Phillips grinned. ‘You might learn something. The Twitter handle is @metpolice121. We’ve got more than ten thousand followers.’

‘Good for you,’ replied the inspector grumpily.

‘ Arrived at scene ,’ said Phillips, reading aloud from the screen, ‘ body to be examined .’

‘Very bloody insightful. Can we get on with it now?’

‘You’re such a dinosaur, John.’

That was hardly the worst thing that anyone had ever called him. ‘I’m a dinosaur in a hurry.’

‘Yes, yes.’ She jerked a thumb at the rear of the truck. ‘Give me half an hour and I’ll be able to offer you some initial thoughts.’

‘That would be great.’ He was already heading for the stairs leading to the office. ‘I’ll come back and see you then.’

London was such a shitty city.

Shitty .

There was just no other word for it.

As an endless procession of grey rainclouds scudded across the sky outside the window of his office on the thirteenth floor of New Scotland Yard, Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker flicked a speck of lint from the lapel of his uniform and let out a heartfelt sigh. Being Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service was no fun at all. Not for the first time, he wondered just how he’d managed to get himself into quite such a pickle.

Up until four years ago, Sir Chester’s career arc had appeared perfect: the 1980s on Merseyside had been spent working in uniformed policing, road traffic, personnel, Professional Standards and the Control Room; the 1990s took him to Greater Manchester Police, first as a Superintendent and later as Commander of the Wigan Division; then the first decade of the new century saw him move to Lancashire Constabulary as Assistant Chief Constable — with responsibility for Human Resources and Training — before skipping over the Pennines to become Deputy Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, Acting Chief Constable and later full-time Chief Constable.