James Craig - The Circus

Simpson raised her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like quite a briefing.’

Sir Chester shot her a dirty look before returning his attention to his Comms Director. ‘Go on, tell me.’

‘Good news and bad news.’ Releasing his inner hack, Shelbourne jumped from foot to foot like an excited five year old with a bursting bladder as he flipped through his notes. ‘Good news,’ he said, finding the right page. ‘Jordan Perry, aged twenty-five, walked into the Elephant and Castle police station and confessed to the murder of his girlfriend, Sally Ellis. Apparently, he stabbed her thirty-eight times after she complained that he had not made garlic bread for tea.’

Sir Chester cleared his throat. ‘A man who makes the tea?’

‘One thing I have learned since I joined the Met,’ Shelbourne beamed, ‘is that real life is stranger than fiction. On being arrested, Mr Perry told officers: “ It’s not that I am a horrible person, but shit happens ”.’

‘Quite,’ said Sir Chester, struggling with the various concepts that had just been raised by this sordid tale of everyday woe.

‘Sounds like an episode of EastEnders ,’ Simpson observed.

‘What?’ The soap opera might have an audience of millions every week, but Sir Chester wasn’t one of them. He genuinely had no idea what his colleague was talking about.

‘Nothing.’

The Commissioner drummed his fingers impatiently on the top of his desk. ‘Simon, why are we featuring this incident?’

‘It goes to our anti-domestic violence agenda,’ Shelbourne clarified. ‘Plus, partially at least, it should help offset the bad news.’

‘Which is?’ In search of some much-needed divine assistance, Sir Chester lifted his eyes to the heavens.

‘Which is the continued fall-out from your remarks about the so-called “feral underclass” blighting the inner city.’

‘But they are,’ Sir Chester whined.

Shelbourne smiled sadly. ‘You are correct, of course, but articulating that view in an uncontrolled environment — that is, by making the observation at the Young Busker of the Year Awards ceremony — was unfortunate.’

‘Tsk.’

‘And it was unfortunate in the extreme that a bleeding-heart journalist from the Guardian happened to be standing next to you when it slipped out.’

‘But some little sod had just put a cobblestone through the window of my Jaguar at the time.’ Sir Chester glanced at Simpson, hoping to elicit a little sympathy but none was forthcoming. ‘My driver got a terrible shock. He was off sick with stress for a week.’

Poor dear, thought Simpson.

‘Even so,’ Shelbourne mused, ‘both the Mayor and the Prime Minister have publicly disowned the term “feral underclass”. You’re on your own, so there will definitely be a question or two on it.’

‘Bloody politicians.’

This time, Simpson nodded sympathetically.

‘No matter,’ said Shelbourne cheerily, ‘we’ll take it on the chin. Just say that the time for arguing over words has long gone. What we need now is a big debate across London in terms of how we empower local communities and reduce the fear of crime, especially among young people in the inner city.’

Wasn’t having a big debate the same as arguing over words? Simpson wondered.

Clearly unconvinced, Sir Chester clasped his hands together. ‘A big debate?’

‘Yes,’ Shelbourne chortled. ‘With a bit of luck, if we have a big enough debate, by the time it’s finished, the Guardian will have gone bust. Those hand-wringing lefties couldn’t find a sustainable business model if it hit them over the head.’

Sir Chester grunted. He couldn’t care less about the travails of the newspaper industry. ‘And what about our friend Mr Meyer?’

‘You know the drill on that one,’ Shelbourne replied. ‘We never comment on Chief Inspector Russell Meyer, or on Operation Redhead.’

‘But we’ll get asked about it, nevertheless.’ Feeling a further spasm in his lower back, Sir Chester allowed his eyes to close. Maybe he could wish all his troubles away. That’s what Tanya would tell him to do: sit back, relax, and breathe your troubles away. His wife had been a stress counsellor, back in the days before she enjoyed the honour and privilege of becoming the second Mrs Forsyth-Walker. As such, she was a firm believer in the power of positive thinking.

Then, again, Tanya had never had to try and run the bloody Met.

‘Operation Redhead is completely independent of the MPS,’ Shelbourne parroted, ‘and does not come under your control. We have no particular insights into its operations, and have made it clear from the start that we will never comment on its progress.’

Keeping his eyes firmly shut, Sir Chester tried to think of something positive.

‘Maybe I should get going,’ said Simpson, as she slid out of her chair.

‘Just one final thing, Commander.’

‘Yes?’

The Commissioner’s eyes opened slowly. ‘Your man chasing the Mosman bomber. .’

Simpson stiffened. ‘What about him?’

‘Is he up to it?’

Stopped in her tracks, the Commander placed a hand on the back of the chair. ‘Inspector Carlyle is a very experienced officer, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘If you look at his track record. .’

Another spasm shot through Sir Chester’s abdomen, causing him to wince in pain. As he waited for it to pass, his mood darkened even further. ‘I don’t care about his bloody track record,’ he snapped. ‘Even a blind squirrel manages to find the occasional nut.’

Shelbourne let out a girlish titter.

‘What?’ Simpson asked.

‘I don’t care about the past,’ Sir Chester grunted. ‘I care about the here and now. Is he going to sort this nonsense out?’

Simpson nodded. ‘I understand the need for a quick result, sir. Rest assured, the inspector is on top of it.’ Defending her colleague did not come naturally to the Commander. Their relationship had improved considerably over the last couple of years, but Carlyle still made her uneasy. His ability to get results was matched only by his capacity to be immensely annoying and totally unmanageable. Given the circumstances, she knew better than to try and take him off the case now. ‘He handled the situation well, I thought.’

‘We can’t afford to wait too long for results.’

Simpson took a half-step backwards, towards the door. ‘That is well understood. I am sure that Inspector Carlyle will deliver.’

The Commissioner looked less than convinced. ‘Keep me fully informed, Commander.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Good.’ Turning to his PR flunky, Sir Chester ran a hand through his thinning grey hair. ‘I’m all yours, Simon. Will I be doing any television?’

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‘It’s all glamour, this job,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he read the sign next to the door at the top of the stairs. Stepping inside, he nodded at Joe.

‘Boss.’

Carlyle looked his sergeant up and down; saw he was still wearing the same clothes and hadn’t shaved. ‘You look like a man who’s been up all night.’ As the inspector got closer, he realized that his colleague didn’t smell that great either, but for once he was too polite to mention that.