James Craig: The Circus

‘I was a civil servant,’ Snowdon reminded him.

‘Of course,’ Joe nodded.

‘Michael was Permanent Secretary in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,’ Veronica Snowdon chipped in. Apparently resigned to the meandering nature of the conversation, she fluttered nervously across the inspector’s field of vision and took a seat in the chair opposite Joe. In a grey, long-sleeved woollen dress and a brown cardigan, she looked smaller and more frail than he remembered.

That explains the gong, Carlyle thought. For services rendered. For all that he liked the man, the inspector was acutely conscious that Sir Michael Snowdon was a true pillar of the Establishment. By definition that meant he had to be handled most carefully.

‘I had a very nice Gillian Carnegie on my office wall for several years,’ Snowdon mused. ‘It was amazing how it could lift the spirits.’

‘Mm.’ The inspector smiled weakly.

‘I hear that the Prime Minister has even put a neon art installation in Downing Street,’ Joe contributed. ‘Apparently it helps brighten up the place.’

Carlyle stared into his whisky. That boy is just a wonderful repository of useless information, he thought. Not for the first time he was pleasantly surprised by Joe’s ability to master small talk. It was not something he had ever been any good at himself.

‘Ah, yes,’ Snowdon replied, ‘a red neon light saying something like Grab the future , or some such childish vacuousness. They put it in a hallway outside the Terracotta Room. It makes the place look like a nightclub, so I’ve heard.’

Joe smiled at his boss, who clearly didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. ‘It was a gift to the great British nation from the celebrated Peruvian artist and performer Yulissa Vasconzuelo.’

Carlyle stared at him blankly.

‘She’s famous for. . something or other.’

‘That certainly sounds like Edgar Carlton’s cup of tea to me,’ Carlyle sneered.

The inspector deferred to no one in his hostility towards the Prime Minister, a profound personal dislike derived from professional experience. Before getting the keys to the front door of 10 Downing Street, hobnobbing with Peruvian artists and changing the art on the walls, Carlton had stymied an investigation into a particularly sordid case involving rape and murder. The officer in charge had been one J. Carlyle.

Veronica Snowdon gave her husband a look that said Get on with it . ‘Thank you for coming, Inspector,’ she said as a cue.

‘Yes,’ said Snowdon, tipping a nod to Carlyle and Joe Szyszkowski in turn, ‘we very much appreciate you both coming.’ He took a nervous sip of his scotch before continuing, ‘Especially given that this has never really been your concern.’

‘It is our pleasure, sir,’ said Carlyle gently, as he launched into a variation of the same speech that he had given several times before. ‘We,’ he gestured at Joe, ‘knew your daughter and had great appreciation for her work. I was in touch with her, before she died. We will always be happy to do what we can.’

From behind his tumbler of whisky, Michael Snowdon nodded sadly. It was almost two years now since Rosanna Snowdon had been found with a broken neck at the bottom of the stairs in the communal entrance to her Fulham apartment building. Pretty, and coming from a rich family, the girl had already made a minor name for herself as a local television presenter, so the press had soon been all over it.

She had also been one of Carlyle’s contacts.

Rosanna had fallen down the stairs. Tests showed that she had been drunk at the time, so it could have been an accident. At the same time, there was also evidence that she might have been pushed. The local police had come under immediate pressure to find a suspect and the name in the frame was Simon Lovell, a thirty-two year old with learning difficulties. Lovell was an obsessive fan and borderline stalker who regularly patrolled the pavement outside the presenter’s flat. Rosanna had come to the inspector to ask for help in ending this harassment. For his part, Carlyle liked the girl well enough, even if her shameless ambition made him uncomfortable. Besides, she had helped him during the Edgar Carlton case and he owed her a favour or two. When she looked to cash in his IOU, he made all the right noises without actually investigating what could be done. Thus, after she took a dive down the stairs, it was a matter for the Fulham police and he was happy to leave it well alone.

Seemingly more distraught than anyone, Lovell was only too happy to confess to the killing. However, the trial was a fiasco. In the absence of any forensic evidence, everything rested on Lovell’s statement. On the morning of the first day the judge was told that Lovell had a mental age of eight — gaining him the inevitable tabloid moniker of ‘Simple Simon’ — and hence a willingness to sign anything that was put in front of him. The case was thrown out before lunch on the first day.

After Lovell was released, there was nowhere for a moribund investigation to go. The coroner had ruled the death ‘suspicious’, so foul play had not been ruled out. Meanwhile, the case would remain in limbo unless or until a killer was identified and caught. Rosanna’s parents were left in a legal and emotional no man’s land that made the parent inside Carlyle shiver and the policeman inside him think, There but for the Grace of God.

On more than a couple of occasions, the inspector had wondered whether he could have done more at the time to help the young woman. While not exactly overcome by guilt, he was aware that he could have acted differently — or at least faster. Whenever this happened, he would quickly tell himself to stop brooding on something that was beyond his control. As Shakespeare said, What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief .

Past grief? Try telling that to the parents of a dead girl. So here he was, drinking Sir Michael’s whisky, while trying to sound vaguely supportive. Staring into the single malt, he tried to remember how many times now he had sat here saying nothing of any import.

Three? No. . four .

This was his penance. The inspector genuinely hoped that these little get-togethers gave his hosts some comfort. Otherwise they were pointless.

‘Spotted dick tonight. Jolly good.’

‘Mm.’ Prime Minister Edgar Carlton sat beneath the imposing portrait of Kitty Pakenham, a long-dead minor aristocrat, and sipped daintily from his oversized snifter. After almost four years as Prime Minister, enjoying a very large measure of Hennessy Paradis Imperial at Pakenham’s had become an all-too necessary pre-dinner ritual. The cognac helped take the edge off the permanent sense of frustration and anxiety that came with the job.

The gentlemen’s club in St James’s provided a refuge from civil servants and colleagues alike. The Cabinet Secretary, Sir Gavin O’Dowd — known as GOD to the fawning scribes of the lobby — didn’t like the fact that it had become an informal annexe to Number Ten, but that was tough. These days, the club was the nearest thing Edgar had to somewhere he could call home. Certainly it was one of the few places where he could find any peace. A wicked thought suddenly crossed his mind and he laughed out loud.

Christian Holyrod, the Mayor of London and Edgar’s closest political friend and ally, looked up from the evening’s menu. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’ve just had a fantastic idea. Why don’t we sack O’Dowd?’

Holyrod raised an eyebrow. ‘From which job?’

Edgar frowned. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Augie has three jobs,’ Holyrod grinned, referring to O’Dowd by his middle name, which was Augustine.