James Craig - The Circus

‘He was an Italian banker, with links to the Mafia, the Masons and the Vatican, yada, yada, yada.’

‘Clever boy.’

‘Yeah. His bank went bust and he was found hanged underneath the arches, weighed down with bricks and fifteen grand still in his pockets.’

‘Before my time,’ said Joe with the air of a man having more pressing things to worry about.

‘Mine too,’ Carlyle mused. ‘Just.’ A thought suddenly struck him. ‘Where’s Maude, by the way?’

‘Haven’t been able to get hold of her so far this morning.’ Joe held up the battered mobile again. ‘I’ll go and get this checked out.’

‘Fine,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Then go and see Mrs Mosman’s lawyer. Tell him, if he’s withholding anything from us, I will make sure that he faces conspiracy charges.’

‘Conspiracy to do what?’

‘We’ll work that out later.’

‘Fine,’ Joe laughed, walking away.

Considering his next move, the inspector turned his attention back to the vista in front of him, ignoring the angry horns of snarled-up traffic on both sides of the bridge. Right here, right now, London was his.

What a great fucking city.

‘What we are doing here, in a very real sense, is parlaying food into a branch of performance art.’ Standing in the mud of the Funky Food Field, Liam Shakermaker popped a cube of his award-winning Everything’s Gone Green brand of organic goat’s cheese into his mouth and began chewing thoughtfully. In his deerstalker hat, tweed jacket and plus fours, he looked like a country squire from a 1950s Ealing comedy.

‘Mm, yes,’ Edgar Carlton mumbled, uncomfortably aware of a journalist hovering on the edge of their conversation, digital recorder in hand. At least it wasn’t raining — yet — and there was no sign of Sonia Claesens. But he felt horribly exposed, all the same. Where the hell was Trevor Miller? Anastasia had taken the kids off to have a go at milking some goats, while he suspected that his Head of Security had sneaked off to the real ale tent.

Shakermaker finished chewing and offered Edgar a taste from the plate of samples sitting on a beer barrel that doubled as a table. ‘Why don’t you try some? It’s delicious.’

‘I’m sure.’ Edgar tried not to grimace. He wasn’t a cheese man.

‘I make it at my organic farm in East Sussex. One hundred per cent natural ingredients, and we follow a traditional recipe used by Ancient Britons since the time of Stonehenge.’

Edgar held up a hand. ‘I’ve already tried some,’ he lied. ‘Very nice.’ Somehow, he managed to drag a smile across his face. ‘Very nice indeed.’

‘Food is the new rock’n’roll,’ Shakermaker mused, dropping another cube into his maw. ‘In fact, it’s why I gave up rock’n’roll.’

‘Of course,’ said Edgar, looking round desperately for someone to save him from this idiot. ‘You were in the. .?’

‘Heathen Physics,’ Shakermaker grinned, naming his largely forgotten band. ‘I played keyboards and tambourine. And the occasional triangle.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Edgar nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Kings of Britpop.’

‘Mm.’ The PM was more a Spandau Ballet man himself: anything after ‘Gold’ left him rather cold.

An idea floated through Shakermaker’s brain. ‘Maybe you could start serving Everything’s Gone Green cheese at Number Ten.’

Edgar frowned.

‘You know, at receptions and that.’

‘Well. .’

‘It could be part of a celebration of the new wave of British cuisine,’ continued Shakermaker, slipping into marketeering mode. ‘You know that we already export to more than twenty countries.’

‘It’s an idea,’ Edgar agreed. ‘I will talk to the Cabinet Secretary about it.’ It would give Sir Gavin O’Dowd something to do.

‘Cool.’ Winking at the journalist, Shakermaker gave Edgar a hearty slap on the back. Christ, thought the PM sourly, I’m being set up by a bloody cheese maker.

‘It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’

‘We’re stuck in the middle of a muddy field, waiting for a KT-fucking-Tunstall concert.’ Sonia Claesens defiantly downed the rest of her large glass of Pinot Auxerrois and signalled for the bartender to pour her another. ‘It’s time to either get pissed or throw yourself under a tractor.’

Seymour Rowntree tried to recall who KT Tunstall was but couldn’t quite manage to place her.

‘Or maybe walk straight into a combine harvester.’

Seymour realized that he was getting seriously bored with this cougar thing. The fact that his girlfriend here was only two-and-a-half years younger than his mother didn’t bother him; after all, Sonia was a good-looking woman, she had cash, and she got invited to cool parties every night of the week. But she could also be bloody hard work. And her moods recently had become terrible. Maybe it was time to go back to his Spaces and Objects course at Central St Martin’s and start fucking some girls his own age, or thereabouts.

‘Folk rock is such shit .’

‘Stop winding yourself up.’ Seymour looked around nervously. Fortunately there was no one around to listen to her ranting. ‘We didn’t have to come here.’

‘That bastard flunky of Edgar Carlton’s can’t tell me what to do,’ Sonia hissed. ‘He can’t tell me what to do and where to go. What next? House arrest? Fucking politicians, we own them. We fucking own them. And the moment there’s any turbulence, they think they can just run off and pretend they’ve got some fucking principles.’ The bartender placed a fresh glass of wine on the bar. Sonia fished a fifty-pound note out of her purse and slapped it down. ‘Just leave the bottle. Thanks.’ Dropping the purse into her Chloe Marcie python tote, she took out a packet of Regal King Size and a lighter.

The bartender shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.’

‘What do you mean, I can’t smoke in here?’ Sonia squawked. ‘We’re in a fucking tent ! I haven’t seen this much fresh air since my bloody Duke of Edinburgh course.’

‘Sonia. .’ Seymour placed a hand on her arm and she shook it off. This damn toyboy was becoming more hassle than he was worth. He might be hung like a donkey but he had the brain of one as well.

‘Just fuck off.’ Lifting her glass, she tilted back her throat and downed the contents in one, before storming towards the exit.

* * *

Liam Shakermaker squinted at Edgar from behind his Tom Ford aviator sunglasses. ‘You know, I never realized just how interesting cheese could be. I can honestly say that it gives me as much pleasure as cocaine did twenty years ago.’

Edgar simply had no idea how to respond to that. A female TV presenter wandered past and he tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye. Taking matters into his own hands, he pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me for a second.’ Looking for a quiet corner of the field, he scrolled through his contacts. But who to call? He was the Prime Minister, therefore other people usually called him . Finding Yulissa’s number on the screen, he hit the call button, staring with resigned dismay at the mud on his Loake tan brogues as he listened to the ringtone.

‘Edgar.’

‘What?’ Turning to face his wife, he quickly ended the call. ‘Yes?’

Anastasia had one of those stock ‘cross looks’ on her face. ‘Why are you hiding over here?’

‘I wanted to. . er. . check out some of the gardening workshops.’ He gestured lamely at a handwritten sign that read: Success with seeds and cuttings .

Anastasia ignored this blatant lie. ‘The children want you to take them to Charlie amp; Lola Live! ’