James Craig - The Circus

‘Why can’t Pammi do it?’ he whined. ‘Isn’t that what we bloody pay her for?’ The thought of having to sit through a stage version of some kiddies’ cartoon made his heart sink to a new low.

‘Because,’ said Anastasia firmly, ‘lovely though she is, the children have already spent all week with the au pair. At the weekend, believe it or not, they would like to spend some quality time with their father.’

‘I seriously doubt that,’ Edgar grumbled.

‘Anyway, if they spend any more time with that girl than they do already, they’re going to sound as if they come from Sydney!’

‘Well, whose fault is that? You’re the one who hired a bloody Australian nanny off Skype!’ He shook his head at the folly of it all. It had taken the Daily Mirror about ten seconds to find Pammi Kewell on Facebook — complete with pictures of her smoking the biggest spliff you had ever seen in your life. His wife might have laughed it off, but it was another PR disaster he could have done without.

‘For God’s sake,’ Anastasia nagged, ‘pull yourself together. We both agreed she was the best one for the job.’

Edgar grunted non-committally. He had been secretly hoping for some blonde East European hard body, a cross between Mary Poppins and a Moscow call girl, but the au pair agency had singularly failed to deliver on that one. Taking a deep breath, he told himself that there really was no point in going over this same old argument for the umpteenth time. He was just about to cave in and head off dutifully to see Charlie amp; Lola , when he caught sight of Sonia Claesens steaming out of the Wonderful Wessex Wine tent on the far side of the field, with her callow boyfriend trailing after her. Spotting her quarry, Sonia made a beeline towards the Carltons, a look of grim determination on her face.

‘Oh, no.’ Edgar was about to turn and run when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Carlton,’ said Trevor Miller, bowing ever so lightly, ‘but I need to get you and your husband out of here right now.’

The Prime Minister’s wife contemplated Miller as she might inspect some cow shit on her shoe. The man had cuts and bruises all over his face, looking like he’d recently been in a fight. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked.

‘We need to go,’ Miller repeated.

‘But I wanted to see KT Tunstall,’ Edgar objected.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Miller, already pushing him towards a waiting Range Rover. ‘Maybe next time.’

‘I was wondering when you were likely to turn up.’ Sitting in a largely empty Starbucks situated a block from the Fulham police station, Sergeant Fiona Singleton cradled her grande cafe mocha carefully, as she settled back into her seat.

‘It’s been on my “to do” list for a while,’ Carlyle admitted apologetically, ‘but stuff keeps getting in the way.’

‘I know what you mean.’ She nodded sympathetically. ‘And anyway, it’s not as if Rosanna Snowdon is really your problem, is it?’ A thin, thoughtful woman with a rather unflattering pageboy haircut, it was over a year since Carlyle had last seen her. Although she had to be a good fifteen years younger than the inspector, it crossed his mind that she seemed to have aged considerably during that time. The ring on her wedding finger suggested that she’d got married as well. Maybe the two things were not unconnected.

‘No,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘but you know how. .’

Singleton understood. That didn’t mean, however, that she had much time to help him out. She glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t hang around, I’m afraid. Got a case meeting about a bunch of car thieves who have been relieving the locals of their Chelsea tractors at an alarming rate.’

‘Poor dears,’ Carlyle scoffed. SUV owners were not high on his sympathy list. In fact, they weren’t on that list at all.

‘We’ll get ’em soon enough,’ Singleton grinned. ‘Anyway, where do you now want to start?’

Carlyle looked down at the small cup that had previously contained his double espresso. It was already empty, he noted sadly. ‘Simon Lovell,’ he said. ‘Have you actually seen him?’

‘A couple of times.’ From behind her own outsized cup, Singleton made a face. ‘If anything, he seems even weirder than the last time round.’

‘If his original confession to the Snowdon killing was ruled inadmissible,’ Carlyle said, ‘the new DNA evidence must be strong?’

‘I don’t know about that. There’s still a lot of pressure to get a result on this one, coming from the media and the family.’

‘I thought that Rosanna’s parents were dealing with it quite well.’ Under the circumstances .

‘Oh, they are,’ Singleton agreed. ‘Very dignified, indeed, but you know what it’s like. The father still has some political clout, and Rosanna was herself a bit of a celebrity.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Who’s Lovell’s lawyer these days?’

‘He’s acquired a few, as you could imagine, but the main one’s still a woman called Abigail Slater.’

Carlyle shook his head. ‘Never heard of her.’

‘Ambulance-chasing bitch. She’ll have made a real killing on Legal Aid by now, but she’s only going through the motions, if you ask me. It’s a high-profile case and she likes that kind of attention — wants all the publicity she can get.’

‘Lawyers,’ Carlyle groaned. He didn’t like them any more than anyone else did.

‘Slater will string this thing out for as long as she can, but she’s only delaying the inevitable. You can tell the parents that they’ll probably get a result this time.’

‘Probably?’

Singleton thought about it for a moment. ‘Almost certainly.’

‘That’s not the same as saying he did it,’ Carlyle grumped.

Singleton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘I’m not on anyone’s side,’ Carlyle replied, rather too sharply. ‘The Job is not about taking sides. I want this case closed — for Rosanna and for her parents, of course.’

‘But?’

‘But it comes down to reasonable doubt. Unless I’m missing something here, we still don’t actually know that he did it.’

‘The DNA?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well,’ Singleton sniffed, ‘ I think that he probably did it.’

Carlyle gave her an enquiring look. ‘Fair enough, but is that good enough? You don’t know . No one does.’

‘No,’ she said, reasonableness personified, ‘but you can’t say for sure that he didn’t do it either, can you?’

The inspector felt a bubble of frustration growing in his chest. The ability of people to believe what they wanted to believe — what it suited them to believe — annoyed the hell out of him. ‘If this is bullshit, we’re just going to end up making ourselves look stupid again.’

‘I honestly don’t think it is bullshit,’ Singleton said stubbornly. ‘Look at all the other crazy theories knocking about — Russian hitmen, angry viewers, and all that crap. Dear old Mr Lovell was always the only credible suspect. It wasn’t like we had to beat the crap out of him to get his original confession either.’

Carlyle nodded. The sergeant had a point.

‘Anyway, you’re not the one who’s had this case sitting on your desk for the last couple of years.’ Singleton was then distracted as her mobile began vibrating across the cafe table. ‘Shit.’ Putting down her cup, she grabbed the phone and answered it. ‘I’m coming,’ she said quickly, before whoever was on the other end of the call had time to say anything. ‘I’m just round the corner. I’ll be there in two minutes.’ Ending the call, she said, ‘Sorry, but I’m really under the cosh today.’