James Craig - The Circus

‘No worries.’ Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It was good to have a catch-up.’

‘This might be of more use.’ Rooting around in her shoulder bag, Singleton pulled out an A4 manila envelope stuffed with papers. ‘These are copies of some of the stuff we found in Rosanna’s flat. They might be of interest — and if nothing else, the parents might want to have them. But make sure these get properly looked after. After all, the case has still to be concluded.’

‘Of course,’ said Carlyle, accepting the envelope from her. He was grateful for her thoughtfulness, because Singleton needn’t have bothered. She was putting herself out here and he was genuinely grateful. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Hoisting the bag over her shoulder, she got to her feet. ‘You can return the favour one day.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Carlyle smiled.

As she disappeared out of the door, his gaze fell on the largely untouched mocha. What a waste of an expensive cup of coffee . With an unhappy sigh, he ripped open the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers more than an inch thick. ‘That’s a lot of reading,’ he mumbled to himself. Top of the pile was a selection of stories printed off from the BBC website. The inspector was just about to start reading when his phone vibrated in the breast pocket of his jacket. Looking at the screen, he saw that he had already accumulated four missed calls.

Bloody phones. How the hell did that happen?

Tutting, he answered it. ‘Yeah?’

‘Boss, it’s Joe.’ His sergeant’s voice sounded strained. ‘Where the hell are you?’

Filled with light, the flat was spartan but not depressing; 550 square feet on the top floor of a converted Victorian mansion block in Tufnell Park, divided into a bedroom, bathroom and tiny kitchen/living room. Hands resting on hips, Carlyle stood behind the breakfast bar, trying to stay out of the way of the technicians as they went about their business.

Inside, he wanted to cry.

‘It looks like she put up a hell of a fight.’ Joe Szyszkowski appeared from the landing, looking ashen-faced.

The inspector nodded. He couldn’t bear to go and view the body. All he could think about was that, in all likelihood, he himself was responsible for her death.

‘What about the neighbours?’

Joe shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Carlyle threw up his hands in despair. ‘Someone must have seen something!’ The general public were never of any help when you needed it, always in your face when you didn’t.

Joe dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Her father. .’

Carlyle grimaced. ‘Yes?’

‘He’s waiting downstairs.’

* * *

For a man who must have been somewhere in his late fifties, Mervyn Hall was in good shape. Stocky but without any signs of middle-age spread, he looked like he could step back into the boxing ring at a moment’s notice. It had taken Carlyle a good ten minutes to persuade Maude’s father that they should stay away from Maude’s flat and leave the crime scene to Forensics. He felt sick to his stomach telling the man that he couldn’t see his daughter, but it was for the best. The poor bastard would have to formally identify the body soon enough. For now, they sat in uncomfortable silence in an empty cafe on Brecknock Road, a block away from the flat, both lost in their respective thoughts. Meanwhile the rest of the city continued about its business as usual, untroubled by the violence that had turned their world on its head.

Shit happens.

Life goes on.

No one really gives a fuck.

After an eternity of staring into his greasy black coffee, Hall looked up, clearing his throat. ‘So what happens now?’

Carlyle finished his espresso. It was disgusting. What he really wanted, he decided, was a large glass of Jameson’s, or maybe more. His gaze lingered on Willy’s Saloon Bar, the Irish pub across the road, before returning to Hall. ‘Now,’ he sighed, ‘we have to find out who did this.’

Leaning across the table, Hall placed a hand on the inspector’s forearm. ‘Make sure you do. And then, let me know.’

‘Of course,’ Carlyle nodded.

‘And I will kill the fucker.’

The inspector really did need that drink. ‘I didn’t know Maude for very long,’ he said finally, ‘but I really enjoyed working with her. She had great energy and charm, and she was an excellent police officer.’ Looking round, he realized that Hall wasn’t listening to him. He was busy typing a text message on his mobile.

‘I’ve got to go and see Maude’s mum,’ he said, hitting the send button. Pulling a pen from his jacket pocket, he scribbled down a mobile phone number on a napkin and handed it to Carlyle. ‘Let me know when I can see my daughter.’ Slowly getting to his feet, he looked down on the inspector, his expression more detached than grim. ‘And remember what I said.’

‘Mister. .’

Carlyle looked up from his papers to see a blonde girl in a red Michael Jackson T-shirt, green bikini bottoms and a pair of brown cowboy boots standing at his table with an impatient look on her face. ‘Pardon?’

She began waving a pint glass in front of his face. The glass was empty apart from a couple of pound coins and a fifty-pence piece, which rattled about noisily. ‘Put some money in the glass and I will do a dance.’ She gestured with the glass towards the tiny stage that had been raised maybe eight inches off the floor at the far end of the room. In the middle of the stage was a pole. Another girl, in a grubby yellow evening dress, was giving it a clean ahead of the next performance with some Cif anti-bacterial spray and a rag.

‘A pound,’ the girl repeated. He guessed that her accent was West Country, or maybe Welsh.

Embracing the warm, comforting buzz of the whiskey, Carlyle looked around the bar. The lunchtime rush was over and the only other patron he could see was an old guy sitting at a nearby table with his head stuck in the Racing Post .

‘I don’t want to watch a dance.’

The girl shook the glass angrily. ‘It’s only a pound, you cheap git.’

With a sigh, Carlyle brought out his warrant card and waved it at the girl. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone.’

Muttering to herself, she turned and stalked off, wiggling her ample rear as she did so. If you’re going to make it as a stripper, Carlyle thought to himself, you’ll have to work on that arse. Finishing his drink, he returned to the stack of papers that Fiona Singleton had given to him earlier in the day. Delving back into the Rosanna Snowdon case offered him some kind of excuse for delaying his return to Maude Hall’s flat, and he was more than happy to accept it.

On top of the pile was one of the stories that had been printed out from the BBC website. At the top, in red pen, was written LC?

LC — that was fairly straightforward since Rosanna had presented a television show called London Crime . Presumably she had been considering this as a potential item at the time of her death.

The inspector began reading further.

The article was the best part of three years old. It concerned the unsolved murder of a private investigator called Anton Fox. The inspector thought about that for a moment, but the name didn’t ring any bells. Apparently, five years ago, Mr Fox had been found in the car park of a West London pub with an axe in his head. The vague suggestion in this BBC piece was that Fox had been chasing down alleged police corruption. However, no one had ever been brought to trial.

Reading the story, Carlyle had the frustrating sense of lots of pieces of unconnected information floating round in his brain. He knew that somehow he had to try and find a common thread that would pull everything together.