James Craig - The Circus

‘But wasn’t he working for them?’ Carlyle frowned. ‘Indirectly, I mean, through Wickford Associates?’

‘Yeah. This is where it all gets rather messy. What I think happened is that Anton, off his own bat, had been chasing down evidence of police corruption: officers taking backhanders from journalists in exchange for information and also for phone numbers that could be hacked.’

‘A bit close to home,’ Carlyle mused.

‘For sure,’ Dom agreed. ‘Of course, if he did have evidence, the irony was that the only thing he could usefully do with such information was to give it to someone else in the press.’

And that someone would doubtless be Rosanna Snowdon, Carlyle thought, and her London Crime show. He felt a jolt of adrenalin; things were finally falling into place.

‘But that meant that Anton was going up against both his employer and the company’s number-one client.’

‘So they killed him?’ Carlyle still wasn’t convinced.

Dom shrugged. ‘He went to the Princess Ottoline pub in Hammersmith to meet a contact, and ended up with a terminal headache.’

The inspector let out a long breath. ‘It’s all speculation.’

‘Absolutely. But you know Trevor Miller. You know Charlie Ross. Both of them are nasty bastards in the extreme. They had stumbled into a nice little business and wouldn’t want anyone to mess it up.’

Carlyle let his gaze lose focus as he stared out of the window, realizing that they still had a way to go to join all the dots. He thought of Anton Fox, Rosanna Snowdon and Maude Hall. ‘Do you think he could have killed them all?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

‘Trevor?’ Dom wrinkled his nose. ‘Why not? That fucking idiot is capable of anything — anything stupid, that is.’

‘Fu-uck! What a mess.’

‘Yes, but you might be able to get your man.’

‘How?’

Dom took another mouthful of tea. ‘I would lean on Simon Shelbourne.’

‘The Commissioner’s PR man?’

Dom nodded. ‘Before he became Editor of the Sunday Witness , he covered the crime beat for the paper. Bella says that he was close to Anton. She says that Shelbourne promised Anton fifty grand for some big story just before he died.’

‘What story?’ Carlyle demanded.

‘Dunno. What I do know, however, is that our Mr Shelbourne has been interviewed by Operation Redhead officers. . twice.’

The inspector smacked his head. ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Bloody Chief Inspector Russell Meyer, why hadn’t he mentioned any of this?

‘Both times,’ Dom continued, ‘he denied having any contact with Fox.’

‘So why do you think I would be able to get any more out of him?’

‘Shelbourne is weak,’ Dom continued, ‘both physically and mentally. I could get Gideon to have a word with him. He’d crumble in less than five minutes. Tell you whatever you want.’

‘Mm.’ Carlyle had to admit, the idea had much to commend it. As he contemplated Gideon getting to work on the ex-Editor, his phone started vibrating. ‘Hold that thought. In the meantime, keep on digging. See what else you can find out.’

‘Inspector?’ said a familiar gravelly voice. ‘It’s Charlie Ross.’

‘Charlie.’ Carlyle shot a glance at Dom.

‘Are you busy?’

‘I’m always busy. What can I do for you?’

‘I was wondering if we could meet up.’

On his way to see Charlie Ross, Carlyle took a detour in order to drop in at the Holborn police station on Lamb’s Conduit Street. He wanted to speak to Susan Phillips. In the event, he had to wait more than half an hour before the pathologist made an appearance. Sweeping through the reception at a clip, she headed straight for the entrance door, signalling with the slightest nod of her head that he should follow. Carlyle chased after her, but she was going at such a pace that they were halfway towards Coram’s Fields before he caught up.

‘What are you doing here?’ Phillips snapped, not slowing down.

‘Nice to see you, too,’ Carlyle quipped.

‘John, now is really not the time.’ Skipping out in front of a taxi, she crossed Great Ormond Street and dived into the Starbucks on the corner, leaving him still standing on the kerbside. By the time he made it inside, she had already ordered a double espresso and a latte and was paying for them with her credit card. ‘Get a seat. I’ll bring the coffees.’

Stepping back outside, the inspector grabbed a small table that had just been vacated by a couple of tired-looking hospital workers. From his seat, he watched her through the window, chewing nervously on her thumb as she waited for their order. Given that Phillips was just about the most laid-back colleague Carlyle had ever known, it was clear that something must be up.

Sitting back in his chair, Carlyle placed his hands behind his head and smiled to himself.

If something was up, that meant they must have found important new evidence.

‘Just don’t ask me anything about Maude Hall.’ Phillips took a mouthful of her latte as soon as she had handed Carlyle his espresso.

‘Thanks.’ The last thing the inspector needed was more caffeine, so he placed the small paper cup carefully on the table without taking a sip.

‘Because I know that it’s not even your case,’ said Phillips, lowering herself into the other chair.

‘No,’ he had to agree.

‘Not that you’ve ever let minor details like that stop you in the past.’

Carlyle held up a hand. ‘It’s just the way I am, sorry.’ He knew Phillips well enough. Despite the complaining, she would tell him what was going on in her own time.

‘Yes, well. .’ Phillips looked around, before leaning across the table, tension etched on her face.

Fuck me, Carlyle thought, I’ve just walked into a John le Carre novel.

‘The shit has really hit the fan on this one,’ she whispered.

Or maybe not . Le Carre’s characters always spoke so much more eloquently. All that public school and Oxbridge education; money well spent. He tried not to laugh at his own musings.

‘Poor Maude Hall put up a hell of a fight.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. She was an expert in self-defence.’

Phillips nodded. ‘We found traces of skin and blood under her fingernails.’

Carlyle knew where this was going, but he should let her tell it at her own pace.

‘And we’ve got a match.’

I’ve got the fucker! He wanted to leap in the air and start running down the road, arms pumping in triumph. Instead, he restrained himself.

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Go on.’

Phillips did another sweep of the street, as if looking for spies. ‘We’ve got a match — to a guy who does security for the Prime Minister.’

‘Trevor Miller.’ Carlyle’s self-restraint buckled and he couldn’t resist dropping the name in first.

Phillips’s eyes narrowed even further. ‘You know him?’

‘Yeah. How did you make the match?’

‘Everyone who works in Downing Street has to go on a DNA database. It took us about ten seconds to find him.’

‘Trevor Miller fucks up again.’ He had to fight the urge to give Phillips a big kiss. ‘Nice.’

The pathologist finished the last of her coffee and tossed the paper cup into a nearby bin. ‘But why would he kill a police officer?’

‘Because he’s a total bastard. And a complete fucking moron.’ Carlyle was going to be late for his meeting with Charlie Ross and he didn’t have the time — or the inclination — to take Phillips through the whole backstory. ‘Who else knows about this?’

‘When the results came in, it had to go straight to the top. All the way up to the Commissioner.’