James Craig - The Circus

Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that. ‘When?’

‘I dunno, maybe an hour or so ago.’

‘Tell me at least that you haven’t put it on bloody Twitter.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Phillips chuckled. ‘The tweetathon’s finished.’

‘Thank God for that.’ The inspector thought things through for a moment. ‘I should give Simpson a heads-up,’ he said, making the call there and then. ‘And I need you to do me a favour,’ he added to Phillips, as he listened to Simpson’s phone ringing.

A dark look crossed the pathologist’s face. ‘But-’

Grimacing, Carlyle held up a finger as the Commander’s voicemail kicked in. ‘It’s me,’ he said curtly, ‘and it’s urgent. Bloody urgent. Call me as soon as you get this message.’

Returning his attention to Phillips, he began talking quickly, keen to override her likely objections to his latest disregard for protocol. ‘There’s a case that Fulham have been working on for a couple of years, concerning the death of a woman called Rosanna Snowdon.’

‘The TV presenter?’ said Phillips cautiously, not sure where the inspector was going with this.

‘Exactly. I want — I need you to check the evidence that they collected and do a read-across from Hall.’

Staring at the sky, Phillips slowly let the implications of what he was asking for sink in. ‘That’s going to be very tricky.’

‘I know.’ Fighting his own excitement, Carlyle waited for her to resume eye-contact. ‘But speak to a sergeant there called Fiona Singleton. Tell her I suggested it. She’s solid.’

‘Mm.’ Phillips looked dubious.

Carlyle gave her his most earnest stare. ‘I’ve been chasing this bastard for a long time, Susan. I want to get him for everything .’

‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Simpson’s phone was still going to voicemail. Without leaving another message, Carlyle put his phone away and scanned the bar of the Adam Tavern, just south of the Euston Road. It took him a few moments to locate Charlie Ross, sitting on his own in a booth at the back, nursing a pint of beer, and then the best part of ten minutes to get served at the bar. By the time he returned to Ross’s table with the drinks, the old sergeant’s previous glass was empty.

‘Thanks.’ Ross accepted the pint of Morse Ale and placed it on the table. Still holding his glass of Jameson’s, the inspector pulled up a stool.

‘My pleasure,’ Carlyle lied.

‘Your health,’ Ross mumbled, lifting the fresh glass to his lips for a modest sup.

‘So,’ Carlyle asked, keen to get down to business, ‘what did you want to talk about?’

Charlie tried — and failed — to do an impersonation of a guileless old man. ‘I just wanted to see where you are with your investigation.’

‘Don’t fuck me about, Charlie,’ Carlyle snapped. ‘I thought I was getting Trevor Miller’s head on a plate.’

‘Patience, patience. All in good time.’

Carlyle downed his whiskey in one. He wasn’t going to sit around and talk nonsense with this old bastard. ‘Trevor is living on borrowed time,’ he said, smacking the shot glass down on the table. ‘So, give him up — if you can give him up — and the better it’ll be for you.’

A shit-eating grin spread across Ross’s face. ‘I know about Anton Fox.’

‘Not that crap again.’

The grin ebbed away as Ross placed his glass on a beer mat advertising a gambling website.

‘We’ve been hearing all these stupid stories for years,’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘That’s old news. Who cares who brained that stupid bugger?’

‘I also know who did Duncan Brown.’

‘Charlie, I know the whole story,’ Carlyle told him. ‘Not just Fox, not just Brown. . but the whole fucking thing.’

‘You can know what you like,’ the old man growled, ‘but you have fuck all when it comes to actual evidence.’

The inspector said nothing.

‘Otherwise you’d have a fucking warrant,’ Charlie’s eyes narrowed, ‘and I’d be behind bars by now. Am I right?’

Busted . All Carlyle could do was to try and brazen it out. There was no appealing to Ross’s better nature because the old sod didn’t have a better nature.

‘Please,’ he said finally, ‘don’t waste my fucking time. We are talking about multiple murders here — and by former police officers, for Christ’s sake. Trevor goes down, you go down too, along with anyone and everyone associated with Wickford Associates and God knows who else. Either you cooperate now or you will die in jail.’

Leaning forward, Ross jabbed a finger towards the inspector’s face, the anger clear in his eyes. ‘Don’t threaten me, sonny. You don’t know shit. Without me, you have nothing — and Miller will slip through your hands yet again.’

A voice inside the inspector’s head told him to stay calm. He would deal with Charlie Ross in due course. In the meantime, he had to stay focused. ‘Okay,’ he conceded, letting out a long breath. ‘What do you want?’

‘Me?’ Sitting back on the banquette, Ross folded his arms. ‘I don’t want anything. Why should I? At my age I’m untouchable.’

‘So why are you doing this?’

‘Because, given what has happened, I want to fuck Trevor up just as much as you do. This is supposed to be my retirement. Now I’m having to run about here, there and everywhere, trying to clear up all his shit while he ponces about like he’s God’s bloody gift.’

The inspector wanted to believe what Ross was saying, but maybe the old bugger was setting him up. Or maybe he was just a bored old man who wanted some attention and someone sitting with him in the pub. ‘So where is Trevor now?’

‘Somewhere safe.’ Ross took another mouthful of beer. ‘Waiting for me to tell him what to do next.’ He clocked the look of concern that flashed across Carlyle’s face and grinned malevolently. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still in the country — for now. He knows that things are going tits-up big time though. If we don’t move fast, he’ll try and do a runner for sure.’

‘So when do I get him?’ Carlyle asked, sounding way too eager.

‘When the time is right,’ Ross replied vaguely.

‘And when will that be?’

‘When I bloody say so.’ He nodded towards the bar. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you go and get me another pint.’

Licking his lips, Sir Chester Forsyth-Walker eyed the generous glass of Martell XO clutched in the Prime Minister’s hand. I’ve come all the way over to your club to tell you in person about this, he thought, so the least you could do is offer me a bloody drink.

Sadly for the Commissioner, hospitality was not high on Edgar Carlton’s current agenda. As a waiter approached, the PM shooed him away with an imperious wave of his free hand. ‘How many people know about this?’

With a look of dismay, the Commissioner watched the flunky retreat. ‘Not that many. The officer in charge was smart enough to bring it straight to me.’

‘Mm.’ Edgar knew that wouldn’t count for much: news like this would leak faster than the Titanic after it had hit the iceberg. Some bugger will have tweeted the news by the time I sit down for dinner, he thought grimly. If they haven’t already. ‘And there’s no doubt about all this? We’re sure Miller’s guilty?’

Still trying to catch the waiter’s eye, Sir Chester replied, ‘Yes. The evidence, from what I understand, is fairly compelling.’

‘Fine.’ Edgar lifted the heavy crystal glass to his lips and drank deeply. He should have known this day would come. That was the thing about politics: all of your people fall by the wayside sooner or later. Then, when you — the chief! — are the last man standing, someone steps up to take you out as well. The actual circumstances might come as a surprise, but the narrative was as inevitable as it was predictable.