James Craig - The Circus

‘It’s worse for me. I was the one quoted in that bloody paper.’ Folding his arms, Joe sat back in his chair, gazing up at a painting of a bowl of fruit.

‘No one knows it was you.’

‘How long do you think that will last?’

‘Well, if you don’t tell anyone,’ Carlyle said evenly, ‘ I won’t.’

‘Deal.’ Joe sounded unenthusiastic.

‘You didn’t leave your name, so how could it get out?’

‘Mm.’

Squinting, the inspector read the short description that had been discreetly positioned next to the painting. A Festoon of Fruit hung above a Stone Table, a view of a Mountainous Landscape beyond . It was by an artist called Jan Mortel. ‘Nice.’

‘Yeah,’ Joe laughed, ‘it would look really good in my living room.’

‘How much, do you think?’

‘No idea,’ Joe replied. ‘You know what they say: if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.’

‘Story of my life.’ Carlyle glanced along the corridor towards the empty reception desk. The girl who had let them in had disappeared now, and showed no sign of returning. ‘You think they’d at least offer us coffee.’

‘There was a Caffe Nero down the road. Want me to go and get some?’

‘Nah, it’s fine.’ For a few moments, Carlyle forced himself to contemplate Mortel’s work but, try as he might, the inspector had never been able to relate to paintings. You looked at them and then you didn’t; that was that. He otherwise didn’t have much time for them. Even Helen had long since stopped trying to drag him round various exhibitions and galleries, finding Alice a far better companion. Within three seconds, he felt overwhelmed by boredom. A bowl of fruit was just a bowl of fruit. It might have been a big deal in the eighteenth century or whatever, but life had moved on. He glanced at Joe, whose eyes were similarly glazed. ‘So,’ he asked, keeping his voice low, ‘how do you hack a phone?’

Joe shot him a sideways look. ‘Bloody hell, you must be the only person in the country who doesn’t know how it works by now.’

Carlyle gave a small bow.

‘Don’t you read the papers?’

‘Only when you’re quoted in them.’

‘Ha-bloody-ha. Have you got your phone there?’

‘Sure.’ Carlyle fished out his mobile.

‘Right,’ said Joe. Taking his own phone from his jacket pocket, he pulled up the inspector’s number on the screen, then hit the call button. After a moment, Carlyle’s handset started vibrating in his hand. ‘Don’t answer it. Just let it go to voicemail.’ Tapping a few numbers, Joe lifted his own handset to his ear and started to listen. ‘You’ve got a message from Helen. .’

‘Hey!’ Carlyle made a grab for the phone, but Joe ducked away.

‘She’s pissed off about something.’

‘Nothing unusual there,’ Carlyle grinned. ‘How did you do that?’

Joe tapped a few more keys before ending the call. ‘If you dial that number, you can access voicemail remotely.’

‘You can?’

‘The factory setting for the security code is four zeros. If you don’t change it, anyone can go in and listen to your messages.’

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Joe smiled. ‘I’ve changed it.’

‘To what?’

‘Four ones.’

‘Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘I’ll give you a call when I forget it.’

‘No worries.’

Carlyle looked back towards the empty desk. ‘Where the fuck is that girl?’

‘Do you want me to go and look for her?’

‘Give her another minute,’ said Carlyle, happy enough to sit on his arse doing nothing for a little while longer. ‘Tell me about the bloke who owns this place.’

Joe pulled out a small notebook and flicked through the pages until he found his notes. ‘Dario Untersander. Swiss national. Educated in England. Worked in Sotheby’s before setting up his own business twelve years ago.’

‘Mm.’

‘No record.’

‘Obviously.’

‘He is a former Chairman of the Society of London Art Dealers and an executive committee member of the European Fine Art Foundation.’

‘Good for him,’ Carlyle said sullenly.

‘Mr Untersander,’ said a voice from down the corridor, ‘is also a leading light in the British Antique Dealers Association and the Grosvenor House Art and Antiques Fair executive committee.’

The inspector looked round to see a well-fed, middle-aged man with rosy cheeks and a head of thinning silver hair. ‘And who are you?’

‘Daniel Brabo.’ The man advanced towards them, proffering a business card. ‘I’m Mr Untersander’s legal adviser.’ Carlyle shot Joe a disgusted look as Brabo gestured towards the rear of the building. ‘My client will see you now.’

‘Nice coffee.’ Resigned to the fact that it was all he was going to get from this visit, the inspector resolved to appear as magnanimous as he could manage.

Dario Untersander nodded. He was a tall man folded up behind an antique desk that was rather too small for his lengthy frame. Groomed to within an inch of his life, in an expensive-looking suit, with a red and white striped shirt and a red tie, he looked every inch the New Bond Street salesman. ‘Harrods Heritage Blend’. His accent was 100 per cent Sloane Square. ‘We only like the best.’

‘I’m sure,’ Carlyle smiled. He gestured towards the lawyer sitting on a chair to the right of the desk, who was busily demolishing a shortbread finger. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us on a Sunday.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ Untersander said pleasantly. ‘Many of our clients are from the Middle East and this is a working day for them. So it is a working day for us, too.’ He glanced at Brabo, who accelerated his chewing and swallowed quickly. ‘And, under the circumstances, we were expecting your visit.’

‘And what exactly were those circumstances?’ Joe jumped in.

Surprised at the underling asking a question, both Untersander and Brabo shot the inspector an enquiring look. Taking another mouthful of coffee, Carlyle gestured that he was happy for them to answer.

‘The circumstances, as I understand it,’ said Brabo, ‘are that you are interested in a series of phone calls that appear to have been made-’

Giving the waffle short shrift, Joe cut across him. ‘A gentleman now believed to be responsible for three murders,’ he interrupted sharply, ‘made a succession of calls to a phone number belonging to your client. We want to know why.’

A sickly smile passed across Brabo’s face. Maybe the shortbread had gone down the wrong way. ‘And who is this gentleman you refer to?’

‘That’s one of the things we were hoping you would be able to tell us,’ Carlyle said smoothly. This lawyer clearly had an inside track on the police investigation, but where had he got his information from? No point in worrying about that now. The inspector eyed the pile of biscuits on Untersander’s desk. Shortbread wasn’t his favourite but he was still tempted.

‘We really have no idea,’ Brabo replied, injecting just the right amount of dismay into his voice to suggest the disappointment of an honest citizen unable to be of more assistance with the police’s enquiries. ‘The phone you are referring to was bought by Mr Untersander for his daughter. But unfortunately, the young lady lost it several months ago.’

How very convenient , Carlyle reckoned. ‘So why didn’t you cancel the contract?’

Untersander gave a sheepish grin.

‘Apparently,’ Brabo explained, ‘Sofia — Mr Untersander’s daughter — forgot to mention it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You know what children are like.’

‘I do indeed,’ Carlyle agreed. He turned to face Untersander. ‘So you know nothing about these phone calls, but you do admit to knowing Zoe Mosman?’