James Craig - The Circus

‘So you didn’t give Bernie this information?’

Carlyle looked her in the eye as he handed back the smartphone. ‘Nope.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘It would seem a bit of a risky thing for anyone to do, under the circumstances,’ Carlyle mused. ‘And anyway, being a whistleblower is a mug’s game.’

Putting the BlackBerry away, Simpson started heading towards the police tape and the press waiting beyond it. ‘Whoever the source was, let’s hope that such irresponsible behaviour doesn’t come back to haunt him.’

‘Or her,’ Carlyle added hastily.

Shaking her head, the Commander said nothing further as she stalked away.

While Carlyle watched his boss’s press conference from a safe distance, Joe Szyszkowski appeared at his shoulder.

‘I thought she didn’t like dealing with the media any more; not since her old man — well, you know.’

‘Not since her old man got done for massive fraud, you mean?’

‘Quite.’

‘You’re right, she doesn’t. But someone’s got to feed the beast.’

‘I suppose so. I hear you’ve been having a busy day?’

‘Yes, I have. Thank you for asking,’ Carlyle said sarcastically. ‘By the way, where the hell have you been?’

‘Monty Laws wrapped his car round a lamp-post near Hampstead Heath at six o’clock this morning,’ Joe replied evenly, clearly not rising to the bait. ‘He had Hannah Gillespie’s ATM card in his pocket.’

Carlyle raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Jesus, it really is my lucky day.’

‘Looks like it,’ Joe agreed. ‘By the time I got up to the Rosslyn Hill station, he’d already confessed to killing her.’

The inspector suddenly felt his energy levels plummet as he was gripped by a grim despair. ‘And why did he do it?’

‘No particular reason.’

‘Great.’ Sticking his hands in his pockets, Carlyle began walking along the road, heading away from the media scrum.

‘You off, then?’ Joe shouted after him. ‘Seeing as I just got here?’

‘That’s right,’ Carlyle replied, not bothering to look back. ‘It’s time to go home.’

* * *

‘You fucking idiot!’ Charlie Ross sipped at his tumbler of Scapa Orkney single malt as he watched Trevor Miller’s face on the flickering TV screen. On the floor nearby was scattered a selection of travel brochures. It was time to take a trip. His bag was already packed. He had known for some time that this day would come, and he was ready for it. Reaching forward, he picked up the nearest brochure — Mexico. The strains of Frank Sinatra singing ‘Come Fly With Me’ briefly drifted through his head. As Frank ebbed away, Charlie frowned. Wasn’t there some kind of civil war going on over there right now? The army fighting against the drug cartels; corpses hanging from motorway bridges, headless bodies dropped down wells? Things that made his adventures look like nothing more than silly games played by five year olds.

Maybe he should check out one of the alternative brochures?

Fuck it, it wasn’t such a big deal. Mexico would do well enough.

‘Ain’t you gonna swallow?’

Ignoring her boyfriend, Melanie Henderson spat the majority of his juices into her coffee mug before wiping her chin on his jeans.

‘Hey!’ Ricky Haswell pushed her off and began folding himself away.

‘Where’s your mum anyway?’

‘Out.’

‘Urgh.’ She pointed to the TV. On the screen, a body was being wheeled into an ambulance.

‘Shooting. . happened up the road.’ Ricky gave her a sly glance. ‘You gonna stay the night?’

‘Nah, my mum would kill me,’ Melanie said. ‘After what happened to Hannah, she’s really paranoid.’

‘For someone who always thought she was so smart, that girl was dumb, dumb, dumb,’ Ricky commented.

‘Bloody police,’ Melanie extended one leg and wiggled her toes at the TV. ‘When it came to it, they weren’t much use, were they?’

* * *

‘John!’ A knee in the small of his back forced Carlyle to open his eyes.’ That’s your bloody phone!’

‘Okay, okay,’ he said groggily, swinging his feet on to the carpet. The radio alarm on the bedside table said 3:06. He didn’t even recognize the noise coming from his phone; obviously Alice had changed the damn ringtone again.

‘Switch it off, for God’s sake.’

‘Go back to sleep,’ he snapped. Picking his jeans from the floor, he pulled the mobile from a back pocket and stumbled out into the hallway. ‘Yeah?’

‘Are you asleep?’ By comparison to his boss, Joe Szyszkowski sounded positively wide awake.

‘Not any more, you fucking muppet. What do you want?’

‘I’m at the station.’

‘Good for you.’ Reaching the living room, Carlyle fell straight on to the sofa, trying to ignore the aching tiredness that permeated his body. ‘Why?’

‘They’ve brought in Sonia Claesens,’ Joe said cheerily. ‘She beat up her boyfriend, apparently. The call came in a couple of hours ago. He’s in A and E at St Thomas’s; she’s in a cell downstairs.’

‘Who did you say?’ Carlyle plumped up a cushion and placed it carefully behind his head.

‘Sonia Claesens — the Managing Director of the Zenger Corporation,’ Joe explained. ‘She was Simon Shelbourne’s boss, and also a mate of Edgar Carlton.’

‘Good for her.’

‘And she knew Trevor Miller.’

‘Ah.’ Now that Miller’s dead, I couldn’t really give a monkey’s, Carlyle reflected. Closing his eyes, he swung his legs up on to the sofa. It was really quite comfortable here.

‘Boss?’

‘It’s the middle of the fucking night,’ he groaned, ‘so why are you telling me all this?’

‘She’s screaming blue murder, and there’s already press gathering outside. The powers-that-be want someone senior down here right away.’

‘Well, go and find someone senior then.’

‘They want you down here right away,’ Joe persisted.

‘Okay, okay,’ Carlyle yawned. ‘Fucking hell. .’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’ He switched off the phone and let the handset fall to the floor, adding to himself: ‘After I’ve had a two-minute kip.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was now almost eight o’clock and Joe’s previous cheeriness was long gone.

Feeling more than a little sheepish, Carlyle held up a hand by way of apology. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

‘I left you loads of messages.’

‘The battery died,’ the inspector lied.

‘It’s now been five hours. I was going to call your home number.’

Carlyle gave him a surprised look. ‘Just as well you didn’t. Helen would have killed you — immediately after having killed me.’

‘That’s what I assumed.’

‘Anyway, I fell asleep again. End of. Sorry.’

Grudgingly accepting his boss’s apology, Joe gestured towards the police station entrance where a dozen or so reporters were milling about on the steps. ‘They’ve been a pain in the arse all night.’

‘Get the uniforms to handle them,’ Carlyle said brusquely.

‘It’s been all over the TV news.’

‘Why? She’s hardly a fucking celebrity, is she?’

‘You know what it’s like,’ Joe shrugged. ‘The media loves the media.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And it’s made the later editions of the papers.’ Joe handed the inspector a copy of the Daily Witness , sister paper to the Sunday edition. ‘Top of page four.’

Carlyle opened the tabloid and found himself staring at a picture of Edgar Carlton and Sonia Claesens deep in discussion at some charity reception. Briefly scanning the article, he burst out laughing. ‘Fuck me, that was quick.’

‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world,’ the sergeant shrugged. ‘Do you want to go in and see her?’