James Craig - The Circus

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you have anyone particular in mind?’

Edgar glanced towards the dining room. On reflection, Christian might well be on his second bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion by now. ‘You know that is not my style.’ He patted Miller on the shoulder and headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave such details to you.’

How do I manage to get myself into these situations?

Finishing his whisky, Carlyle let his host refill the glass. He had first met Sir Michael and Veronica Snowdon about six months after their daughter Rosanna’s death. They had been given his name by Fiona Singleton, a sergeant in Fulham who had worked on the investigation and knew about the inspector’s connection to the dead girl. Never comfortable when it came to dealing with grieving relatives, Carlyle had uttered a few platitudes about what a great person their daughter had been, although in truth he had hardly known her.

At the time the couple had politely listened to him prattle on for several minutes, before Sir Michael placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you for your kind words, Inspector, but I was wondering if we might trouble you for some professional advice.’

Oh, no, Carlyle thought wearily, here we go. ‘How can I help?’ he asked.

‘We just need to understand,’ said Lady Snowdon cautiously, clearly unsure of her ground, ‘whether it is likely that Rosanna’s case will ever be resolved?’

No, Carlyle thought, it’s not likely at all. You should accept that and move on. After all, you’ll be dead yourselves soon enough. ‘It’s hard to say,’ he stammered. ‘I know that my colleagues in Fulham-’

Recognizing bluster when he heard it, Snowdon gently cut across him. ‘I am aware of their efforts,’ he said neutrally. ‘However, they cannot even confirm the cause of death.’

‘These things are often difficult,’ the inspector admitted, staring at his shoes. He hadn’t felt this sheepish since he was thirteen and his mother had found a copy of Fiesta under his mattress.

‘Yes,’ Sir Michael agreed, ‘they are.’

Over the last couple of years, Rosanna’s parents had come to see Carlyle as their man on the inside. Too embarrassed to disabuse them, the inspector would give the impression of making ‘discreet enquiries’ behind the scenes, while waiting patiently for them to stop plying him with drink and to finally come to terms with their daughter’s death.

With a theatrical flourish, Joe Szyszkowski glanced at his watch. Carlyle knew that Joe’s wife, Anita, would not be happy right now. Within the normal constraints of his job, she preferred her husband’s hours to be as regular as possible. Like the inspector himself, Joe was not the kind of man allowed any backsliding when it came to his family duties. The sergeant looked pleadingly at his boss but Carlyle remained impassive. He appreciated Joe tagging along with him to provide moral support on this mercy mission, but there was no scope for either of them bunking off early. Now that they were here, both officers had to stay a respectable length of time.

The inspector took another sip of scotch, desperately trying to think of something to say. The silence was getting awkward but his mind remained completely blank. Ignoring Joe’s silent entreaties, he glanced up at the painting of the girls wearing bikinis. What was the artist called? Osmund something-or-other. What kind of a name was that?

‘So, Inspector. .’

Blinking, he looked towards Veronica Snowdon, who was again pacing back and forth in front of the windows.

‘Yes?’ he smiled.

‘What do you think of the breakthrough in Rosanna’s case?’ she asked.

‘Sorry?’ What breakthrough? Carlyle didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. ‘Well. .’ Gripping his glass more tightly, he looked to Joe for some help. But none was forthcoming as, making the best of the situation, his sergeant was busily helping himself to a third slice of cake.

‘After all this time,’ Snowdon chipped in, his cheeks now slightly flushed from the scotch, ‘do you really think they’ve finally got him?’

‘Well. .’ Carlyle said, and gulped. ‘It is a possibility.’

Feeling warm and fuzzy, Hannah Gillespie squinted at the little clock in the top right-hand corner of the screen on her mobile. ‘God!’ she mumbled. ‘It’s getting late — I need to go. Mum will kill me. And I’ve still got that essay to write.’

‘Relax.’ She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s still early.’

‘But. .’

The phone disappeared from her hand and was replaced by a glass almost full to the brim with red wine. ‘Have another drink. There’s plenty of time.’

‘Mm.’ Hannah wasn’t sure about that, but she felt too chilled-out to argue. Brian Faulkner, Ted Heath and the Troubles could wait.

‘Cheers.’ There was a gentle click of glasses.

Hannah grinned. ‘Cheers.’

Marc Harrington stood pummelling the Mosmans’ front door, banging the oversized brass knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, until his fingers felt numb. He had been standing there for more than a minute now, but there was still no response from inside. Feeling like a prize idiot, he looked around, wondering what to do next.

‘For God’s sake,’ he mumbled, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. If anything, the music had got louder over the last few minutes. Surely the neighbours on the other side could hear it too — if they were home, that is, rather than off sunning themselves at their villa in the South of France.

Bloody neighbours, he thought. Why does this have to be my problem?

It suddenly struck him that he should call the police. Maybe they would arrest Horatio Mosman. That would give the little shit something to think about while he waited for his parents to bail him out of jail. Reaching into his trouser pocket, Harrington realized that his iPhone was still sitting on the kitchen table. ‘Shit, fuck, bollocks. .’

Suddenly the music stopped.

Problem solved, or just a temporary reprieve?

Taking a step away from the door, Harrington counted the following seconds in his head. After thirty seconds of blissful silence, he reconsidered his options.

Should he nip back home, refill his glass, and declare victory?

Or would the selfish little sod crank 30 Seconds to Whatever back up again before Harrington could get another glass of the Chevalier-Montrachet in his hand?

He had yet to make up his mind when the door suddenly flew open. However, rather than being confronted by a dishevelled teenage onanist, he found himself face-to-face with a tall figure dressed from head to foot in black, its face hidden by a balaclava. All that Harrington could make out was a pair of blue eyes looking out at him through the slits.

‘Horatio?’

Surely the boy hadn’t grown that much. From somewhere inside the house came a noise that could have been a groan, or equally could have been a scream. Glancing along the hallway, Harrington took another step backwards. It was only when he looked back at the figure in front of him that he saw the pistol in the guy’s hand.

Holy shit! Harrington felt his heart try to leap straight out of his chest and his sphincter contracted. Breathe , he told himself. Keep calm . He had clearly stumbled upon a robbery. This is none of your business . Whatever had happened to young Horatio, there was nothing he could do about it. Just walk away. Don’t try and be a hero .

Holding up both hands, he started retreating down the drive. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, trying to keep his voice from cracking, his eyes meanwhile locked on the gun. As a devotee of The Shield and The Wire , Harrington liked to think that he knew his weapons. This one looked to him like a Glock or maybe a Sig Sauer.