James Craig - London Calling

‘Interesting.’

Kanzaki silently appeared at his shoulder and placed the bill on the table. Joshua Hunt gave it a cursory glance and fished out his American Express Centurion Black card.

‘Apparently, Ahl was the girlfriend of a boy called Robert Ashton. Ashton killed himself at Cambridge in 1985,’ Simpson said quietly, once Kanzaki had retreated a respectful distance. ‘It was Ashton’s photo that was left at the Hogarth crime scene.’

‘So it’s a revenge thing? You think she did it?’ her husband asked, as the restaurant owner returned with the hand-held card reader.

Simpson waited while her husband typed in his PIN and collected the receipt. When they were alone again, she replied. ‘She’s the only lead that Carlyle seems to have at the moment.’

‘If it really was her,’ Joshua asked, ‘why would she leave such an obvious clue?’

‘Who knows?’ Simpson sighed. ‘People like that are, by definition, not very good at thinking straight.’

‘Or maybe she wants the publicity,’ Joshua mused.

‘Perhaps,’ Simpson agreed. That was what really worried her.

‘A killer who wants to get caught…’

Simpson shot her husband a look that said: Don’t make me join the dots for you…

‘Shouldn’t you arrest her?’ Joshua asked.

‘That’s a very good question, but for the moment it’s Carlyle’s decision. He wants to size her up first. As he sees it, she’s not an immediate threat. There’s no chance she can get anywhere near the remaining members of the Merrion Club.’

‘Isn’t that taking a bit of a chance?’

‘It’s Carlyle’s call.’

‘I see.’ Joshua Hunt slowly swallowed the final drip of wine. It tasted truly wonderful, but the knowledge that he himself could still drop two grand on a bottle of plonk in times like these tasted even better. After a while, he said: ‘You know that I’m seeing Edgar tomorrow morning.’

Simpson sipped more tea. She had completely forgotten about her husband’s big breakfast meeting. Another ten thousand pounds for providing a cup of terrible coffee and a muffin, she supposed. She didn’t understand why her husband was so keen to cozy up to Edgar Carlton, but it was Joshua’s money and therefore that was his prerogative. On top of the million-pound cheque he had written at the beginning of the year, he had signed up to something called ‘The Leaders’ Group’, which gave the party fundraisers carte blanche to bleed him dry at every opportunity. Simpson herself merely saw it as an expensive hobby, but it still puzzled her. It wasn’t as if Joshua needed these people to help McGowan Capital make money. Maybe he had dreams of becoming an MP? Or maybe it was just something in his home-counties DNA. Whatever, if that was as far as his mid-life crisis went, she knew that she should be grateful.

‘It’s an Election Day working breakfast,’ Joshua smiled, ‘for myself and a couple of dozen other top donors. But I’m sure that I’ll get the chance to speak to him.’

‘Won’t he be too busy tomorrow?’

‘No, they’re very relaxed. Despite the polls, they know it’s in the bag. Edgar is spending the whole day in London, as he doesn’t want to be seen to be rushing around like an idiot, chasing every last vote.’

The whole business filled her with a sense of endless boredom: a bunch of boys rushing around drunk on self-importance. ‘Isn’t that what politicians are supposed to do?’ she asked sweetly.

‘That’s the whole point,’ he said huffily. ‘This lot are breaking the mould. Anyway, if I don’t get to speak to Edgar, Xavier is seated on my table. I will definitely get to talk to him, at the very least. Shall I mention the woman?’

You just want to demonstrate to them that you’re in the know, Simpson thought. Show off a bit. But she indulged him. ‘All right, if the opportunity arises, mention her to them, but please remember to be discreet. This is an ongoing investigation, and one that I am ultimately responsible for.’

‘I know.’

Simpson’s heart sank. She always knew when her husband wasn’t listening. ‘For goodness sake,’ she repeated, ‘be discreet. Be extremely discreet.’

‘Of course.’ Her husband flashed her the kind of smile that he usually reserved for his largest clients. ‘I always am.’

If the Germans had won the Second World War, the world would be a very different place. Nelson’s Column, for instance, would have been dismantled and moved to Berlin. Christian Holyrod was reminded of this fairly pointless factoid as he stood one hundred and eight feet below the great admiral and tried to avoid any shit from such pigeons as had managed to survive the cull organised by one of his predecessors. He was increasingly of the view that being mayor was not a job for a grown-up. Not for the first time, he thought about all he had given up when he had left the army. As a man used to being in control of his environment and the people around him, he was still coming to terms with how little actual control of his day-to-day life he now enjoyed.

Holyrod wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not a great one for what-ifs, but he couldn’t help thinking that if Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, first Viscount Nelson, first Duke of Bronte had, in fact, made that 600-mile journey east into the heart of the thousand-year Reich, then at least Holyrod himself could have been somewhere else today. But here he now was, feeling very warm and more than a little sheepish. Whichever adviser had put him here, in Trafalgar Square, on Election Day, the hottest day of the year to boot, to promote cycling in London, should be shot. Just one more photocall, he told himself, and then it’s all over.

Surrounded by a posse of Lycra-clad lovelies, he took a deep breath as the clicking of camera shutters reached a crescendo.

‘Over here!’

‘Mr May-yor!

‘Christian!’

‘Look this way!’

He smiled with as much conviction as he could muster for the benefit of the collection of snappers and camera crews ranged in front of them. After a minute or so, a nubile television presenter – the token media ‘celebrity’ attending the event – jumped on a bike and started on a wobbly lap around the fountains, chased by a couple of the more energetic cameramen. Taking that as his own cue to leave, Holyrod slipped on a pair of Ray-Ban 3025 Aviators and started walking towards the north-east corner of the square.

Holyrod had already dismissed out of hand a suggestion that he cycle to his next engagement. However, not wanting to set the wrong tone at his departure, he had agreed to meet his driver at a more than discreet distance away, out of sight of any camera lens. His Jaguar was parked on Bedfordbury behind the London Coliseum, home of the English National Opera on St Martin’s Lane. At most, it was a three-minute walk.

Keeping his head down, he set off at a brisk pace in the hope of deterring well-wishers or any persistent hacks. It took him less than a minute to cross Trafalgar Square and reach the National Gallery on its north side. As he did so, a man fell in step beside him.

‘Mayor Holyrod?’

Expecting an autograph hunter, Holyrod slowed his pace slightly and turned towards the voice. He was surprised to recognise the plebeian policeman beside him.

‘Inspector.’ The mayor quickly resumed his previous energetic pace.

‘Mr Holyrod,’ Carlyle upped his own pace, ‘I would like a word, sir.’

‘Not a good time,’ said Holyrod stiffly, upping his pace some more, ‘I have an appointment.’

Already feeling hot and uncomfortable, Carlyle was not going to start jogging. Putting a firm hand on Holyrod’s arm, he ignored the surprised look on the mayor’s face, and stepped closer.